by KC Blake
Contents
Front Matter
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
The Messenger
By
Lavinia Marksman
as
KC Blake
©2014 KC Blake. All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1
These kinds of meetings share a similar rhythm with sex: some innuendo, some back and forth, then after a bit of awkward interaction, someone comes out on top, while the other party more or less holds their breath waiting for a returned phone call. I’ve been running meetings like this for upwards of twenty years, and had long become acquainted with the signs of a deal, or a fuck, going bad.
In this particular meeting, for example, the red flags were waving like palm trees in the wind. If I didn’t know any better, I could’ve sworn that the guy at the other end of the conference table was going to cry. I began to hope it would happen, just to see something new for a change. I mean, they’d made so many mistakes. They let us choose the small conference room, for fuck’s sake. They had to have known that we’d use that to our advantage by using the small space to crowd them, to take turns standing up and pacing to give them the impression that they were in a cage with a wild animal.
Or maybe, they’d made the fatal mistake of underestimating me because I’m a woman, or because I’m old enough to be most of their mothers. Whatever the case, this particular batch of young bucks came into my office expecting to pass over some insult of a deal, and we handed their asses back to them in a greasy paper bag. What did they expect? I’m what’s known, unaffectionately, as a ball-breaker in my industry. I’m the kind of CFO that inspires either nightmares or wet dreams, depending on if I’m on your side or not. Make even a single error and I’ll sniff it out like a bloodhound. All it took was a single terse glance from one of them to let me know that there were mistakes and miscalculations lurking within the offer like a virus. I didn’t even have to read it.
“Tell me your numbers”, I began, knowing full well that they would begin making it up.
“Uh… well… you’ll see our offer is more than generous… “
It was like blood in the water.
“Tell me when you’d take the company public”, I asked. All I got in return was a hard swallow. I was already bored.
“Tell me your projected overhead for your first quarter.”
The wet behind the ears MBA only blinked.
Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. I’ve given this company my twenties and thirties. I survived layoffs and recessions by protecting this company with every ounce of resourcefulness I could muster. In return, I’m highly compensated. Not that I go in for the flashy stuff, but knowing that I could buy almost anything I wanted was as good as actually doing it. I’m more interested in the power than the money.
Somehow, though, something had begun feeling different lately. There was something missing. It was beginning to feel like I’d been doing this for so long that it just wasn’t exciting anymore. How could I have ever thought I’d get bored with this job?
Mitchell, our CEO and my counterpart, noticed it as well. He popped into my office as soon as the meeting was over, and more demanded than asked that we go get a drink. While I never disclose what I’m thinking, I never turn down a drink.
We walked to his favorite bar, a cavernous place that emulated a 1920’s speakeasy, right down to the flapper-girl bartenders and servers. He sidled up to the bar while I claimed us a small booth in the window. As he ordered, no doubt chatting up the bartender, pretty in a young, coltish kind of way, I looked outside as though something out there might have the answer to the question that had slowly begun unfolding itself.
To my dismay, there were no surprises on the other side of the glass. The same kinds of faces I saw day after day after day, tired and forlorn, no matter their color. The same weary shuffles, the same buses, all moving in the same rhythms. Just before I started planning a trip to some exotic country to go “find myself”, Mitchell returned, gin and tonics in hand. He looked disappointed.
“Any luck with the filly behind the bar?”, I asked.
He looked surprised to be caught, but then shook his head sadly.
“No joy. Maybe if I lost ten or fifteen pounds.”
“Or years”, I said, scoring the first friendly jab in our conversation, thereby setting into motion another sickeningly familiar rhythm, this time with someone who had known me for most of my adult life. Mitchell winced. Maybe that was a little close to the bone.
“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe if I’d had that work done.”
He began to gently pinch the flesh around his jawline. God, he’s as vain as a teenage girl, I thought. I didn’t know what nerve I’d hit, but I was beginning to feel guilty, like I’d unknowingly said something he’d heard me say in a nightmare.
Not knowing what else to say, I started drinking. Thankfully, he followed suit. We sat in perfect silence. For a moment, I thought that this had indeed been an invitation for just a drink.
“So I noticed something”, he began. Here we go, I thought. I didn’t even respond. I just swirled the ice around in my drink and gave him one of my unblinking gazes that told him to tread carefully.
“Actually we noticed something… “
Now this was concerning.
“We?” The only person Mitchell could mean was the managing board of the firm, the people who had founded this growing empire. Mitchell has become a de facto liaison between them and the rest of the executives, and wouldn’t let anyone forget about it. I feared disappointing them like I feared disappointing my parents. They’d hired me as a mail girl my freshman year of college and had nurtured me to heights I could never have imagined. My blood flashed cold for a second at the thought of me coming to their attention in a negative manner, but I didn’t dare let it show.
