Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Day of Employment:
387
12:45 p.m.
*
Temporary Desk
: About to become “former.”
*
Probably
: Not the most romantic word choice ever.
*
Canon
: Alaric.
THIS COMPANY’S FOREIGN ACCOUNT processes are not terrible, but they are not safe. Not in the current climate, that’s for sure.
There are too many payments to get things going in certain countries that could be construed as bribery. Small things, like taking clients to dinner. Clients who happen to work for foreign governments.
I know this info is not going to be welcome news. I know I’m not positioned as someone to take seriously on these matters.
That doesn’t mean I’m not right.
I’m on page three of my detailed report. In the end, the evidence will be irrefutable. They will have to believe me, despite the source. Despite the fact that I’m just a PA.
“Just” associated with the term “personal assistant” doesn’t feel right. I’m just the ring-bearer. I’ve just gotta keep the bus over 50 MPH. I’m just gonna go fishing. Oh, and by the by, it just so happens to be for an egregiously ill-tempered white whale?
Alaric has been in and out of the room all morning.
Fact-checking. Finalizing. Looking fine.
Now, he looks more relaxed. Open briefcase with papers scattered.
“Would you like something to drink, Emma?”
I know this game. “What can I get you, sir?”
He looks up, eyes bright. “Well, since you offered…”
I roll my eyes and push back my chair.
He laughs softly. “Since you are going…I would probably like a Coke.”
“Coke?”
“Yeah, probably.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh,” he says, “could you probably get the transfer files?”
I’m at the door.
“And probably order lunch. Probably barbeque.”
I spin around. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself.
I’m back with drinks in just a few minutes, but the air is different. He’s on a call.
He paces at the far corner of the room. “Yes, I will, Dad. And a happy, belated merry Christmas to you too.”
The phone closes, but he doesn’t turn around. He studies the nothing of the wall.
Slowly, I go to him and nudge the can against his arm. He twists, smiles weakly, and nods slowly in thanks.
I’m back at my desk for a while when I hear him inhale deeply. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him until I noticed the change.
“Cynthia.”
I opt not to speak. I assume he knows I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“She worked as my father’s administrative assistant for only a few months before everything changed.”
His eyes stay trained on the bare wall. “When I was five I went to my father’s office building with my mom. Cynthia came out of his office looking haggard. Every hair out of place. Blouse half done.”
His shoulders visibly tense. Even through the suit jacket I can see the change. I can practically see him dredge the memory up to the surface.
“I didn’t understand the rage coming out of my mother that day. Cynthia was always nice to me. She was the lady who gave me candy and baseball stickers. I was enamored. So was my father.”
I sit still, careful not to stop him.
“My family changed after that. I don’t know how long it went on. It felt like forever, but time is relative, especially to a child. It might have been only a day or two. Every time a door closed, they screamed. They screamed and screamed. Every day. Every damned day, until my mom left. To go for a ride. I wanted to go for a ride too. She always took me. But not that time. I understand now. But then…then it felt like she didn’t want me.”
He shifts and finds his chair, but never looks to me.
“Then they called. I suppose it was something as simple as ‘There has been an accident.’ They said she may have been ‘distracted.’ I don’t know. What I do know is that all I can remember of my mother was her yelling…and then dying to get away.”
His fingers drum without rhythm. “My father brought Cynthia around a few times later. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her.” He looks up, at nothing in particular. His gaze cold. “I learned to hate when I was five.”
He begins shuffling papers, and I try to focus on an appropriate response.
Since it doesn’t look like one was coming, I go with this: “Are you telling me this is why you are a…um, demanding and hate distractions…why you are an…?”
“You mean asshole?” His voice is lighter, the mood leaving with the memory.
“Well, yes.”
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe somewhat.” He stretches back in his chair. “God, who sits back and analyzes themselves like that?”
“It might not be a bad idea…in some cases,” I say as playfully as I can manage.
“There is a lot riding on my shoulders. People’s jobs, futures. Nice gets you friends. I don’t need friends; I need results.”
I pop my can open.
“So, Emma, maybe you would care to enlighten me as to why you seem so hesitant about us?”
“You mean beyond the obvious drawbacks of being involved with a self-proclaimed and unapologetic asshole?”
