by Kent, Julia
Yammering on about coffee and her ancient cremate joke. Gah.
“How about I bring in creamer next time and I'll store it in the fridge?”
“Sure.” She was distracted already by the paper jam. “Just label it with a Sharpie.”
Then again, it was his first day at a new job. She had a tiny shred of sympathy for him, because she imagined that he was anxious and they hadn’t exactly gotten off to the best start. Having your main support person in a corporate environment hate you before the work day has even begun is not the best way to enter into a new position. It was his fault though, so she only had a shred of sympathy.
The rest of him could go to hell.
“Sharpie?” He seemed genuinely perplexed and she pulled back, looking into those weird, green eyes. The guy knew how this worked, right?
“You've worked in an office before? Cubicle farm dweller? Had your soul sucked out from living in a beige box for nine hours a day?” Exasperated, she brushed her hands on the carpet and got back to work on the toner. “If you don't mark your food, someone else will take it.”
He crouched down to nearly her level, his scent preceding him, a rush of citrus and musk and spicy soap. “I'll just consider it my contribution. Anyone can have some. I'll shoulder the sacrifice.” As his mouth formed the word “sacrifice” and whispered it with a sensual sarcasm, it was like a whispered prayer that made her clit twitch, her throat close, and her belly go hot.
For some reason he closed his eyes and took yet another deep breath. Lydia really started to wonder about this guy. It gave her an opportunity to really take a good look at him, though. Boy did she like what she saw. His hair fell in light waves, even though it was closely cropped, and she wondered what he would look like if he grew it longer. His neck had that sinewed look, that of not just a guy who worked out in a gym, but a guy who was an outdoorsman, someone who kayaked and canoed and maybe was a rock climber. A really active, athletic person who integrated it into his life.
His hands were a little too manicured. They didn’t quite meet her overall framework for understanding this guy. His shirt was open, the top two buttons undone, tucked into a nipped waist that narrowed down from broad shoulders, and then there was that ass. She hadn’t seen something that muscled since watching Olympic wrestling, and as the copier churned away she just stood there right next to him, neck craned down, staring and taking it all in.
“Like the view?” She snapped her head up and found those unnatural green eyes laughing at her, his mouth set firmly in an expression of trying desperately not to chuckle – but those eyes betrayed him.
“Oh, I was...just...uh, uh, uh reading...the uh, copier, uh, umm...information down at the-.” Oh shit, she thought to herself. What in the hell am I doing?
“After what you were reading in the parking lot this morning, maybe you needed a visual to go along with the words on the printed page.” He winked.
She snorted. “Are you really comparing yourself to Christian Grey?” she asked, one eyebrow cocked, a look of incredulity and oh, come on buddy covering her face.
“Well – ” He shrugged, with a self-assurance she normally saw only among the executives. Matt looked like he lucked into this job, and could have been delivering pizzas two weeks ago. What kind of misplaced arrogance made him think he could be compared to Christian Grey?
Laughter poured out of her even as she struggled to get the copier to stop leaving black streaks on all the left-hand corners of the pages, her mind and hands so busy her professional filter faded a bit. “You don't exactly look like a billionaire.”
“You wouldn’t know a billionaire if he stared you in the face,” he said flatly.
Smirk. “It’s not like you run into billionaires every day at the office. Especially at a company run by a cheapskate like Bournham.” Pointing to his coffee, she added, “Bet he doesn't drink that shit.”
Something in his eyes, the way his nostrils flared and his jaw opened then clenched, made her think she'd crossed a line. Pull it back in. “Even Dave doesn't drink it.”
“Dave?”
“Our boss,” she said slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Dave Crawford. Director of Communications.”
His eyes narrowed, as if calculating something. Glanced at his cup, then peered at her. “What does Dave drink?”
“Starbucks. Double soy latte.” She knew the order by heart. And she should – he sent her out for one every day.
He frowned, the look not unappealing. There was a strength in him, an assumption of power. “You know that one well.”
