Man in Charge

by Teddy Hester

  Score another point for my hummingbird.

  I open the door. “Holy hell, Linda! You could’ve warned me. What are these things?”

  I hear her chuckle from her desk. “She said they’re kale blossoms. Lots of color for your office.”

  Small pots of rose-like flowers with deep purple throats and variegated outer leaves adorn my desk and conference table. She even brought in end tables for the couch, and they each hold a tall, glass lamp and a couple of pots of the purple and green blossoming plant. There’s even a tree in the corner.

  A tree? She’s gone too far this time.

  Every time we’re together, she does something that makes me want to throw her out of my office. I’ve restrained myself up to now, unless you count the “laundry day” incident. But it’s time to have a serious conversation with the woman about respecting my space.

  Stowing my briefcase under my desk, I sit and turn on the computer to pull up the spreadsheets I had the accounting department create for Tom’s project. While I wait for things to load, I glance around. The seating area is looking more like a living room or den than an office. But, judging from a few comments clients have made, it’s a pleasant change.

  I do like the pictures on my wall. I particularly like sitting here at my desk and seeing them when I happen to look up for something. It’s a little bit of Cleo with me, when she’s not present. The colors in the sunset remind me of the dress she wore at the concert. Was that really only two weeks ago?

  In some ways, a lot has changed. Her decorating my workspace, for one. Our feelings about taking on the project for another. But in other ways, the pace is too slow. It’s been too long since we’ve kissed. I need her in my arms again, responding to me.

  Eleanor called me earlier this week, asking if I would take her to a friend’s wedding. With Cleo occupying so many of my thoughts, I couldn’t accept the invitation. Depending on how things continue with my quixotic hummingbird, I may need to talk with Eleanor. If Mick’s right, and people have us wedding-bound, then it’s not going to be pretty. I don’t want to hurt her.

  The phone rings. “DePaul.”

  “Hi, DePaul, how does your garden grow?”

  My mouth kicks up in a smile, but I can’t let her off the hook that easily. “The Amazon called and wants its rainforest back.”

  Her laughter in my ear makes even the purple flowers on my desk look better. “You’re such a troglodyte sometimes.”

  “Aren’t troglodytes those cute, cuddly, fur babies on Star Trek?”

  She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “hopeless” under her breath. “No, troglodytes are those ugly blue-green things—never mind. Look it up for yourself.”

  “Ugh. I just did. They are ugly. Dare you to come call me that to my face. Come early, though, so I have enough time to hide the body before the others get here.”

  “Cute. That’s why I’m calling, actually. Juliette has to beg off.”

  “So does Eldon.”

  “Well, I think we should just send an email progress report to everybody, and skip the meeting.”

  “Suits me. Hey, if you’re free, let me take you to dinner. Or better yet, come on over here and we’ll chop some greenery for a big salad.”

  “Oh, you’re being extra clever tonight. Thanks, but I like to go clubbing on Friday nights.”

  It’s probably my least favorite activity. Too much noise, too much booze, too many bodies. “You need to eat first, don’t you, to have enough energy to trip the light fantastic?”

  “Well…”

  “I need to finish up a couple of things here, but then how about I come pick you up, and we’ll have a nice, relaxing dinner.”

  “Hold up, there. How about this—you pick me up and I pick the restaurant.”

  Always a negotiation with this one. “Tell me. The place you have in mind. Does it have actual tables and chairs?”

  “Hmm…not exactly.”

  “Thought so. I’ll pick the restaurant.”

  “Humph. Okay, here’s my final offer. You go clubbing with me tonight, and I’ll let you pick the restaurant another night.”

  “Done.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But, hey, listen. Will we see Ronny? Do I need to wear my bulletproof vest?”

  “I don’t know where Rodney will be tonight. But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t own a gun.”

  “Good to know. So, text me your address, and tell me what time to pick you up.”

  Now, this is more like it.

