by Cee Smith
“Sorry, yeah, I’ve got a lot on my mind. I have that meeting with Mr. Belford in fifteen. I’m a little nervous. Any pointers?”
“You should be fine. He’ll steer the majority of the meeting. Just be sure to pay attention and you should be good.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” She offered a warm smile and I left the kitchen, heading back to my temp desk just outside of Mr. Belford’s office.
His door opened at 7:55, but he didn’t emerge. Catherine, his assistant, peeked her head into his office, confused by the unusual action. After another moment she continued her work as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Was I just supposed to walk in? It couldn’t have been a coincidence that he opened his door. I didn’t know if I was more nervous to show up early or to arrive late. It took me another minute to make up my mind—whatever I did, I couldn’t be late. The last thing I wanted was to be on his shit list, and according to Maggie, it sounded like it wouldn’t take much.
With fresh nerves, I walked up to Catherine’s desk. Before I even uttered a word, Mr. Belford’s voice rang out from the depths of his office, “Catherine, can you send in Ms. Ericson?”
Catherine gave a slight head nod, seconding Mr. Belford’s request, and I clutched my notebook harder in my hand, walking into the brightly lit room. Mr. Belford sat waiting for me in the living room area in one of the leather chairs across from the couch—where I assumed was where he expected me to sit. It felt unsettling sitting there like he was a therapist and I was supposed to share why I thought my mother loved me too much or the struggles of growing up without a father. There was something about the impressive structure of his desk that felt more appropriate. It displayed the hierarchy of his position. Sitting in the living room was tearing down that wall, confusing the natural order of things.
His eyes followed me, watched me draw closer to the sofa. I kept my eyes locked on the abnormally plush carpet. The heather-gray color also seemed unusual. I wondered how often the janitors had to shampoo it. It didn’t seem to have any stains or signs of wear, and then I imagined Mr. Belford telling employees to take their shoes off when they entered his temple. For the love of God, I hoped my shoes were clean. That would have been just my luck that I would bring in the muck of the city on the bottom of my shoes, painting me as the tainted girl I was.
It would have been fitting, really. Mr. Belford was too clean, too polished, too in control. I might have found him a tempting morsel of meat I wanted to hold on my tongue and let disintegrate, but it only took a brief glimpse of him to realize that under ordinary circumstances we shouldn’t have mixed. He was everything I could never be. I still relied on my roommate to tell me what to wear to work. Hell, my mom still found it necessary to lecture me on how not to fuck up my aunt’s home while she was gone. Clearly I was not a good decision maker. Most days I still questioned whether the decision on the train was good or bad. The jury’s still out (mostly).
Once seated, I settled my notebook in my lap and looked up, making immediate eye contact with the man who sat casually in his chair. Legs crushed together, trying to steady my nerves, I felt like I wasn’t sitting with Mr. Belford. This was Vett.
“Good morning, Ms. Ericson.”
“Morning. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Good. I believe you’ll have a meeting with Ms. Peters to discuss some side projects she has the team working on and I’ll leave her to go over that with you. Yesterday, you asked me about the special project that I will be having you work on, and I wanted to start off our meeting discussing this.”
“Okay.” I readied my pen and tried focusing on the actual words coming out of his mouth and not on that deep tenor, spreading across my skin like lotion. His voice, combined with those eyes, was enough to hypnotize me. My pen scratched across the paper, writing gibberish as I stared at Mr. Belford’s sun-drenched hair and those full lips and how they twisted and turned.
“…Mr. Oaken is starting a new enterprise that’s in its infancy, but he needs branding for the prototype. This is a big deal for Digital Monument because if we nail this, he’ll continue the rollout with our design.”
I glanced across the page to see if I captured the name of the company. I couldn’t look fast enough, and I didn’t want to wait until the end of the meeting to ask him the company name, and then have him question if I’d heard anything he’d said.
“Did you say Oaken Industries?”
His eyes hardened giving way to my fears.
“Yes. You are able to take notes and listen, are you not?”
Motherfucker.
“Yes, Mr. Belford,” I gritted through fragile teeth.
He grunted his disapproval, before clearing his throat and continuing where he left off, “All marketing meetings with Mr. Oaken will be held offsite until further notice. I don’t need to remind you about discretion, do I?”
“No, sir.” I didn’t meet his eyes, but I couldn’t ignore the way his chest expanded and his buttons strained. He re-crossed his legs, and without thought my eyes trailed down the impressive size of his thighs. My fingers twitched, remembering the feel of his tight muscles bunching beneath my drifting fingers. He clenched his fist and it looked like we were both clinging to the memories of another time when an opportunity for more could have been possible. Now, there was too much distance, and well, he didn’t even remember me. Or, so it seemed.
I forgot about the way his question was just as condescending as some of the other things he’d said, and wondered how he could switch his assholery on and off. He definitely had a knack for it—even Tea would have been impressed.
He ended the meeting with a loosely scheduled appointment for a meeting with Mr. Oaken in which we’d start brainstorming ideas and a reminder to check in with Maggie and the team regarding work I could start that day.
