by K B Cinder
I longed for one, a person who fielded what moron came waltzing into my office. I had one in Florida, but one in Ithaca didn't make much sense with my short stint.
“I could get you one!” He perked up like a spaniel eager to please. “You could use Lee or Elena!”
If Elena Julian sat outside my door, my sack would shrivel up and fall off within a month. I laughed, shaking my head. The man was clueless. “You're missing my point.”
“You said you need an assistant.”
“No, I said I didn't have one.”
“I could get you one!” There he was again with his incessant chatter.
“It isn't in the budget.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, frustration growing to monstrous levels. “I don't need an assistant. I need a functioning team.”
“But our numbers...”
“They're on the uptick because I called in every favor I had in the region!” I exploded.
He fell silent. Apparently, the cold hard truth was all it took for some peace and fucking quiet out of him.
“The rest is on the team. As it stands, I only see Lee and Elena in the office late. That's it.”
“Monica -”
Really? The eternal suck up who eye-fucked me every chance she got? That was the best he could do?
“Is a fucking liar,” I finished, cutting him off. I crossed my arms, daring him to argue.
He didn't have a clue what I did and didn't know about what went on. Unlike good old Marty, I walked the sales floor and checked the metrics. I noted who was pulling their weight and who was skating by. Monica had been under-performing for years.
“Excuse me?” he huffed.
“She leaves right after you. She waits until you're gone and heads out.”
I heard her spit her venom at the other women when she didn't know I was listening. I watched her hurry to her car day in and day out, her output just as piss-poor as her attitude.
He was silent, not offering a hint of resistance. I wondered if maybe the two had something going on but quickly squashed the thought. He wasn't her type. She screamed gold digger, and his salary wouldn't offer her much, at least not enough to justify fucking him.
“You know how I know?” I leaned forward, begging him to say another stupid word.
His silence endured. He didn't dare ask.
“Because I'm here late every fucking day too.”
He swallowed hard, hanging his head.
“What's wrong with that picture, Marty? Huh?” I leaned back to allow him to defend himself, but he didn't utter a word.
“You're getting paid a nice salary to make sales. You're getting a cut of every commission dollar from the half-assed group you call sales reps.” I stretched my hands over my head, desperate to release the building tension, the movement causing him to flinch.
“While you're getting paid to do nothing, two women who make jack shit and not a single cent of commission are here making sure customers are happy! You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” I hadn't meant to raise my voice, but by the time I was done, I was shouting.
I waited for a response, watching the clock tick slowly. Once thirty seconds had passed, I was done. “I should fire every single one of you, but I have a tight deadline.”
“But sir...” he bumbled, eyes darting around wildly.
“No buts. I'm calling Preston, and having a team flown out.”
Preston Croft was the CEO of the company, grandson of the founder. He was in way over his head, inexperienced and severely lacking in the charisma category. He hated my guts, but he needed me. He also owed me some favors, especially after taking on such a shit-show assignment.
“You're excused.” I wasn't in the mood to watch him squirm any longer.
He practically ran from the room, his gait clumsy and flailing, thankfully shutting the door on the way out.
I debated leaving early to grab some much-needed ibuprofen and rest, but a small piece of paper to the right of the door caught my eye. I strolled over, plucking the envelope from the clutches of the hideous moss carpeting, turning it over to inspect it for a name. Nothing.
I wandered back to my desk, opening it. Inside there was a piece of ivory stationery, the background a faded butterfly design.
Dear Mr. Barrett, I'm sorry for running into you in my haste yesterday. Enclosed, you will find $20 for the dry cleaning of your jacket. Regards, Elena Julian.
Sure enough, a crisp twenty-dollar bill was tucked in the bottom of the envelope. I sighed.
Elena Julian wasn't going to slip into the background anytime soon.
Elena
Quitting Croft and moving to the middle of nowhere seemed reasonable. I had no clue how I'd earn a living, but at least I'd be far away from the place and its nonsense.