  My heart beats with the pounding music that drowns out everything inside me. Thoughts of campaigns, clients, past mistakes, future worries dissipate under the persistent onslaught of rhythm and sound. My body, which has been twitching for days with frenetic energy, now channels it on the dance floor. The outside world collapses and nothing exists but this series of moments strung together through a driving bass line.

  I’m dimly aware of Tony. He’s dancing, too, moving well, keeping the beat, looking good in jeans and his button-down. But he’s not abandoned to it like I am. Like when Rodney and I come to dance away our cares. Tony’s here, but not here, going through the motions, because he agreed he would. I let the music blot that out, too.

  This. This is my meditation. My brain relaxing.

  The lights slow their flashing as the music changes to a ballad. I flow right into Tony, loop my arms around his neck, and keep moving. His arms come around me, and we sway together, in sync. When he pulls one down to entwine our hands, we cocoon. His free arm cinches my low back, guiding me like we’re Fred and Ginger in a black and white movie.

  It’s nice. My brain can stay on hiatus, because I know he’s got me. If he moves left, we go left. I lay my head on his shoulder and let his broad chest absorb me. I let him dance us.

  The song winds down, and his lips caress my temple. I raise my head so I can look at him. It’s too dark to see the color of his eyes, but I feel their heat, their quiet intensity. His hand tightens on mine, sandwiched between our chests. We’re an island of calm amidst a chaotic sea.

  A sea that churns as the music changes again. The heavy bass returns, and I’m ready to move to it. But Tony hasn’t let go of me.

  He bends so his mouth is closer to my ear to be heard over the din. “Let’s sit this one out, get something to drink.”

  It’s not what I want, but I walk with him to our table and wait while he gets us a bottle of water and two vodka rocks. By the time he’s back, I can barely sit still. I slam down one vodka and the whole bottle of water.

  I lean toward him. “Bathroom.” He gets up to go with me, but I wave him back down, holding up five fingers, indicating how long I’ll be gone.

  Only, I dance my way to the Ladies’. Not with anyone, but movin’ and groovin’ as I wind through the crowd.

  A lone female attracts attention. A lone female in a black suede micro-skirt and sparkly top is a magnet for it. I ignore the leers and dodge the hands that try to grope me as I pass by. I make it to the restroom, tinkle and wash hands, then head back out to run the gauntlet back to Tony.

  My path is cut off by two guys, their forefingers wrapped around the necks of a beer bottles. One, in jeans and cowboy boots, starts dancing along with me. “Nice moves, baby.”

  With a smile, I acknowledge his compliment, and continue to dance, moving forward. But the second guy, tall, with shaggy blond hair and a tattoo trailing down one side of his neck into his Henley, blocks my way. “Dance with me.”

  I give him a polite smile, too, and try to dance around him to continue on my way. They have me trapped between them. I’m not worried, they’re not threatening, they’re just two guys who’ve had a few beers and want to dance. “Okay, guys, but I’m not here alone. My date’s waiting for me back at our table.”

  That’s too many words for the noisy club. Tattoo points to his ear, shakes his head, and keeps on dancing. I bounce a couple of times with him, edging away. It backs me into cowboy.

  “Oh, baby, th
at’s good.” I whirl to face that voice, and he grins. “Come on. Dance with me some more.” He tries to put his free arm around my waist and draw me closer.

  Keeping things light, I wag a playful finger at him. “No, no, no.”

  Tattoo closes in on me from behind. His hand touches my thigh and slides it up, heading under my skirt.

  “Stop.” Fun is fun, but it could get out of hand real fast.

  Cowboy pulls me into his arms. “We just want to dance with you.”

  “Tell your friend to keep his hands off.”

  But Tattoo’s hand clamps on my hip. His hard cock grinds against my ass. Cowboy absorbs the crush, his erection stabbing my belly. It’s like I’m being DP-ed, only without the P.

  They’ve been warned.

  I thrust my ass at Tattoo. It gives me just enough space to grab Cowboy’s nuts and squeeze. He lurches away with a groan, but Tattoo is still behind me, holding me firmly by the waist.

  “Calm down, now,” he says, closing both arms around me.

