by Falon Gold
In about ten minutes, my and her routine will begin. For now, it isn’t a concern—I got to work thirty minutes early just to stand among the supply cabinets that are short enough for me to prop my elbows on top of. My back is holding up the speckled, cream-painted wall, bare feet crossed while I sip hazelnut espresso from my mug with Bosses Suck written on it. I’m mentally preparing for my Friday, a guarantee that my boss will have a scheduled liaison at his desk to kick off the weekend by three o’clock. A tropical island far away from Camron Powers and Candleton is calling my name when a tap at the door comes too damn early.
“Go away, Sheryl!” I yell before she strolls in.
It’s the first time I don’t have a throat full of hot coffee when she announces her arrival.
Her timing must be off today, I think to myself just as the door swings open.
Today’s skirt suit consists of a fire-engine red, quarter-sleeve jacket with black trim. It hugs Sheryl’s ample bosom and small waist and flares out at the bottom above her fitted skirt that respectfully stops at her knees.
No matter what pair of shoes she’s wearing, I want them, even if they’re spiked, black stilettos with red-bottoms that I’m not willing to pay the obscene amount of money that she spent. I couldn’t afford the aching feet they’ll give me anyway, since I’m not slim in all the places she is. I have fifteen pounds of extra padding on her, and it’s all in one place, my ass. She’s built like a skinny, but curvy, brickhouse with red hair spiraling down to her waist, and she’s off-limits since she’s married.
I’m sure my boss hates that and wishes he knew what her cupid-bow lips coated with glossy red lipstick felt like beneath his. He’s tasted everyone else’s in New York... except mine.
Yeah, that sounded petty. I promise I’m not. Mr. Powers isn’t the man for me, and I only hate to see Sheryl’s lips when they’re tilted up in one corner with that ominous, sorrowful look that sits in her emerald green eyes.
Oh God, it’s sitting there right now too. I already know I’ve lost the battle of who’ll take their chances with entering his harem…I mean, his office before the workday has even begun.
I shake my head. “It’s too early for this shit, Sheryl. I’m not officially on the clock yet.” That complaint would carry more weight if I actually used a time sheet.
Still, I don’t start work until nine. Every bit of reprieve I can grab before counts.
A princess-cut diamond solitaire and gold wedding band slices through the air. Paperwork glides across the gray, slick surface toward me, predictably.
“I’m sorry, Amari. I saw the light on under the door, and I need a favor from you this time. I have a mandatory safety meeting in five minutes in the other direction, or I wouldn’t bother you this early. This contract is hot off the company’s top lawyer’s desk. Lance caught me on the way to the meeting. Mr. Powers could lose the waterfront property in Dubai if it isn’t handled right away. Who knows whose head he’ll chop off if someone gets in a bigger bid before the Sheik signs this paperwork? Save everyone’s job here, including mine and my husband’s, and get this to Mr. Powers right away. He may not even be up yet. If it’s any consolation, the faster you get it there, the faster you can get out of there, and Saturday night’s drinks are on me.”
Damn the consolations, I just need ten more minutes of quiet time, but I can’t refuse her. Resisting the urge to stomp my foot like a petulant child is hard. I go with the quiet tapping of my self-manicured toes on the plush carpet. It’s either that, or scream.
“You know getting in and out of that man’s office doesn’t work that way, Sheryl. He’ll want to know everything in this contract without reading it himself. If I didn’t know any better, I swear he likes to hear me read to him. Saturday night better be top shelf liquor, too. I’m going to need it. Next time I come in early, I’m sitting on the floor in the damn dark.”
Now, why did I warn her of that?
Giggles rocket out of her mouth, making her slender shoulders shake, as her tiny feet spin toward the door. “You got it, love. Desmond says hello.”
I harrumph, then snatch the papers up and slip my feet into the handmade, backless, flat mules I designed in college. “Give Desmond the finger for me. He’s the one that found this future prime piece of real estate that needs urgent attention.”