As we rose from our seats simultaneously, I realized the proximity of our bodies. His rich, musky scent pulled me in, hinting at the cleanliness of his skin with an undertone of a power that enslaved me. The brush of his knee against mine was a subtle touch of steel wrapped in satin against freshly shaven skin—where every touch felt like ecstasy. I was not sure if it was the smell, the touch of him, or the close proximity, but my knees began to give, wobbling in their weakness. Everything I could grab onto seemed to pass in a blur. Moments before my knees crashed against his rug like pounding gavels marking the official end to our meeting, Mr. Belford grabbed my arm. Flamingo legs struggled to keep me upright.
Both of his hands clutched my arms, pulling me back to my feet. If his hands hadn’t made my limbs turn to goo then the look he gave me certainly had. It was the look I’d wanted to see for months and the one I’d been fearful of receiving for the past two days. His eyes whispered promises of more. They stripped me bare and lashed at my skin until my neediness was right there at the surface begging him to take a closer look. I didn’t want to look into those eyes. I didn’t want to feel stripped down there in his office, not like that. Not in the way he was looking at me—where all of my secrets, all of my hopes and dreams were his for the taking to manipulate in any way that pleased him.
His hands lingered—much like his eyes; warm hands worked their way up my arm and I questioned whether this was all a figment of my imagination or if this was real. Was he real? Because his touch was too firm, too warm, too comfortable for a boss’s touch. Did I read into it too much? Was he just being a decent guy, or was there something lingering beneath the grip of his fingers? Something being repressed in the strength of his hands?
“Sorry.” The apology was from a meek person with jelly for legs, made only worse by the fact that I couldn’t look him in the eyes.
I needed to leave his office, like five minutes earlier.
“No need for an apology,” he said still holding me. I righted my clothes and slid through the small opening between the chair and sofa, avoiding brushing bodies with him on my wa
y to the door.
Exiting the room felt like my first day all over again, where I needed to stop to catch my breath after being in his presence. If I kept that up, my co-workers would think I had asthma. Unlike the day before, I didn’t stop outside his door. Catherine was there, a mere five feet away, and the office was a hive of activity—people scrambling to find available desks, caffeine addicts already getting a hit in the kitchen, and workaholics already knee deep in projects in their glass pods. I waited until I made it back to my desk to catch my breath while replaying the moment Mr. Belford caught me.
No, Vett.
Vett was the one who caught me. I could tell by the way his eyes speared me like a kabob ready for the fire.
I sprinted down the sidewalk, pushing between bustling people swinging briefcases and purses. The herd of people all pushed in the same direction. The humidity hung heavy in that last month of summer. In fact, it was like a fan blowing around steam from a hot shower. My clothes clung to my skin like they were afraid of disintegrating under the heat. I understood the feeling. I could feel the hairs at my nape curling in the slickness of sweat blooming beneath the thicket of hair. I skipped down the steps leading me to the queue of people all lined up to slide their metro cards. I swiped mine too, pushed through the turnstile, and waited along the edge of the platform.
The train stopped, and the metal doors glided open. I rushed forward, eager to get a seat. The last thing I wanted was to be left standing with a web of people surrounding me. Not in this heat. People pushed at my back, forcing me inside, and I jumped into the chair just to the right of the door. There was already a man with his briefcase tucked between his feet and his blazer thrown over his widely spread legs seated in the middle of the row of seats. I clutched onto the metal railing to my right and avoided my knee brushing his.
A crowd of people flooded the depths of the car, and I pulled out my phone to busy myself from the chatterboxes that didn’t get enough social time at work and were looking for someone to engage them. I rechecked all of the same emails and text messages, scrolling through my Facebook feed and various media sites. I was still scrolling through pages when the doors closed and the subway car took off. In fact, by the time I looked up from my screen, the conductor was already announcing the next stop.
I didn’t know how I saw it. I was at knee-level with everyone surrounding me and out of all of the people standing around, my eyes settled on one set of shoes just barely within my periphery. Cognac-colored leather cap-toe shoes with navy slacks caught my attention. My eyes canvased the man wearing them. It was a torturous crawl—the way my eyes moved from his feet up along those thick thighs that looked like they’d like nothing more than to be set free from confinement. I licked my lips and my eyes traveled up across the shirt that hugged a broad chest. My tongue stopped mid-lip when I settled my eyes on his face. Fuck! It was Vett. I mean Mr. Belford. He was less than ten feet away. He hadn’t noticed me yet, but that wouldn’t last long. I was right next to the door, for Christ’s sake.
Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, I dropped my head and tried to focus on nothing above the knees. Maybe if I keep my head down he won’t notice me, I thought. I tried to go back to playing with my phone, anything to keep myself occupied. I didn’t know what would be worse—if he recognized me and didn’t so much as nod with a polite smile, or if he recognized me and then decided to strike up a conversation.
Then it dawned on me. The last and only time I’d seen him outside of work was actually on the train.
When I went down on him.
It was always going to come back to that so long as I worked for him. I knew then if he saw me, he’d absolutely remember the time. I was willing to believe he might not have actually remembered me from our previous interaction, but if he saw me there it would hit him like a freight train. I’d no longer be the, I know her from somewhere girl. Instead, I’d be the girl that gave me head that one time…and who actually works for me now. The last thing I wanted was to be around when he had the “oh, shit” moment that was definitely coming—if he hadn’t had it already.