  I snap my head back into his face, clipping his nose, and I stomp on his foot. He hobbles, but doesn’t let go. So I stomp on his other foot and dig my nails into his forearms. His grip loosens enough for me to pull away. Down but not out, he reaches for me again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I threaten.

  He snarls, and I think he’s going to charge me here on the crowded dance floor, where everybody seems oblivious to what I’m dealing with, but he suddenly freezes. His gaze goes over my shoulder.

  Yeah, like I’m going to fall for that. “That’s better. Just keep your distance while I go back to my table.” He relaxes his stance and nods, still focused on something behind me.

  Not waiting around, I take my chance to get away from him.

  And whirl right into Tony. Feet planted wide, arms crossed over his chest, staring Tattoo down, eyes and jaw diamond hard. In the club’s moving lights, he looks like a superhero. All he needs is a cape.

  CHAPTER 7

  Seeing that guy finally back down, I release my breath and turn my gaze to Cleo. “Time to go.”

  If she fights me right now, I’ll throw her over my shoulder and carry her out.

  She swipes down one arm and then the other, as though trying to slough off their touch. Fortunately, without protest, she heads back to our table to get her coat, and then we leave the club.

  It’s not until we’re driving away in my BMW M6 that I relax. “You handled yourself pretty well in there. How are you feeling?”

  Although sitting uncharacteristically quietly, I know she’s agitated, because both of her hands are doing their repetitive finger-touch gymnastics.

  “You’re not going to say ‘I told you so,’ are you?” she sneers.

  I take my eyes of the road long enough to glance at her. “Looks like I don’t have to.”

  “Good, ‘cause I had it covered.”

  “As I said, you handled them.”

  She seems to digest this. “If you’re planning to lecture me on club safety, you can save your breath. I’ve heard it all before.”

  That sends a chill through me. “You go clubbing every Friday night?”

  “Most weeks.”

  “Alone?”

  Her head shakes. “Usually Janelle and I go after work. Sometimes Rodney goes.”

  Ah. Rodney. “Is that why he was with you that Friday night at the Regal?”

  “I promised to go clubbing with him after the concert.”

  Sheer perversity makes me ask the next question, though I’m not sure I want to know the answer. “Did you go?”

  “No.” Her voice is barely audible.

  “Have a fight?”

  She sighs. “No, I just wasn’t in the mood.”

  I’m not cocky enough to think it had anything to do with me. Except for that moment when I took her arm and we locked gazes, there was nothing notable that would make her alter any plans for that night.

  “Where are we going?” she asks. “This isn’t the way to my house.”

  “It’s the way to my house. It’s only 10PM, but if you’d prefer to go straight home, I’ll take you there instead.”

  “Your house? Why?”

  “It’s where I keep my Glenlivet.”

  “Oh.”

  Letting the silence stretch is my version of sitting her in the corner to think. My house is on the beach, about twelve miles outside of town, so she’s got time to stew.

  “You require hard liquor for what we’re gonna do?” she finally asks.

  In the darkness of the car, I smirk. “You just handled two roughnecks. What are you worried about?”

  I pull into the garage and we take the elevator to the main floor. It puts us out in the foyer, which opens onto the great room with its two-story wall of windows facing the Atlantic. In the daylight, the view is breathtaking.

  With the flip of a switch, the gas fireplace roars to life, casting an inviting glow. I show Cleo the bar built into a bookcase flanking the hearth, and I pour myself a healthy swallow of Scotch while she pours out some of Eleanor’s vanilla vodka. My arm around her shoulders, we sit on the sofa near the fire.

  “Beige. Your whole house is beige, Tony. Beige walls, limestone floors, beige sofa, beige-painted woodwork and cabinetry. Even a beige-on-beige rug.”

  Oh, Lord, is she mentally redecorating my house as well as my office? Maybe bringing her here wasn’t such a good idea. “The designer called it ‘monotone chic.’ Why? What do you see?”

  “Orange and raspberry sherbet.”