His mouth turns up. “Well, when you put it that way…”
I take a swig. “No, it’s mostly me, I suppose,” I say and breathe deeply. “I’m used to being on my own. I control that. It’s comfortable. I never cared much if anyone came or went before.”
He smiles, shuffles some papers. I think he’s trying to act nonchalant. “So you probably care now?”
“Okay, fine! It was a ridiculously inappropriate way for me to say it, and you deserve better, and I’m embarrassed about it if that makes you feel any better, but if you think you’re going to get me to declare I love you for the first time in the middle of this crappy office with printouts and empty Coke cans everywhere, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”
As I rant, the smile on his face grows wider. The man is on the verge of openly laughing at me.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed.” He folds his hands behind his head. “That will do nicely.”
I huff an imaginary hair away from my face.
Day of Employment:
388
8:15 a.m.
*
Location
: Terminal B, KCI.
*
Bags
: Holding my own.
*
Canon
: Holding his.
“SO YOU ARE CAPABLE of carrying your own things,” I begin and pull my suitcase along behind me. “Good to know.” Not that I’ve given much thought to such matters since throwing off the PA yolk. Canon has so very many great places to visit, but I don’t want to work there.
He keeps pace beside me as we near security. “I have no choice in the matter, as I find myself currently without staff.” He’s closer to business mode today, but his voice, with me anyway, is markedly softer.
“This process could not take any longer. It is as if we are all unwitting participants in a study for inefficiency.” He talks to no one in particular while we take off our shoes at the checkpoint. “Procedures implemented solely to instill a feeling of security in paying customers. There are too many reported accounts of items still being smuggled aboard to indicate that any of these measures are even the least bit effective. Has anything…” He continues to bemoan the sorry state of airport security while our bags are checked. One guard seems about to comment but sees something in the look Canon shoots him and thinks better of it.
I’ve decided to consider him “Canon” when we are doing anything remotely work-related.
I’ve decided transitioning back to business-as-usual at work may be tricky, but not impossible.
I’ve decided the only running I’m going to do might be to catch a connecting flight.
I’m the first of the two of us onto the plane. I toss my stuff overhead, and he does the same. He spends some time reestablishing the bond with his phone prior to takeoff.
As the plane climbs higher, I offer him gum. He smiles and takes it.
“So how did you know about me?” I try to sound casual. Inside, I’m salivating. “I mean, some of that would be in my HR file, but the pop? The bets?”
He looks to me for a moment, then to the turned down tray in front of him. “Rebecca keeps a chart. It’s right there in her cubicle for all to see. When I pieced together that you were always winning—you, the pretty girl I had spotted a while back—I became more curious. How would one person consistently win something like that? Luck? Strategy? A system of sorts?” He shifts in his seat, stretching as best anyone his height could in the small space.
“I was curious as to know how you knew. I became more aware of you. Where you were. What you were saying. By chance, I caught the ends of comments you’d made a few times. Complaining about popcorn the day a bag was burned in the break room, for example. The rest just cropped up when I made a conscious effort to pay attention.”
I think about how I gleaned all my tidbits about him. We had similar methods.
“Then,” he begins, “one day I realized I wasn’t paying attention anymore merely for curiosity’s sake. I considered going ahead and asking you out. I even walked up to you to do it. But I heard you talking about a man you were seeing, so I backed off.”
“Really?” Shock is an understatement. He was going to ask me out. On a date. You know, one of those things where guys buy food and pretend to listen to you in the hope they’ll get to see boobies. “You weren’t worried about working together?”
“Until this trip—when someone decided sending the most distracting thing possible along with me was a stellar idea—we didn’t work closely together.”
“What about the fraternization policy?” I try to remember if we even have one. He looks as though he believes it to be a non-issue. I’m not so sure.
A flash of recollection. How distressed, terrified I was for him when the deal closed.
“Do I seem like the sort who would let an arbitrary rule like that matter?” His look is a bit more serious than earlier. “I’ll go tell the appropriate people today, and they will just have to accept.”
“Alaric,” I say, still mentally stumbling a bit over the new level of intimacy in first names. “Maybe we…” I pause. My words sound like they are filtered through a long tunnel.
He leans over and folds me up in his arms, which won’t make it any easier to vocalize this new, acute concern. I shift away from him. His outstretched arms fall in his lap.