“I get it for him every day.” The burn began, that growing fire inside that was ripshit pissed about being someone's paid ass wiper. Dave said his time was valuable, but so was hers.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Is there an echo in here?” His eyebrows shot up and he stood before her, hands on hips, demanding an answer. If he was trying to be intimidating, he was succeeding. Briefly.
She found her brain and answered, “This is what the director of communications told me to do.” Sickly sweet, syrupy derision filled her voice.
“Then I need to fire that idiot because that's really uncalled for.”
“Uhh, Matt? You can’t fire him. He’s your boss. It's not like you're Michael Bournham.” Her laughter seemed to put him on edge, so she pushed him right over as best she could.
She looked at Matt and narrowed her eyes, peering at him, studying his features openly. Finally, she felt like she could say what she wanted to say for the past hours. “You know, you actually look like him. Sort of.” Good going Lydia – that was really definitive.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that a lot.”
Chapter Two
A quick shower and she perked up, her smiling face leading Krysta to ask, “Xanax or Daily Show?” as she surveyed Lydia's mood, as if searching for the woman she'd spoken with at the beginning of the work day, the one who needed a BFF rescue. Lydia had invited her over to her apartment in Cambridge, the one she shared with her grandma.
Yes, her grandma. What a turn on. Dating often came to a screeching halt when guys learned that one. Moving to Boston after graduation, though, had been seamless. Grandma worked in town and had her own boyfriend, Ed; she spent most nights working or at his place, so Lydia lived a comfortable, if awkward, twentysomething life in the city with a roommate who considered Matlock reruns to be the height of entertainment.
And Pawn Stars. Grandma's reality television addiction was a bit scary. Murray was her favorite Impractical Joker, she liked Mike more than Evan on Oddities (“That Ryan likes pegging, I'll bet!” she'd cackle mercilessly), and Lydia finally shut herself in her bedroom after the third episode of World's Dumbest...whatever.
Her share of the rent was $400 and all the cleaning and shoveling. For her own room in Cambridge, a quick walk to the T? She'd listen to Danny Bonaduce make bad butt sex jokes for hours in exchange.
“Who did they hire?” Krysta snorted, settling in to a beautifully-restored Morris chair with a giant tye-died fleece blanket thrown over the back. “Let me guess. Another relative of the Communications Director. His step-sister's cousin's mailman's son?”
Lydia snickered. “You know, this new guy, Matt, does look a little like Mike Bournham. Maybe that's it.” She sighed, a long, thin sound of defeat. “Like a younger version, but with green eyes and wearing Dockers.”
“Mike Bournham wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything off the rack. Remember that stupid phrase he coined on Oprah?”
“Bespoke or be naked!” they said in unison. That made Lydia laugh.
“Man, what I wouldn't give to see him naked,” Krysta mused. Lydia heard the gurgling of a coffeemaker and jumped up. The kitchen was a brightest room in the apartment, with a huge picture window that looked out onto a park. Grandma's furniture choices were frozen in the early 1990s, so wallpaper accents were mauve and light blue, with a trail of country-style geese walking across the top of the wall. Curtai
ns matched, too.
Lydia poured two cups of coffee, added so much real cream the liquid turned the color of light caramel, and walked back to the living room to give Krysta hers. As she turned away to settle in a chair, she heard a yelp.
“Burn yourself again?”
“Yeah,” Krysta answered in a sheepish tone. The woman had 543 things she wanted to do in the time it took to do forty-three of them. Krysta rushed. She didn't live. Holding a cell phone, typing a text, balancing the coffee on her knee – and the end result was a burned web of skin between her thumb and index finger. Ouch.
“Need ice?” Krysta just shook her head, springy curls bouncing, as she wiped the coffee off on her shirt and put the phone down.
“That's Callie. Just having an issue with Isaac.” Krysta's sister's son was two, and recently diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum, and Krysta often helped out.
“Is he OK?”
Krysta shook her head. “He's been nightwaking and crying out, as if he's in pain. No doctor can figure it out.” She frowned, then swallowed hard, sighing. “I'm still not sure about the autism, Lydia. He's so affectionate and looks like he's trying to talk.”
