by Jamie Knight
This immediately takes her off the hunt. Off the track of catching me a lie or any kind of deceit. She smiles, looking all sunshine and rainbows again. Of course, because she’s been made to feel important again.
“Oh. Well. That’s quite the honor, Tommy,” she says. “I’m sure if you keep up the good work, I’m sure to accept whatever you pitch me.”
I shudder, hating how lowbrow and obvious her innuendo is, now that I’ve eaten her. I suppress it, keeping it from showing on my body, but the disgust still fills me and makes me question whether any of this was a good idea after all.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Melissa
After about an hour or two in front of the phone, avoiding and suppressing my urge to throw up, I finally collapse under it. I have to run myself to the private bathroom and threw up my entire coffee and donut, plus bits of last night’s dinner.
I’m not sure what it is, but I’m overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Revulsion suddenly takes control of me, and this is what’s making me throw up. Vaguely, my mind is on Tommy. On what he must be doing in the office many doors from me.
Though I have no way of knowing, my gut and heart tell me it’s not good. Whatever is going on over there, it’s the reason for my nausea. It’s the reason I have my head over the toilet bowl, yakking up everything I’ve had to eat or drink for the last twenty-four hours. And then some. I’m actually gagging enough to come up dry.
When I’m empty, I stagger over to the sink and splash my face. I try to collect myself, telling myself that there’s no reason to get so worked up. If something were really wrong, Tommy would’ve called by now. I would’ve gotten some notification.
Still, I have this nagging dread. One that won’t leave me even as I step out of the bathroom. When I get back and slump into my chair, Isabella’s looking at me like I might keel over and die at the slightest thing. “You all right there, hon?”
I nod and tell her, “yes,” even though I couldn’t be feeling farther from “all right.”
“You look a little sick,” she says. “Party too much on the weekend?”
I nod, willing to give her that explanation if she’s going to provide it. I’m feeling too weak and preoccupied to worry about coming up with anything else.
“Do you want to go home?”
I shake my head.
If I go home, there’ll be no one here to answer the phone if Tommy calls. There will be no one to have his back if shit hits the fan. I can go home, and I can go for lunch when lunchtime rolls around.
“Okaaaaay,” she says, “whatever. Whatever you say, Melissa. Just — whatever you have right now — don’t give it to me, okay?”
I nod and try to focus on work. I try to focus on anything but the roiling, acidic feeling I have in my stomach. At this rate, it won’t matter if I go to lunch or not. I couldn’t stomach a piece of bread or water at this point, let alone a full course meal.
****
Isabella leaves for lunch early, leaving me as the sole secretary holding down the fort. I don’t mind, considering that Kane calls my desk with good news for me. He explains that he’s found a way to get me some kind of representation, despite the conflict of interest issue. It involves having my case taken over by Vanacore, who maintains some level of sovereignty within the company — I don’t really have an ear for these kinds of details — but the part I’m most happy about involves Tommy.
He’s agreed to help me “prepare my case” for pitching to Vanacore. This involves gathering details on my case, what I’m hoping to get out of it, who the accused is and what his relationship was with me, etc. While I’m not happy about being represented by Vanacore, I am happy that we have a legal and legitimate reason for possibly being seen together now, whether or not Kane knows we’re connected intimately or not.
As I hang up from this phone call, I find myself praying that all this is over soon. That Tommy takes out Vanacore before my case gets across her desk so that maybe he can represent me, in addition to being done with this quest of his to take down that predator.
As much as I admire his heroism, it’s beginning to stress me out. If this nonsense goes on past this week, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it out of bed come next Monday.
After that phone call, the rest of the day is really nothing to write home about. I also don’t regret not going to lunch for the rest of that day, either. I’m too busy answering phone calls and texting Tommy in between. I remind him that I drove him into work this morning, so we will need to try to coordinate getting home.
He replies that that shouldn’t be a problem, given that Vanacore just left the office, and is looking to go home. Right as I get this text, I see Vanacore breezing past me. She must not be moving fast enough or cares as little for me as she acts like she does because her eyes zero in on my cell phone.
She clicks her tongue at me and says, “Taking personal calls during work hours, I see. Some secretary you are. Everyone sings your praises around here, but I’m going to tell Kane I saw you on your mobile phone when you should’ve been busy handling calls.”
I look at her and put away my phone. As I do both actions, I plaster is sweet, I-don’t-give-a-fuck smile on my face, “Tell him what you want,” I say. “The phones aren’t ringing now, as it’s almost the end of business hours.” With that, I wave her off. I wave her goodbye. “Bye-bye, Ms. Vanacore. Have a great evening, won’t you?”
She returns my viciously, polite smile. “I will, seeing as I have a boyfriend, and you don’t anymore, by the looks of it.”
With that, she struts off, and I have to resist the urge to say something along the lines of, Well, at least I don’t force myself on my so-called boyfriends, threaten them with getting demoted. Instead, I let her walk out and get as far away from me as she can so that Tommy and I can leave without any interference from her.
When she’s gone, I’m surprised I’m not bleeding from the mouth, or spitting out bits and pieces of crushed teeth, with how hard I’m clenching my jaw.