  At first, I’m thrown, that comment’s so random. Then it dawns on me. “You didn’t eat tonight, did you?”

  She shrugs.

  What a complicated mess she is. She can fend off would-be rapists and run an ad agency, but she can’t feed herself. The woman needs a damn keeper. “How about some scrambled eggs?”

  “Ha! With beige toast, no doubt? No thanks.”

  I chuckle. “I actually have some cinnamon-raisin bread.”

  Her head cocks to one side, as if she’s considering it.

  I lean in close to nuzzle her neck and breathe in the warm spice of her perfume. “I even have seedless red raspberry jam.”

  She shivers and sits up, throwing off my arm. “I love a man who seduces a woman with color and texture. Can you cook, too?”

  When I stand, she extends her arms and wiggles her fingers for me to help her up, too. “I’ll see what I can do. Come on.”

  *****

  “Belly full?”

  She pushes her plate away and pats her stomach. “Just right, thank you.”

  “Good. More decaf? I’m adding some Bailey’s to mine. Wanna refill?”

  I freshen our mugs, and we wander back to settle on the sofa again, my arm resting on the top cushion. “Are you awake enough to talk?”

  Her eyes roll. “Here it comes. The ‘we’ve got to talk’ talk. Lemme guess. You’re mad about the club.”

  My fingers twiddle with a strand of her hair as I scan her face from the challenge in her eyes to the pout of her bright red lips. “What happened at the club wasn’t your fault. I had reservations about your clothes, but what those guys did…they would have done to any lone female, no matter what she wore.”

  She gives me two blinks of those wonderful eyes. “Wow. Cool. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I was impressed with how you handled yourself with them. I’m still not crazy about your frequenting clubs every Friday night, but right now I want to talk about something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to date you.”

  “We just had a date.”

  I have to grin at that one. “I’d call it more a negotiated outing than a date, wouldn’t you?”

  Her brows lower in confusion. “I’ve agreed to a dinner date.”

  “Your part of the negotiation.”

  “Whatever, money-man. What are you asking?”

  “I want to spend time finding out whether I actually like you, or
if it’s the constant battle for power that intrigues me.”

  “What’s the difference? Enjoyment is enjoyment. You’re overthinking it.”

  I chuckle. “Probably. I’m a fairly serious guy.”

  She kicks off her shoes, pivots on her spot, and draws up her legs between us, to stare directly at me. “Are you going to try to change me? Calm me down?”

  “That may be involved, yes.”

  Her legs swing back off the sofa and prop, crossed, on the coffee table. “I think you just got the answer to your question about liking me.”

  My hand clasps her shoulder and pulls her closer, tucked up under my arm. “That’s what I want to find out. What I know so far is that you make me laugh, you have a hot, responsive body I want, and you’re a savvy businesswoman.”

  She grins and preens at the compliments.

  “I’m not finished.”

  Her eyes and lips go round like Betty Boop’s. I’m definitely going to put that look to use one of these days. Soon. Until then, I try to focus on what she’s saying. “Go on. What else do you think you know about me?”

  Ah, yes, back to the list. “You’re also highly competitive, disrespectful, and as hyperactive as a hummingbird.”

  She squeaks out a “humph,” and it’s my turn to grin.

  “Two can play this game,” she says, eyes narrowed. “You wear clothes better than most models, you care about your friends, you’re good with money, and I think you might be a very good kisser.” She winks. “But…you’re too serious, too set in your ways, bossy, and beige is your favorite color.” Her nose scrunches like a skunk just wandered into the house.

  “Very competitive, Ms. Waiteberry.” I kiss the tip of her nose to soften the comment.

  Her bob swings as she nods. “Are you sure you want to take me on?”

  My mouth curls up on one side. “That’s the second time you’ve dared me to.”

  “Second time?”

  “Never mind. So, are we dating?”

  “Oh, my God!” Her eyes roll up in her head, and she throws her arms out in supplication. One falls across my lap to land on my thigh. “Is that your idea of a romantic invitation? Has no one ever taught you about hearts and flowers?”