I tried to give Barrett my apology first thing but found his office door shut with loud rumbling behind it. After our previous encounters, I knew better than to knock and risk getting mauled.
By ten, I slipped it under the door and called it even, the rumbling sounding more like shouting inside. It was the right thing to do, regardless of how rude he was.
Work rolled along, an influx of entries flooding the system. Amid it all, Barrett emerged around noon, searching for Marty and ignoring me. I would have felt better if he had at least acknowledged the note.
I smirked when he came up empty-handed, having discovered Marty left early for the day.
Rumor had it he was on the receiving end of a verbal ass-kicking from Barrett, potentially when I went to slip him the apology. At the shouts I heard, I wasn't surprised old Marty bowed out. He probably needed to go home for a fresh pair of pants after having his ass handed to him.
I stayed late, pulling out of the lot around nine with a roaring stomach and a pounding headache. I abandoned raiding the vending machine after it ate my money twice, refusing to spend five dollars on peanuts.
As I headed home, I dialed Dad, overdue for a check-in. I did my best to call twice weekly, though after nine was a little late. He woke up with the sun, a routine I followed until escaping the mountains for college. Since then, I was lucky to roll out of bed before ten on weekends.
“Well, my oh my, who might this be? What a strange number!” he joked, answering after a few rings. “How’s life in the land of big shots?”
A mountain man through and through, Ronnie Julian had no time for city life or its people. He was happy holed up in his cabin hours away from it all, the same place he raised me. I couldn’t blame him, as Willits Bend was the type of town where postcard landscapes were photographed. If it weren’t for a hardheaded search for something more as a teenager, I’d be there with him, wifey’d up with a mountain man of my own and a crop of children.
While neighbors, Vermont had a different feel than New York, the city lights and highway billboards nowhere in sight. It was more relaxed than downstate New York, a leisurely pace replacing the frantic rush.
“It’s good,” I lied, the familiar words slipping out.
I never hinted at reality or the fresh rounds of bills ready to drain my account. He didn’t need to be up at night worrying about me and my stupid decisions.
“How are you and Bruce doing?”
Bruce was his shepherd, a big goof that was his constant companion. If it weren’t for life’s curveballs, I’d have my own Bruce. Until things settled down, it was just me and Handsome Hank.
“We’re doing great. We saw a moose on today’s walk down to the river.”
“That’s awesome!” Living in town, I hadn’t seen anything other than squirrels and Hank for months.
“It was! Big old bull out in a berry patch.”
“Be careful,” I warned, not wanting him to wind up hurt out in the middle of the boonies. “You’re still bringing your satellite phone on walks, right?” Despite his expertise, it still scared me he was so isolated.
“Yes, Mom,” he teased. “Along with a pistol and bear spray.”
“Have you seen any lately?” I asked, drea
ding the answer.
“I saw a sow and some cubs a few weeks back, but the mountains have been quiet. I mainly see rabbits and deer.”
“That’s good. They must be hanging down in the valley.” As far as I was concerned, they could stay there.
“How’s work?”
“Fine,” I replied, tapping my fingers on the wheel to keep from venting. He didn’t need to know the dread that chewed at my guts every day.
“Just fine?” he pushed.
“It’s been good,” I assured.
“Doesn’t sound like it. You’re missing the sunshine in your voice.”
At that, a jackass in a lifted truck cut me off, black smoke barreling out of two smokestacks, the ultimate douchemobile roaring ahead only to slow down to a crawl.
“I’m a little tired,” I replied, suppressing the urge to curse the truck driver out. “We have a new director, and he’s one of those Florida pretty boys.” It wasn’t fair to dig at Barrett’s looks, but I wasn’t feeling kind.
“Nothing’s worse than a man that refuses to get his hands dirty,” he huffed. “He giving you trouble? I don’t want to have to drive down to have a talk with him.”