“Maybe we should be low-key.” I swallow around a swelling lump. This is not what I want, but it suddenly seems like the safest course of action. “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Tell myself it’s a prolonged blink.
When my damp eyes open, I am alone.
10:55 a.m.
*
Airplane
: Final descent.
*
Cabin
: Pressure.
*
Nuts
: Bags—Attendants handed out.
*
Nuts
: Me—Suggested time apart.
THE SEAT NEXT TO MINE has remained empty since Alaric vacated it early in the flight.
I should be careful what I ask for. Might just get it.
To know that he’s onboard, yet not with me, is excruciating.
It’s now clear that the level of torture associated with working in the same office every day promises to be beyond comprehension.
We debark.
12:09 p.m.
*
Agenda
: Locate baggage on carousel.
*
Other Baggage
: The kind that puts me on the ol’ emotional merry-go-round. Must be examined posthaste.
MY GRAY, SWISS ARMY SUITCASE sticks out among the ocean of black roller bags. As I reach for the handle, a familiar hand pulls it off the conveyor.
“Let me get that for you.” Just over my shoulder, Alaric’s voice is like warm cocoa along my throat. “I insist.”
The wheels thunk over the tiles, and I smile and, in spite of everything, find myself walking beside him toward a smaller alcove. He spins the cases to a stop. His eyes move down to where we nearly touch. The fingers of his hand flex and pull back fractionally. “I was already on my way back.”
He takes a deep breath. Seems to steady himself. “Emma, I know you have suggested that we don’t see each other for a while. It would make professional sense. But I won’t be willing to give you my word.” His hand brushes against mine. “Because I have no intention of ever breaking my word to you.”
Shoving aside all the familiar protective layers of doubt and fear, some frighteningly real and others even more terrifying because I’m finally forced to admit they are walls of my own construction, I move my hand to entwine with his.
His mouth opens fractionally, and I noticed his chest rise as he sucks in a long breath. Then, keeping our hands and forearms together, he raises our mutual clasp up, and slowly, individually, brings each of my knuckles to his lips.
He pulls our hands to his chest, and I look up in happy disbelief. He leans over to lay his forehead against mine. “If you still think we shouldn’t see each other, then we’d better close our eyes. I’m not going anywhere.”
1:30 p.m.
THE MAJORITY OF MY COGNITIVE EFFORT is devoted to not testing the tensile strength of Alaric’s pants or christening the backseat during our ride from the airport.
Snow covers the land. It’s even thicker here at home. Drifts and shoveled piles dot the roadways. Just looking at it all sends a shiver through me. Instinctively, I begin to reach for my sweater. Then stop.
Instead, I bend and drape myself across him and rest my temple against his shoulder. On one level, it feels unfamiliar and somewhat juvenile. On all the other levels, it is simply divine. My face against his chest, rising and falling along with each breath, our hands, fingers still laced between us. The arm he had around me alternates between pressing us in an embrace and his hand tracing light circles on my lower back.
My head is tucked safely away under his chin for most of the time we ride, until the car pulls up outside my home. Undisturbed, the car idles for a few moments. Alaric’s fingers comb softly through my hair.
When he finally speaks, the deep cadence of his words echoes around inside my chest, soft tremors along my ribs. “We should probably get going.”
1:37 p.m.
I SIT UP. Smooth my skirt. I wonder what he considers “we,” what he labels “us.”
“What will you tell them?”
“We are together. That is all they need to know, if they truly even need to know that.”
Suddenly, I recall his earlier comment about me seeing someone.
“By the way, I’m not sure what you overheard, but I think you heard wrongly. I haven’t had more than an occasional, casual date in at least a year.”
He looks uncomfortable. Like he doesn’t particularly enjoy discussing other men. Big yay for him that for the last year I have embarked upon a self-imposed penis boycott.
“It sounded serious and long term.” He shifts again, clears his throat. “Some guy named Abe.”
3:15 p.m.
*
Clothes
: Unpacked. Sorted. Ready for cleaners.
*
Boxed
: Taupe shoes. Receipt included & ready to return.
*
Roommate
: Inquisitive.
*
Withdrawal
: Already.
DIFFERENT. Home feels different somehow.