“We noticed that you’re not as excited as you used to be. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still the fucking champ, but I’m asking you as a friend - you okay?”
How to begin? I looked around at the bar. Before I knew what was happening, I felt tears burning behind my eyes. What the fuck? I fought them back with everything I had. It felt like an unforgivable amount of time had passed before I could look at Mitchell again.
“Things are great”, I lied, hoping that he’d buy it. He searched my face. The guy had known me for almost twenty years. I didn’t know how I’d wriggle out of this one.
“Well, that’s just fantastic, Lucy. The board will be thrilled to hear it.”
He downed the rest of his drink, holding up a finger to let me know that he had another round in him. He gathered up both our glasses and returned to the bar, emboldened to try again with the pretty bartender. I exhaled long and slow, feeling like I’d just survived some kind of weird interrogation. Somehow, Mitchell was on to me, sniffing out a problem before I’d wrapped my head around it. When Mitchell returned, I knew what my role was: I was to slag the competition and act like all I needed was some gin in me to be back to my old self.
The real answer was, of course, to keep working. To work harder than ever before. It began to feel like a midlife crisis. Where some of my male counterparts might go buy a convertible or start fucking the babysitter, I resolved to work harder. I started pulling all-nighters again, like I did just out of college. It didn’t work. Somewhere in all the frenzy, I expected to find something to
scratch this strange new itch that rendered me restless and cranky. It didn’t happen.
A few days later, as I paced my office in a kind of silent panic, a call came through from Margaret, my assistant. A document at the front needed my attention. Although I was doing nothing at all constructive, I bristled at the request to walk a few dozen feet to go sign my name, like she’d asked me to give her a pint of blood.
“Too fucking busy, Margaret, have them send it registered mail.” I had important carpet to walk over again and again, after all. I expected Margaret to sigh and hang up, but instead, she hesitated. She never did that.
“I already suggested that, Ms. McCleary. The messenger is… quite insistent that you sign in person.”
A messenger. Of course. Those dirty, bike-riding Socialists sometimes clomped in here like they were doing us a favor, when they were mostly just shedding their road grime all over the place. I could just about see one of them glaring at poor Margaret as she was trying to do her job.
“Alright. Fine. I’ll be right there.”
I wasn’t any more willing to go out there, but I felt like I had to rescue Margaret. I straightened up my suit and stormed out, fully ready to take out my frustration on whichever gear-head had had the misfortune to boss my assistant around.
I all but stomped out to the reception area, yanking doors open and taking long strides that probably made it look like I was stalking prey. All of that came to a stop, however, and was knocked completely out of my consciousness the minute I saw her. The messenger.
Chapter Two
Like most of the other messengers who darted in and out of downtown traffic, this one wore tight jeans and a large, beaten bag slung over one shoulder. Unlike most other messengers, however, this one was female. Her bag was almost as big as her, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by the weight. Her jeans clung to her as though she’d been riding around in them for years. She wore a beaten black t-shirt advertising some kind of punk band, and wore fingerless gloves that gave her an air of toughness. As she twirled a pen in one hand, the long, taut muscles of her forearms rose and fell like a current just below the surface of water. Her skin was a rich olive, and glowed with the kind of health and strength that probably comes from having to fight against all manner of traffic every day.
Everything about her, from her barely-controlled mop of jet-black hair, to the way she rested her weight on one hip, looked legit. So often, the kids we had coming into the office looked like they were going through a phase of their lives. Something in their eyes. Maybe it was the threat of constant vehicular death as they competed for space and time on the congested arteries of downtown. The messengers seemed to be divided into two camps: the ones who prided themselves on their wiliness, and those who prided themselves on their daring.
You could tell them apart by watching them on the street. The wily ones escaped danger by anticipating a threat and darting around it. The other ones escaped danger by daring it to get them, by taking over lanes and muscling through it. This one standing before me was obviously one of those ones who didn’t ask for permission to enter your lane; she was one of the ones who simply took it.
I don’t know why it shocked me so much that this pushy messenger was a woman - did I really assume that because Margaret was insistent, it meant that she was being pestered by a young man? Either way, this messenger, covered in road grime, had chosen the wrong day and the wrong woman’s assistant to fuck with, and I was all set to illustrate it when she turned and looked at me, squaring her shoulders as though readying for a fight. All at once I felt like I was coming face to face with an equal. It shocks me even now to say it, but as I squared my own shoulders in response and met her eye, which were almost a full foot lower than my own, I felt no dominance.
“You need to sign this one”, she said, holding out a packing slip like there would be no question she’d get what she needed.
I need to? Who did this street rat think she was?
“You’re going to tell me what to do?”
“You want this package, you’re gonna sign.”
I studied her. She was not only a brute, she had a mouth on her. She didn’t know who she was talking to. She opened her bag and dropped the package in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice rose higher than I’d intended. She buckled her bag.