Damn her husband too, for doing his job of scouring countries for low-priced property that Powers Enterprises can snap up then turn into the place-to-be for the wealthy. Mr. Powers gives him bonuses after each purchase pays off.
“Desmond feels just as badly for you as I do, Amari. If he and I were Mr. Powers’ favorite employee, we’d spare you this morning, love, but he’s already trolling Europe for the next buy.”
I suck air through my teeth. “If I didn’t love you and Desmond, you’d be on your own with this one, but I’ll have you both know Mr. Powers doesn’t have a favorite employee, just favorite pieces of ass. Actually, he doesn’t have a favorite one of those, either. He has all the ass in New York.”
She points at me then her. “He hasn’t had yours and mine, and he doesn’t have a favorite because it would be his only, so he hasn’t found the right one yet.”
“He doesn’t want mine, and that’s fine, but yours is definitely enticing enough to get him off my back for a while so I can find my favorite. Now, that’s a favor you can do me that I’ll appreciate, even if Desmond will kill me for pimping out his wife. When Mr. Powers finds his favorite, God help the woman. No man should be able to get it up almost every day, Sheryl.”
Am I whining right now? You can bet your last dollar I am. I’d like to sit at my desk instead of standing in here all the time to preserve my sanity.
“Oh yes, they should be able to get it up almost every day,” she tosses over shoulder before walking out.
“You’re biased, woman, married, and in love. Desmond is a blond God. Of course, you want to hump like rabbits with him.”
“And you will want to, too, Amari, as soon as you find the right one,” she comments while retreating.
“I won’t find the right one hiding in here or in my apartment. Definitely not when Mr. Powers is dragging me across the globe.” Sheryl is out of hearing range, so I’m talking to myself. “Damn, shouldn’t traveling be a good thing?”
It isn’t when it comes to going with Mr. Powers, even after the latest trip to Arrow, Colorado with him visiting his family for business purposes. Things will work out just the way he wanted, as usual for him. His successes are always a fiasco for me who sweats like a Hebrew slave in business attire, fetching flutes of champagne and serving lukewarm pâté for fresh bread slices, hors d’oeuvres, fruits, and cheese for his peers and family. This time, I had to haul it all out of a picnic basket that weighed a ton. It felt like it did anyway.
Did Mr. Powers assist with lugging it from one place to another with his chosen selections? Hell no. Would he risk his back to do it? For the answer, just double the first ‘hell no.’
Being financially stable should be a good thing, too. It would be, if I wasn’t sacrificing other important things to make the money, such as dating, which is always the last thing on my mind when I leave Mr. Powers’ company. Once I’m home, I need to decompress immediately, with my feet up. I hate to leave again. Every morning is a struggle to get out of bed. I’m winning so far. One day, that streak is going to run out.
Mr. Powers’ office antics drive me bat-guano crazy, and they’re well known throughout Powers Enterprises, a Plexiglas tower of thirty-six floors. If he was a decent man, he’d be ashamed of his reputation. He isn’t, but I am.
The monthly ten grand I make isn’t nearly enough for all the shit I go through, hush-mouth money that I need if I want to earn a living. Or convince a bank to loan me more coins to start my own business someday. Maybe even help out my parents with health concerns, and continue saving for my retirement.
At this rate, five more years here will secure my nest egg that I can use for startup money if the bank says
no, though the first rule of business is never use your own money. That is the only thing I managed to learn while working here. Learning corporate tactics and rules at the elbows of a successful magnate is the only reason why I took this job, but five minutes in Mr. Powers’ company is enough to make me go mad.
I drag the length of the marble corridor. The distant click-clacking of Sheryl’s heels veering in the opposite direction serves as theme music for the hopeless walking their last mile. Why in the hell don’t I just quit?
For the millionth time, you need the money. Who else is going to pay you as much as he does until you’re an entrepreneur?
No one, so I suck up my misery, halt at the office door that opens to the equivalent of the gas chamber, then rap my knuckles against it. Giving fair warning that I’m coming in. If luck is on my side, Mr. Powers and his date are fully dressed already. Sometimes, they’re not.