I grinned at his playful threat. Picturing the old ox squaring up with Barrett was hilarious. The poor southerner had probably never seen a real woodsman before. He’d be in for a doozy with Dad.
“He’s difficult,” I explained, accelerating to pass the asshole that cut me off. “But nothing I can’t handle. He’s rude and full of himself. You know how that goes.”
“Well, I don’t take kindly to men bothering my daughter. Is he harassing you? I’ll give him a whooping. I may be old, but I’m not weak.”
“Not in a legal sense,” I muttered, instantly regretting the words. “He’s straight and narrow as far as work, and we got off on the wrong foot. But he is rude.”
“He never learned you don’t get the girl by being an ass.”
“It’s not like that, Dad,” I assured, squelching where he was going with it.
He chuckled. “You’re a pretty girl. Pretty enough to intimidate a pretty boy.”
Me? Intimidate Barrett? That was hilarious. “No, Dad. Not the same thing at all.”
“Well, if he’s an ass, treat him like one. You don’t owe him anything, including kindness. Show up, do your job, and look for something up here.”
He was playing around as usual, but I was looking at jobs his way. I’d need to save up for the move in the meantime, and somehow break the news to Lee, but my future was looking more like it would be in Vermont with each day. I just had to escape Croft.
* * *
Once home, I changed into jammies and made a hodgepodge dinner of crackers and cheese, popping in a lemon sorbet wax melt to transport the apartment to the tropics. My wine-filled mug and couch finished the after-work therapy, and I wasn’t moving unless the place went up in flames.
Obviously, my diet of champions wasn't helping old jeans fit, but I didn’t care. Hopefully, I'd meet a sex god that would burn off the extra inches someday, but in the meantime, it was cracker city.
I flicked on the news, attempting to do the adult thing, but after the second political story in a row, it was straight to Forensics. I was a glutton for punishment, sure to end up terrified at every bump in the night after, but I always came back for more.
As usual, it ensnared me, the story of a teacher murdered in her apartment. It was a violent episode with lots of knife action and a lot of who-done-it.
Was it the loving, devoted boyfriend?
No, it couldn't be. He was so sweet and loyal. He walked her dog on his lunch breaks and bought her flowers. The actor playing him wore a cardigan for crying out loud. Guys in cardigans didn't go around stabbing people.
It had to be the landlord. He was a creep with a handlebar mustache and greasy jeans. He had a pocketknife and key, too, ready to slash and dash. Who cared about motive? He had a borderline mullet and evil eyes.
Things got shifty when the boyfriend's financial troubles surfaced, owing thousands in gambling debt. Suddenly he wasn’t Mr. Sunshine anymore.
Did she find out about his lies?
Did she threaten to break things off or expose him?
How do you murder someone in a cardigan?
I clutched my blanket close, the music tempo picking up along with the stakes.
What about the landlord? Guys with mustaches like that were murderers or 70s porn stars.
Stranger danger!
But the boyfriend... he had all the motive in the world.
But that mullet!
I couldn't take it.
BEEP BEEP.
The chime of my phone sent me flying upwards, springboarding poor Hank off the couch. It took a moment to steady my breath, hands shaking from the jolt of adrenaline. I reached for my phone, swiping the screen alive with a still-trembling thumb.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a psycho murderer, just my Privately pal. We had been chatting almost nightly, the mystery man making the worst of days better with a few laughs.
Bear: How are you doing tonight, Jewels?
Oh, ya know. Just about had a damn heart attack.
Jewels: I'm hanging in there. How are you?
Bear: Can't complain. Winding down after a long day.
Jewels: Same. Just me and some Pinot tonight.
I wouldn’t reveal I was chugging it out of a mug or using it to wash down junk food. Ordinary people didn’t double-fist crackers and cheese on a Friday night.
Bear: More of a Bowmore 15 man, but I can appreciate Pinot. Long day?
Jewels: Yep. Super busy and a lot of changes at work.