Finally, after what feels like hours of waiting, Tommy’s by my office door, saying hello to me. I quickly shut off my computer, put away my headset, and prepare to get the hell out of here. In the ten years I’ve worked here, I’ve never been so happy to leave. And so dreading the rest of the week. “Let’s go home,” I say.
“To your place?” Tommy asks, stepping out the door with me, and toward the elevator. Despite his haggard, weathered look, he actually sounds happy and expectant with this possibility.
“Yes, to my place,” I say as if it already should have been a foregone conclusion. “I doubt your father is going to care whether you’re there or not. And anyway, I don’t want anything happening to your new clothes because he decides to fuck them up, so I thought I would keep you and them safe with me for a while.” At least for a few more days.
Tommy looks pleased about this, despite also looking burdened beyond someone his age. “Sounds great. Thanks, pet.” With that, he sneaks me a kiss on the mouth in the foyer before stepping out into the elevator.
As we ride down, he says, “I did it.”
I look at him.
“I gave her head, and I got it on audio,” he says, answering my look.
I sigh, saying what’s been on my mind all day. “And how long are you going to do this for? Gather this evidence on her before you call it quits and show Kane what you have?”
“The end of the week,” says Tommy, as if he’s given this the same obsessive thought as I have.
I sigh in relief, murmuring a thank you to God and all his angels.
“Friday,” says Tommy “that’s when I’m going to go to Kane and Charlotte with everything I have, and she’s going to be gone.”
“Good,” I say, surprised and afraid of the honesty I feel bubbling up in me, “because I don’t know how much of the stress and anxiety I can take, Tommy.” I grip the handle of my purse. “I threw up because of it.”
“Well, so did I,” says Tommy, like we are
having some kind of pissing match.
I whiten hearing this. That’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear. And what I didn’t want my poor, sweet boyfriend to have to put himself through. And all for a noble cause with unsure results or pay off.
“I’ll get her, love,” he says. “I’m her big, fat walking karma.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Tommy
Over the last few days, some things have gone the way I predicted, others did not. What went as predicted was Vanacore’s improved mood. Her being even-keel enough to not need to find any and every opportunity to escalate our sexual contact, the way she had been doing in the weeks prior.
What I did not expect and what ended up happening, however was the fact that Vanacore wanted (and got) three more oral sex acts for me. While I had anticipated that the one given to her on Monday would satiate her for a good part of the week, I was wrong. I ended up giving her one on Tuesday, one on Wednesday, and one on Thursday.
With each licking I gave her, I tried to get as much evidence as I could: audio, some video. The video came about on Wednesday, when, after convincing her that I was a dirty, kinky boy, and liked to have a video of my sexual acts, she let me record her. On my phone, of course, only after I convinced her that I wanted to watch it over and over again at home. I further explained that I would be willing to bury the evidence for her if need be.
She agreed, confirming my suspicions that she was and has been a predator for a very long time. Vanacore seemed happy at my volunteering to cover for her. To keep this mess out of her hands directly. From there, I obediently and silently made her cum, being sure to capture as much juicy detail as I could.
During each of those days, Melissa and I kept our routine. Riding into work with her as early as possible, going home with her outside of the view of Vanacore. Usually trying to wait until Vanacore goes home to meet up in the parking lot and go back to Melissa’s condo.
On each day into work, and each night home, Melissa seems more and more unsure of my plan. More and more stressed out by it, even though I assure her everything’s going fine. I’m getting good evidence. I’m keeping a meticulous record of everything. But none of this seems to impress or relax Melissa. If anything, it seems to drain her. This definitely seems true today out of all the days I’ve ridden to and from work with her.
Now it’s Friday. Morning, to be exact. And I’ve just arrived in the parking lot with Melissa at the wheel. Not even in the parking space for more than two seconds, she already looks like she’s slumping. Out of energy or will to move.
“Please make this Friday good, Tommy. Please be done with things today. Go to HR with your evidence, so we can get on with the rest of our lives together, starting this weekend. Please?” She doesn’t bother to look at me through most of these words, but she does on that last one. It’s a pitiful, weathered look.
I hate to see that look on her face. That’s not how I want my girlfriend to look at me. Especially not when I’m taking the risks that I am. I get out of the car, answering her question. “Yes. It’ll be over by this afternoon, Melissa. I promise you.” Unlike the days before this one, I don’t feel the need to be as cautious. I don’t feel the need to look up toward the windows and make sure Vanacore’s not looking for me.
Melissa gets out of her side of the car, directly after me and says, “Good. Because I want to enjoy my weekend, Tommy. I don’t want to keep worrying about you. Or her.” She pauses, looking angry and heartbroken. “I want to leave work at the end of the day, thinking about all the ways I’m going to have fun with you. Not all the ways you could be in danger.”
I turn away from her, feeling a bout of anxiety. It’s stronger than anything I’ve felt this entire week. It’s mixed in with anxiety and dread. The feeling is like I’m about to walk into something I may not get out of.
“I understand,” I say. “I want that too, but it’s not the end of the day. Not yet.” With those words, I head toward the office building.