Knowing who those shoes belonged to, I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away from his feet. I didn’t have a foot fetish, but to anyone who might have been watching me, they probably thought I did. It was like I had tunnel vision, and everything outside of those rich brown leather shoes was nothing but a mirage.
Perhaps I was staring because secretly I wanted him to look at me. I’d wanted him to look at me all day. Not like I was an employee, some underling meant to create and report back, but how he looked at me the first time I saw him—with a visceral hunger and keen detachment no man could ever replicate. I was there and I could barely describe the look. He had a gaze that could build you up from nothing and cut you down with a sharp focus and all without blinking. It was the look that’d been haunting my dreams for months, lurking in the depths of my mind to tease me while I slept.
Or maybe I was looking at his feet because that was where I imagined myself—at the foot of his throne. He radiated a power that shadowed over me anytime I was near him. It seemed to draw me in and press me down, until I couldn’t feel the confetti shape etchings of the train floor digging into the bed of my skin.
The train made a few more stops, and the passengers thinned out. Only a handful of people were left standing, Mr. Belford included. As far as I could tell, he still hadn’t noticed me in the corner, hidden behind the perpendicular bars that hid my eyes. The last time we were on the train together he got off at Astor, so as the train neared his stop, I expected him to get off without a backwards glance.
His stop came and went and my mind went haywire. I couldn’t get off before him. If I did, he’d notice me—I had no doubt. Should I get off on the stop after mine and walk back? I’d have to walk at least five blocks in the heat, I thought. That was assuming he didn’t get off on the next stop. Maybe the last time I saw him he wasn’t actually heading home.
There were a handful of stops left before my exit. The hair surrounding my temple twirled around my index finger, wrapped tight like a rubber band cutting off circulation. I unwound my hair and repeated, trying to focus my mind on that inch of hair that swirled around and around. I averted my eyes as the train began to slow. The doors separated, and I glanced to see if Mr. Belford would exit. Relief washed over me as I looked back just in time to watch him get off. Through the glass in the door, I watched as he walked across the platform and up the stairs to the street above.
A part of me wanted to run, to chase him, to follow him and unravel a bit of the mystery that he exuded with his austere presence. There was a pinching in the cavity of my chest, something in the hollowness that beckoned me to pursue him, much like the same feeling I’d had the very first time I saw him—something that urged me to abandon everything to lose myself in this man. Except the impulse was stronger because this time I knew how hard it was to find him again. It’d been months.
It didn’t matter that I now worked with him, that I would see him the following morning bright eyed and bushy tailed. It didn’t stop the ache in my chest that there was a small possibility he could vanish much like he did the first time he stepped off the train.
Desperation.
That’s what the feeling was.
Wednesday, August 19th
“Hey, Indy.” The table shook as Ed plopped down next to me, tossing his bag on the desk like he’d been trekking through the city for miles. I said hello and took an additional moment to really look at Ed. He was the exact image that one would conjure if you said office-worker. He was almost too cliché—a caricature, except he didn’t fall into that sourpuss stereotype. He still had a zest about him. There was still a bit of excitement shining in his eyes when he showed up for work.
“I’m starting to see the purpose for all of the lounge areas,” I said, eyes returning to the ceiling.
“Ah, brainstorming, are we?”
“Is it obvious?”
“Only because a
nything that would be on the ceiling would have already been discovered by the rest of us. You should go hang out, kick your feet up. Take the pressure off.”
“It’s 9 a.m. If it looks like there’s pressure on me already, I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me around.”
“Nah, I swear some of these other guys just come in to hang out all day. Like Jonathan.” Ed tipped his chin up, motioning toward Jonathan walking around desks, peering over shoulders with his hands dangling loosely from his pockets. The only way he could look like he cared less was if he strolled in wearing flip-flops and board shorts.
“His boss doesn’t care that he just strolls around all day?” Through the window I watched Jonathan lean over a woman’s desk. I could only see her profile, but she looked tiny, with a small upturned nose and almond eyes with big waves of tawny hair billowing across one shoulder. Jonathan fingered her chandelier earring—an intimate touch for simple coworkers, and I was a voyeur intruding on their moment just by having seen it.
Or maybe my lack of sex life has me seeing sexual tension where there isn’t any.
“Believe it or not, he’s actually the best in their department. Something about him being charming. I don’t know. Apparently it works for him.”
I looked over to find Ed swept up in the moment happening between the mousy woman and Jonathan too. Ed’s eyebrows bunched together—longing and hopelessness flashed across those big brown eyes, making him look like an anime character. My first instinct was to console him. I reached up to pat his back but dropped my arm before making contact. It felt too personal, and I barely knew him. There could be a whole story I didn’t know about, and I seemed to have my own inter-office dilemma.
After taking Ed’s advice, I kicked off my heels and sat Indian-style on the couch with a notebook in my lap and my head propped up against the back of the sofa. I hadn’t found any secrets in the ceiling yet, but it was a nice blank canvas to project my thoughts on.