Bear: Hate that. Hopefully, for the better in the long run?
Jewels: We'll see. It’s been rough so far.
Bear: Some constructive criticism could help if they appreciate the input.
I chuckled, taking a swig of wine. Criticizing Barrett to his face would be deadlier than telling a pregnant mama you didn’t like the name she selected.
Bear: How's the Pinot treating you?
Jewels: Quite nicely. How's the Bowmore?
Bear: No glass tonight, unfortunately. Have to be up bright and early.
Jewels: On a Saturday? Goody two-shoes over there.
Bear: I'm running the Cayuga Trail tomorrow. I need to beat the rain. Any weekend plans?
Jewels: Catching up on some things. How about you?
There was no sense revealing my riveting life of lounging around in pajamas with an eReader and my cat.
Bear: Other than running, I have to catch up on reports.
Jewels: Do something fun too.
Bear: I'm talking to you, aren't I?
Smooth, buddy. Smooth.
I wanted to know so much more about him but didn’t want to force it out. What made him tick? Why was he single at thirty-six? Was he divorced?
There was no sense beating him over the head with questions when I had more than enough issues of my own. God knows what he'd do if he caught a whiff of canceled wedding plans. It always made people treat me differently, and I didn't want their pity.
Bear: Do you have any fitness routines you stick to?
I bit down on a hunk of cheddar and almost choked with a laugh. The only fitness I was into was fittin' dis ass into my old jeans. Eventually.
Jewels: I used to jog and do barre, but I had some lifestyle changes.
That was one way to put it. More like I couldn’t show my face at that gym again. Justin was a member. Yuck. Breaking up with a gym and finding a new one was just as hard as a partner.
Bear: Ah, barre is killer. It'd be nice to be able to do some of those crazy stretches.
Jewels: A lot serve no other purpose than giving you a wedgie.
I made the fatal mistake of wearing a thong to my first class, trying to avoid panty lines in leggings that bared every nook and cranny. Rookie mistake. I had fabric so far up my tailpipe after warm-ups I wanted to cry. I spent most of the class dropping into plié a
fter plié for relief.
Bear: So any crazy things to get out of the way? Any dark looming secrets? A life in crime? A love child?
Ha. As if my life was scandalous enough to have any dark secrets outside of never wearing a bra at home.
Jewels: Not really. No love children. No top-secret missions or crimes. You?
Bear: Damn. Me neither. We suck at scandal.
Jewels: Indeed. Ever been arrested?
Bear: Once.
Oh shit. How did he get on Privately with a record?
Jewels: WHAT? Mr. Goody Two Shoes was arrested?
Bear: Yeah, I threw a mattress off a balcony. I was taken in but never charged. You?
Jewels: Nope. You must be strong as hell to throw a bed!
Bear: I'm a bear, remember?
Jewels: Scandalous!
Bear: I know. Slap the cuffs on me.
I entertained doing more than slapping some cuffs on him before shaking the thought away. Yeah, we hit it off, but the dude could wear his pants up to his nipples or have a soul patch for crying out loud.
Bear: So I guess you're technically the goody two-shoes ;)
Jewels: In that sense.
Bear: So we're not allowed to exchange pictures, but can we elaborate on appearances? Let's guess. You go first.
Crap. How do you guess what someone looks like based on conversation?
Someone outdoorsy and active had to be muscular and likely had scruff too. I toyed with the idea of flannel for a moment before remembering his career. I didn't know many executives that rocked it, and outdoorsy didn't mean lumberjack, but it was a hot scenario.
Jewels: Hm. You have brown hair, brown eyes, and a beard? I think you’re average height but fit.
Bear: Way off.
I cringed. There went my lumbersexual fantasy.
Jewels: How off?
Bear: A bit. I'm 6'4”. I have brown hair, but my eyes are blue, and I don’t have a beard. Fit is right. I’m a runner, and I lift weights.