Unlike the days before, I don’t care whether Melissa waits to come inside or not. Even if I told her to stay behind, wait a moment, I don’t think she’d be in the mood to listen to me today. Though I’m a little frustrated with the way she doesn’t seem to be as “supportive” of what I’m trying to do, I don’t blame her. This is probably not what she was expecting to have to go through with me, so soon after having troubles with her own ex-boyfriend.
But it can’t be helped, I tell myself. She knew I was going after Vanacore before we started dating. So, she can’t really have an issue now. And if she does, that’s all on her. But I’ll try to make it up to her at the end of the day. Maybe I’ll take her to a bar or a restaurant. Something to make up for all the shit I’ve been putting her through.
As I move closer to the main doors, I shout back to her, “I’ll make it up to you tonight when I get done with HR.” After that, I fall silent, step inside, and prepare myself for the last day I will be collecting evidence against Vanacore.
By the time I make it into the main office, into the elevator, and up to mine and Vanacore’s personal offices on the legal floor, my morning has already soured. In addition to having to deal with Melissa being understandably frustrated with me, on the way up to my office, I ran into some old colleagues from the legal’ aids floor, who made it a point to piss and shit verbally all over me — over my nice clothes, saying that I’m a dressed too fancifully for a grease ball.
While I don’t allow myself to go at it with them, physically or verbally, for their comments to me, their comments still get to me all the same. They still make me angry and out of sorts. Not the best place to be, when I need to be levelheaded, and aware of doing my last little bit of work before taking Vanacore down.
But if I thought that my day couldn’t get any worse, it gets worse, the minute I walk into the office I share with Vanacore. Unlike the other days prior, she’s already in the office. She’s already sitting at her desk. And worst of all, she has a look on her face I don’t like seeing: it’s cold, calculating, and betrayed.
I freeze, shutting the door with my backward movement into it. “Ms. Vanacore?” The only answer I get is her standing up from her desk. She does so with the same look she has in her eyes: cold and calculating. As she walks right up to me, I press myself into the door, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Not as strong and badass as I had been feeling earlier in the week about my ability to control her and this situation.
“I saw you with her,” she whispers venomously. She doesn’t give me a chance to deny it, to tell her something different. She walks closer to me and leans down to my ear. “I’ve seen you with her this entire week, Tommy.” She may be whispering, but she sounds wrathful — ready to go off on me. Just as I start to tremble against the door, Vanacore leans away, giving me a bit of a literal breathing room. Even so, her eyes don’t leave me. They continue to skewer me to the spot. “You and she are involved seriously, intimately, aren’t you?”
Something in my eyes must tell her I’m about to deny it, but because before I can even say a single word, utter a single syllable, she’s back down my throat. “Don’t say you’re not. I’ve seen the way you are with her. You and she are dating.” She comes back into my personal space again. “Are you two fucking?”
I don’t answer. In part because it’s none of her fucking business, and in part, because I’m terrified of her.
“You are,” she murmurs. She grabs me by the front of my suit and the tail of my tie. “And I guess these are from her, aren't they?”
Again, I don’t answer. I just regret my bad luck. My inability to get away from the situation, or to set up in a way for me to record what’s going on now.
“Why are you messing with her, Tommy?” She pulls me away from the wall and toward her desk. As she does, I don’t have a choice but to follow. “If you’re going to mess around with anyone, it should be me!” She whirls around, looking at me. “I have way more experience than that secretary! I have way more skill than she!”
<
br /> I don’t speak to any of this, because I know it won’t matter.
Vanacore takes a deep breath in and sets my stomach to bubbling and churning mess. “I’d love to fuck you and make Mary Poppins watch,” she murmurs, looking as black in her eyes as a summer storm. “I’d love to make her watch you fill all of my holes, make you scream and cry out in pleasure, and call my name instead of hers!” With that, Vanacore does something I was never expecting her to do. She pushes me across the front of her desk and actually tries to force my pants and underwear off me. “But, I’ll settle for getting to fuck you right here, right now, without an audience!”
As my back and butt hit the front of the desk, my heart leaps nervously into my throat. My hands and face began to sweat buckets. For the first time since I started this job, for the first time since I started this ill-fated mission to take Vanacore down, I’m well and truly afraid. Terrified at the realization that I’ve tried to dance with a beast I can’t control.
I push back against her, barely succeeding in getting away from Vanacore and the way she has me pinned. Vanacore actually snarls, as I dash away from her and toward my cubicle. As I move toward my desk, my chair, I quickly formulate a plan. Some way to knock the phone off its receiver, hit the button for Melissa’s line, and then try to keep away from Vanacore as long as I can. Long enough to get whatever last bits of hard evidence I need against her, and get out. Without getting attacked.
I make it over to my desk, staring at Vanacore. She’s got a wild look in her eye. She doesn’t look like a good southern woman anymore. She looks like a suit-wearing zombie, ready to devour me.
When I said my mission was going to end today, I didn’t think it was going to end this way! The feeling of dread I felt haunting me down in the parking lot climbs to a peak. I think of Melissa as I knock the phone off its receiver, and punch the “speed dial” button I have for her, praying she’s there at her desk. Praying she knows what to do and that she’ll see me through it ‘til the end.