“What does he say?”
“Mama, Dada, bye bye. That's it. But his mouth moves and he has this look of panic and frustration sometimes. Then he starts screaming. Callie doesn't agree with the diagnosis, either, but she said the only way she could get good help for him with speech and doctor visits is to accept it. So she did.”
Lydia leaned forward and placed a hand on Krysta's arm. “It doesn't change who he is. He's still a sweet, chubby little toddler who loves his aunt!”
That got her a smile, but Krysta's brown eyes were sad, her face slack with concern. “Yeah. I just wish there were better answers.” She gulped the rest of her now-tepid coffee and set the mug down.
Turning to Lydia, she asked, “So are you going to sleep with this boss?”
Mike pulled out his smart phone and, on auto-pilot, dialed his chauffeur.
“Mr. Bournham?” Dominic's rough voice, like something from the Jersey shore mixed with gravel, carried a tone of surprise. He could envision the thick man, chomping on a cigar he never lit, fat, calloused hands grasping the wheel of the company limo as some soothing jazz they both hated played mercilessly on the satellite radio.
“I did it again, didn't I?' Mike chuckled. He had forgotten that as part of the reality television ruse, he needed to strip out the trappings of what his friend Jeremy called “The one percent of the one percent of the filthy stinking rich.” He wasn't quite filthy stinking rich, though.
Two more months and he'd join that club.
“Yup. No problem, Mr. Bournham.” Conversations with Dominic made him feel like he was in an episode of The Soprano's. “You need anything, you call.” Then the sound of breathing, because Dominic lived by the very strict code that you wait until the boss says he's done with you.
Unlike Lydia, who had turned on her gorgeous, red heels, calves pumping and skirt swishing, to sashay out of his office and right into his --
“OK, Dom. Thanks.” Pressing “End,” Mike sighed and trudged out to the Toyota Corrolla someone had acquired for him, just like they'd helped with his middle-management wardrobe collection, eye color, hair dye and so much more. Being dialed down from the 1 percent -- to the what 25th? 50th percentile? He didn't even know anymore what a mid-level Director of Social Media earned -- meant making so many changes that weren't intuitive. When had he made that psycological leap from being part of the masses to being one of the top dogs, a CEO by thirty-four, youngest by far among the industry giants.
And now everything was hanging by a thin thread. The deal he'd made with the devil, in disguise as Bournham Industries' Board of Directors, had just about killed him. Increase profits by fifty percent in one year and get the equivalent of one billion in stock options, salary, and other forms of compensation.
Did that include Lydia? His face felt wolfish as he allowed himself a grin at that thought. The uber-feminist wasn't exactly spoils of corporate war, any more than he would want her to be. Oh, no -- a woman like Lydia had to be treated with kid gloves. High maintenance women were easy to manage. Give them what they thought they wanted. Like clockwork, they would want more, and more, and more, until their own dissatisfaction was their ruin.
Lydia? A different breed. No playbook existed, no game rules were laid out for pulling her in. This one was a true challenge, one that “Matt Jones” found increasingly appealing, like playing chess against a formidable opponent. The thrill of the attempt was worth more than the actual win.
The win, though, was what drove him to try. And succeed. Mike had learned the hard way never, ever to give something a shot if he didn't win.
Not if he didn't think he could win.
His world had no place for doubt.
The Corrolla felt comfortable, a throwback to twenty years ago when he'd been part of the ninety-nine percent, when life was about getting an entry-level job, working on stock investments with a portfolio the size of his current monthly gym bill, and when throwing back beers with buddies on game day was his idea of entertainment. Now he owned box seats at those games.
How long would it be before he could own the entire team?
Bzzzz. The display on his phone read Jeremy. He paused at a red light and read the message. You in for lifting tonight?
Mike typed back: Hell, yes. Need to whip your ass into shape.
The light changed and he accelerated. Bzzz. Jeremy's response: C'mon, old man. I'll take you down.