Whatever state of dress they’re in, it’s not like he’ll shove away whatever ditzy bombshell is wearing expensive highlights and little clothing. She’ll become leftovers from last night’s tryst with him. She just doesn’t know it yet, probably standing within his powerful thighs that are pressed against the rim of his desk, thinking she’ll get to see the inside of his bedroom again.
I’m not the one who’s going to inform her that last night is a one-time endeavor. She’ll find out the hard way soon enough. Everyone must take their licks for their bad decisions. Hopefully, he’ll stop kissing her goodbye long enough to bid me entry.
Maybe, you should recommend putting a sock on the door when he’s not alone.
It’s probably a waste of breath, so why bother?
When no one answers my first knock, which is weird because getting no answer before I enter is becoming frequent, I do it again. Usually, I get a high-pitched griping sound from the latest ‘her’, if not his deep intonation of ‘Come in, Amari’ laced with Italian aphrodisiac.
No answer is good though—it means the office is empty and I won’t want to bleach my eyes afterwards. It’ll be even better for me if they’re not through showering yet. The occasional opportunity for ‘dropping the paperwork on his desk and running out’ is a possibility today. I rarely get it, and I’m certainly taking it, even though my shoes with quarter-inch heels and no backs aren’t meant for sprinting in. I’ll take the chance of losing one if it helps me get away.
I breathe in deeply, then ease the lever on the door downward, cracking the wooden barrier wide enough to stick just my head around it. Peeking into the dim office with soft rays of morning light leaking in from behind his desk, the sliding wall to his hidden chamber is standing wide open. I’ve been finding it this way every morning for months now. That’s unusual, too. When is the last time someone stayed the night with him?
Not your business, Amari. Getting in then getting out before he hears you is.
I set one foot on the lush, tan carpeting. Mr. Powers strolls out of the bedroom in a towel swathed around his hips, and that’s all. It’s not his bare ass, but damn close to it. Great, and not in a good way. Before another freshly-showered, half-covered body appears for anyone passing by to see, which will be humiliating only to me, I rush inside the room and slam the door closed behind me. With my back to it, I cross my arms over my thirty-six D-cups.
“I’m sick to death of this, Mr. Powers. If you have a date in there that spilled over into this morning, ask her to stay behind the wall until I’ve read through this contract with you for the Dubai property and scanned it into the computer to send to the present owner’s attorney. And for God’s sake, put some clothes on. Please!”
Cocking an eyebrow and dipping his head sends tendrils of wet black hair falling onto his brow. He brushes them backwards slowly, a move worthy of a photo shoot, while giving me a black, penetrating stare.
“Sick of what, Amari? And there’s no—”
“I’m sick of the disrespect. It never stops with you.”
And something has to give—it was always going to be my tolerance for the harsh environment I’m forced to endure. Today, that happens to be the definition if his pecs, arms, and the visible, thin line of hair that scales the middle of his abs, vanishing into the towel. Good God!
He twists at the waist, looking around the room for the person that I’m talking to disrespectfully.
“Oh, I’m talking to you, Mr. Powers.”
Even if it costs me my job, I’ve earned the right to say what’s on my mind, possibly getting fired for my troubles. Best thing he’ll ever do for me. And I’ll say exactly what’s on my heart, ah, I meant my mind when I unglue the tip of my tongue from the roof of my suddenly bone-dry mouth. Anyone can guess why that happens every time I see a part of his body, and they’d be wrong. I know exactly where their mind would head, into the gutter, unless they’re predicting my blood is drying up in my veins because of the boiling anger sweeping through me.
He trains his piercing black orbs on me again. A shiver wreaks havoc up my spine. I’m sure that happens whenever anyone is in the front sights of a predator, so I ignore it.
“No, you’re not talking to me like that, Amari. And before you try it again, I advise you to check yourself before you say anything else.”