Little knickknacks Clara has had out forever now seem different and new. I have not taken notice in a while.
Commonplace.
I had watched the driver pull away after dropping me off at home a little while ago. Alaric had muted his call with our company’s owner and kissed my temple as I opened the car door.
Unlike the last one, this driver actually helped me with my bags.
Through the windows in my living room, I saw Alaric tap the front seat once, and they sped away.
Everything gets unloaded on autopilot. Shoes. Toiletries. Cosmetics.
Clara helps put away all the miscellaneous crap we packed.
Tea.
Glue.
Needle and thread.
Duct tape and bailing twine.
“So tell me again, why did you quit? I thought the idea was to endure this and get a bonus or something,” Clara says as she stretches to put Q-tips away.
I dump my hair-clips into their basket. “It was a raise, and it’s complicated.” I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Complicated” invites clarifying questions.
Clara is quiet as we continue to unpack. Unusually quiet.
I sort through a stack of papers and tickets, and Clara dumps out the contents of the Late Night Emergencies bag. Then she eyes me.
“Emma, where are they?”
“Hmmm?” I keep sorting.
“The condoms. The pack of condoms I put in there as a joke. You know, since you were going on a trip with Corporal Asshole.”
“Major Asshole.”
“Whichever.” She waves me off. Glares at me. “Oh, my God, with him? Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Nude up.”
“Fine. Yes,” I huff and look skyward. I had every intention of sharing this with her, but at a point of my choosing. This will have to do. “I did. I used them. We used them. We barely left bed yesterday. I will be soaking in the tub tonight until I am indistinguishable from a shar-pei.”
It’s rare to catch Clara off guard. I have done nicely.
She gapes at me like a fish. A guppy. “I thought you’d tell me you met someone, or that the SOB needed them and you actually gave them to him. Or that maybe after a year of lusting after the man, you’d snapped one night and just had your way with him once.” She folds her arms. Indignant. “Once.”
The unpacking process always outlasts my patience. Cities are built in less time.
As we finish, amidst a stream of bubbly expletives from Clara that decry how “keeping your best friend out of the loop is big bullshit,” she announces she’s going to her room and that tomorrow I owe her both a manicure and, as she puts it, “a detailed account of all the damned pipe laying” that she vehemently maintains I should have already told her about. By her estimation, I was supposed to shag, hose off, and promptly Skype from the mountaintops.
I really don’t know what to say. I’m on the verge of the bomb drop that we are actually together, an item, involved, when my phone rings. It’s him.
“Hello?” I hold my finger up to Clara, letting her know I have every intention of full disclosure and that we’re not done here.
“Hello.”
Pause. Okay. Blink. Blink.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Everything is in order.”
You bet your firm, beautiful ass it is; I had everything set up.
I try to think of why he would be calling me already. There seems to be only one conclusion. I smile at Clara in apology and excuse myself.
“Alaric, I miss you.”
I can practically hear his smile. “Good.”
And whatever felt like it was stretched thin, like it might’ve broken when he pulled away in the car, is back.
Everything feels warm and welcome and home again. I sit and play with one of Clara’s throw pillows while he and I talk about everything and nothing.
8:10 p.m.
“EMMA! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR? That should be my pizza.” Clara is painting her toes, which she always seems to be doing whenever her food is delivered. I think she may have a delivery driver phobia.
Grumbling, I point out to her we are a bit too old for pizza this late at night, and she is cruel for tempting me so. I scuff my way to the door in fuzzy slippers and sweats. “Coming!”
I’m ready to shove the wad of her cash at the driver when I open the door and suddenly decide we need to order pizza more often.
“You really eat this?” Alaric is standing in his overcoat and holding the box more like one would a football than a pizza pie. He follows me in and makes a face when I open the lid. Then I make a face.
Hawaiian. Not my favorite.
“No, not this kind.” I shut the lid. “You can have my share.” Actually, please, please do. My grin is salacious.
He hangs his coat in the hall, shoes by the door. We’re a “no shoe” house.
He sprawls out on the sofa, arms stretched across the expanse of the back. Freshly showered, hair still wet.
Sleeves rolled up. Relaxed and stuffy at once.
Clara, after having waited long enough for a driver to have safely left the premises, shows up.