Mike was a year older than his best friend, the old man crack an old joke. They'd met college and worked for the same Web 1.0 start-up in the late '90s. When stock options made them millionaires Jeremy opted out of corporate everything, playing beach bum now for more than ten years. Mike took the opposite path, parlaying millions into tens, then hundreds.
And now on the verge of his first billion.
Traffic was too thick to respond, but then Jeremy texted again. Thailand with me next month? You need a break.
Running a hand through his hair, he stopped cold. Shit. His hair. His eyes. His clothes weren't a problem; gym threads were always junky looking, but his appearance didn't even match the ID card for the gym where he and Jeremy lifted.
Mike grabbed the phone and typed back: Change of plans. Meet me at home instead. Making a U-turn, Mike winced at the groaning turning radius on the car. His Tesla spoiled him.
Bzzz. The text message was one word: Pussy.
Chuckling, Mike knew what Jeremy meant, but the word right now made his pants tighten as he thought of Lydia. And that made him want to lift out all his frustration and aggravation and the growing, gnawing thought that no amount of weights, no grueling deadlifts, no crushing squat cage was going to stop what had started deep inside him that very morning.
“Mid-life crisis? Hair club for men spokesman? Your black soul finally showing itself?” Jeremy marched right into Mike's apartment unannounced; no knock, and there hadn't been any pretense of formality since that day in college when he'd barged into the dorm room and announced there was no fucking way he was rooming with the redneck, racist gun nut next door, so make room for him. Mike had, with a caveat: he had to beat him at chess. Jeremy's eyes had lit up at the challenge and, four draws and a fifth of Captain Morgan later, Jeremy passed out in the room and declared squatter's rights the next morning.
A friendship was born.
“I told you about this.” Indeed, he'd called Jeremy to announce the scenario, swearing him to secrecy. The only person he'd told, he trusted his friend, and knew he would needle Mike forever but would sooner have his dick cut off and fed to him than reveal the secret.
Jeremy's long, surgeon's fingers touched Mike's newly-brown locks. “And holy green leprecaun!” he nearly screamed, stepping back in horror. “You use those eyes to shoot lasers, or what? Auditioning for the new Green Lantern series?” As usually, every word that came out of his mouth was o
ver-the-top, animated, and made his tall, slim figure seem cartoonish, shoulders hunched over and basketball-players legs bent at the knees to inspect Mike's eyes. At 6'2” Mike was no shorty, either, but Jeremy towered over him at 6'6".
Mike grimaced and grabbed two beers from his fridge. The apartment was less luxurious than it could have been, most of his money tied up in investments or in his beach house on Cape Cod, in Osterville. All he needed was a basic one bedroom in the city, and he got it, with stainless steel that glared back.
“That bad?”
“I've seen calmer greens at a St. Patrick's Day parade in Boston.” Jeremy studied his hair again. “That's my shade! Clairol Bullshit Brown.”
Cracking open the beer, Mike left it on the counter. “Hey, bullshit brown helps me jump sales by twenty percent. I'll take it.”
“You and that damn fifty percent increase. You're already worth triple-digit millions, Mike. Why do you need this?”
“Says the man who is so bored in early retirement that he plays D&D.”
“I balance that out with rock climbing, so I'm officially a hipster geek.”
“That is so much better.”
“I know, right?” Big swig of beer. Belch. Jeremy opened both doors of the giant Viking refrigerator, triggering the interior lights. “Beam me up, Scotty! Why do you need such a huge fridge for one guy?” Pulling out an assortment of food, Jeremy set up a buffet of sorts across the kitchen's island. Meat, cheese, and strawberries he didn't remember buying.
The fridge did look like a giant, glowing spaceship when both doors were open, he had to admit. “It came with the place.”
“So how's that look working for you?” Jeremy wasn't exactly a fashion plate himself. “You look like a young Anderson Cooper auditioning for the next X-Men movie.”
Shit. “Are the contacts really that bad?” Bending over, he popped one out. “See?”
“You look like you're wearing a really bad disguise for some cheesy reality TV series. Oh.” He took a swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. “Wait. You are.”