“No can do. I’m going to wreck myself with saying even more, and you’ll still be the only one that’s going too far in here. This is not an office. It’s a catwalk for you and your girlfriends. You parade them in and out of here like they’re paying you and you have a bookie who needs his money now, or he’s going to break both of your knees later. I can’t go one more day of dealing with this. What employee spends as much time as possible in the copier room? Do you ever wonder why I do that?”
He raises one finger and opens his mouth to reply.
“No, you don’t wonder,” I cut him off. “Because you don’t care how your actions affect me. It’s downright painful to come to work every day and be treated like wallpaper, which wouldn’t want to watch you with other women either if it had a choice. Oh, and you’re bad-mannered. What boss walks around in a towel? You have no idea what please, thank you, and being a gentleman means. What real man let’s a woman carry something too heavy for her? And by the way, I’m not supposed to have to give up almost every weekend to serve brunch to you and your family in other states or your colleagues in other countries. That’s what caterers and their staff are for, so you’re hindering someone else’s ability to feed their family. But do you express your appreciation for robbing me of my weekends and other people of a paycheck? I’ll answer that question for you, too. No.”
His pupils shrink. “I don’t rob anyone. I pay you extra for the weekends, Amari, so someone is getting a paycheck, even if it’s not who you want it to be.”
“Do you give me the option to turn the extra money down? No, and I’m going mentally insane slowly from the stresses of this job. Or in my case, I’m going insane while trying to stop you from driving me insane.”
Suppose I had a love interest? Any man would’ve surely dumped me by now. I’d settle for getting my own business off the ground, but I haven’t produced a sketch for a new shoe design in three years.
Mr. Powers sneers. “Who wants the option to turn down an extra three thousand dollars? My life is your life. If mine is running smoothly, yours is too.”
“Everyone wants options. All money isn’t good money. Your life only finances mine. They’re not supposed to merge outside of this business, and I’ve accomplished nothing with the money I make. It’s just sitting in the bank while I grow gray at twenty-six. No, I’m twenty-seven now. My freaking birthday was yesterday, and I forgot it.”
I never expected him to remember or even know the date that’s only special to anyone connected to the Spencer’s. It wouldn’t have hurt his business to let me enjoy my birthday with my family, who called and inadvertently reminded me of what day it was.
“When you work for me, Amari, there are no options. You work and make the money, and you’ll have other birthdays.”
&n
bsp; Damn, he didn’t even give me a ‘Happy belated birthday, Amari. Take the rest of the day off.’ I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much that stings.
“It’s just like you to think some crap like that, Mr. Powers, but this isn’t a sweatshop. Why don’t I have vacation days I can take? There are no legal indentured servants anymore. It’s like I’m a prostitute. You’re my pimp or master, dictating when I quit working after normal business hours have concluded. Those are the hours you hired me for, remember? If you needed more, you should’ve said so during my interview. I’d have saved us from this conversation by turning down the position. Furthermore, birthdays are too important to forget. They’re milestones to celebrate on that day, which is everyone’s special day. Each one the marking of the continuation of life amongst people like you who would rather break those still in their right minds. I sure as hell shouldn’t have forgotten my birthday, even if you didn’t remember it.”
He takes a step forward.
Well, that certainly can’t be a good thing.
“I didn’t forget your birthday, Amari, and you wouldn’t have celebrated it with me anyway.” Another step. “But I’m much better than a pimp and master. I don’t require you to take off your clothes at all.” Another step. “Or work the streets nor twenty-four hours a day for me.” Another step. This is going very badly. “Nor do you sleep in a cold room beneath my stairs in inadequate housing for terrible pay.” Dammit, he’s getting too close. “I haven’t ever asked you to clean my house.”
He stops in front of me, eyes dropping to my mouth. I forget what breathing is. Have no idea why I’m suffocating, but one of us should back off. I don’t mind being that person. Except, purging my system of the baggage I’ve gathered since taking this job from several feet away won’t be as effective as doing it right in his face.
So, stand your ground, Amari, no matter how much you’d like to run.