“You shouldn’t talk to people like that.” She turned and headed for the door.
Margaret and I were stunned.
“WAIT”, I yelled. What the hell was I thinking? I would like to say that I was totally in control, and knew exactly what I was doing. The truth was something else, though. The truth was that, unbeknownst to this young woman, as raw and unapologetic as a stray cat, she was some kind of last straw. I was either going to unload on her, taking out on her all the frustrations that had come with falling out of love with the only thing I’d ever been good at, or I was going to swallow my tongue, which would be an indicator of just how far I’d fallen.
She turned. At one corner of her mouth, I swear I saw a faint hint of a smile. Beneath her thick black eyebrows, her dark eyes burned. If she wasn’t enjoying this, she was doing a good job of hiding it. She turned her palms out, as if to urge me to get on with it. I got ready to unleash my fury on her, but found that there was nothing. The tank was empty.
“Fine. I’ll sign it. Bring it here.”
She covered the distance between us in two steps. She didn’t seem to take any pleasure in my acquiescence, which I appreciated. It fooled me into thinking I still had enough spark to threaten her. I said, in as menacing a tone as I could muster,
“Your name. Your company. You’ll never get another call from us.”
She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“I ride for Bobby’s Messenger Service. And no worries, you’ve never called us. Your competitors do, because we get the job done.”
She waved the signed form in the air for emphasis, then headed for the door. Just as she grabbed the handle, she turned.
“Oh, and my name’s Rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Oh, come on.
“That’s how they know me. If you’re going to try and get me in trouble with my boss, that’s the name you’re going to use.”
She slipped out the door.
“God, what a bitch”, Margaret said.
For some strange, inexplicable reason, I felt compelled to defend Rabbit.
“She was just doing her job. She didn’t care who she was speaking to.”
Margaret sat back down. “Whatever”, she hissed. I returned to my office, but it was all over for me that day. I would get nothing done.
And I would get even less done for the rest of the week, it turned out. Every time I stepped into my office, the place felt filthy, even the walls. I couldn’t get enough light into it. No matter what I did, the place didn’t feel right. I’d taken to haunting the doorways of my colleagues.
It wasn’t until I was driving home one evening that I figured it out. A young woman on a bike was crowding the lane as I made my way over a hill. Although I’m normally the most careful driver around, I thought of Rabbit’s thick, confident thighs as I drove. Then, it hit me: although Rabbit hadn’t offended me, despite her apparent lack of respect, I couldn’t remember the last time someone had stood up to me. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had seen me as anything except the ball-busting, bitch on heels that I’d spent so long convincing other people that I was. Somehow, this “Rabbit” had seen right through all that. I began to wonder if it was all bullshit.
As I made my way home that evening, as the sky deepened into the kind of azure reserved only for Southern California evenings, I felt shaken to my very core. Somehow, this Rabbit had seen into my soul.
Chapter Three
Of course, the only logical course of action was to try once more to force those thoughts and feelings out of my head with work. A new project would be just the thing, I thought. Ideally, I’d be too consumed to feel anything for very
long, let alone feelings that were totally foreign and discomfiting. The very next day, I launched a coup to acquire the company that had tried to acquire us the day that Rabbit showed up in the office. Somehow, I blamed them for it. Silly, I know, but the worst thing that could happen would be that we wouldn’t close a deal. The best thing that could happen would be me getting enough distance between these feelings and myself that they would cease altogether, not to mention getting the firm one step closer to total industry domination. It sounded like a win-win if I ever heard one.
At the end of the day, I looked at my plans and achieved a kind of high from all the projected hours that would be involved. Is this what drugs are like? There was salvation in those hours; the more occupied my time was, the less I was vulnerable to those feelings creeping back up on me. Mitchell and his department looked over the project a few days later and gave the go-ahead. He grinned and called me, not unappreciatively, a vindictive bitch, and sent me on my way. By the end of the week, the memory of Rabbit’s eyes meeting mine with that frightening power began to fade.
For a brief, haughty moment, I thought that I’d done it yet again, and had fooled my heart into trading work for feelings. Within a couple of days, I quickly learned that I couldn’t work those kinds of hours like I used to. Thoughts and words kept getting entangled with one another, rendering me exasperated, if not downright humiliated. It certainly didn’t help matters that when I tried to sleep at night, I thought of Rabbit. Her voice, husky for such a demure woman, lilting out of her perfectly formed mouth and sending words my way.
It was disheartening, to say the least, like I was an athlete who’d played past her prime. I don’t know what happened, exactly; working like a demon had gotten me through the toughest times in my life. It felt a little like being abandoned by an old friend. Mitchell stopped by my office early one afternoon. He meandered around a bit, sticking his hands in his pockets and chewing on the inside of his lip.