“Oh, you must be him. I’m Clara, the roommate.” She says him with a fair amount of disdain, but extends her hand anyway.
Alaric’s eyes flicker to me, but he moves and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Clara. I’m Alaric, the ‘him.’”
The conversation is somewhat stilted while they eat, and I contemplate who first thought hot tomato sauce and fruit would taste good together. Perhaps the same type of person who first looked at a cow’s udder and thought, “Gee, I am rather thirsty…”
Clara leaves, a bit warmer with Alaric, and I make a mental note to thank her for being gracious as I have done very little explaining at this point.
“I know it is getting late,” he begins, “but would you like to go for a ride?”
Not if you mean in a car…
“Do you need to go?” I place my hand on his leg.
“Not particularly. I just…” he says, shifting on the sofa. “I came here to see you. I got used to you being around.”
I smile at him and kiss his jawline. He didn’t shave this evening.
I breathe him in. He smells like want.
“Emma, I didn’t come here with any expectations,” he whispers near my ear.
He shifts again under my touch. Only then do I realize my hand has drifted to the top of his thigh. Down into heat. He grows.
My head shakes softly.
Run my nose down his throat.
Breath changes. Pulse quickens.
The sofa squeaks under us. Leather and denim and skin.
His hands close around my waist, almost encircle. Held.
His shirt untucked, my fingers run a path through light hairs.
His tongue knows my lips, greets them. Wraps around my tongue and pulls me into him.
“You are a dozen feet from your bedroom, Em—use it!” Clara yells from down the hall.
We do.
Clothes on the chair. The floor. The foot of the bed.
Two hands entwined. Landing at our sides. Our fingers knot above our heads.
Other hands explore. Visit and remember and trace and learn and memorize. Commit.
I touch his hip. Finger pads and grasp behind. He moans and shifts into me.
He likes when I grab his ass.
Lucky, lucky me.
Pull him to me. He rocks, our mouths together, his heated head presses into my stomach, then between my legs, then finds inside.
Oh, God, his breath is so harsh. He rocks into me. Squeezes my hand. Pulls me closer. Presses.
My thigh is over his hip now, calf against his cheek.
I feel it flex and tighten and move. And move. And move.
I shift and angle and slide. He’s there. Again and again. Hit and meet and press against that spot until I shake. Then scream down his throat. Then shake some more.
Shove him over and take him in all the way. Feel the change. The length. All.
His neck arches, head into the pillow, eyes behind closed lids.
Our hands still clasp near his head. He kisses me and opens his eyes to watch me ride.
Hands on face. Then neck.
Nails down his chest. Light.
I shove my hand under his waist and move more. Faster.
He slams up, meets me. Again. Hits what might be a new place. His.
Rasp and pant and sweat and more. I want more and I want all.
He strains, near roars, and I know he’s close. We have gotten there. Arrived.
“Yes,” I breathe. “In me. I want to feel.” I bend near his ear, keep the pace. He paws at me, keeps me close. “It’s mine.” I blink away the words. Too much. Is it?
He grabs my face, fingers in my hair, wrists under my chin, practically yanks me in.
“Yes.” His voice hoarse, low.
And it’s in me and mine.
We should shower. We don’t. We sleep. Together. Complete.
2:47 a.m.
*
Bed
: About half as warm as it was mere moments ago.
“ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE TO GO? Your clothes would be okay just this once.” I yawn into the pillow that now smells like Alaric and pull it close.
The zipper makes a series of quick clicks. “I know you are not suggesting I wear jeans to the office.” He sounds both teasing and aghast.
I want to pout, and I want him to stay. I am not proud of either. I may feel needy.
“No, you’re right.”
“Of course.” He’s dressed and tucks the blanket around me. “I hardly think waltzing into work in jeans for the first time coincides with our goals. We’re going for low-key.” He kisses me goodbye quickly. “That is what I assured the board yesterday.”
I nod. I was not really expecting him to stay. Just a thought. A snuggly thought.
It turns out, Alaric Canon is not the greatest of snugglers. Shocking, I realize.
Hard to imagine someone so warm and fuzzy doesn’t just snuggle right up like a big ol’ baby.
He likes his half of the bed. But we have held each other until I sleep. When I wake up, he’s always holding my hand. Often with our feet braided together.
I think that means more.
