Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Day of Employment:
377
3:33 a.m.
“NOOOOOOOO…”
Huh? Huh—What the—? Oh. Oh, shit. It is me.
I haven’t had this many nightmares in a while.
They seem to be stress-induced. Occurring more frequently now. Go figure.
In my youth they happened all the time. Always different, but with one important element often the same: Mr. Lincoln.
Dude is scary. Just picture him out in a field, stoic eyes and stovepipe hat, staring. Shudder.
Tonight he was in the closet. Not like that. Waiting. Breathing. Getting beard hairs on all my borrowed business clothes.
Then Abe made his presence known. Dumped thousands of pennies on me. Drank all Canon’s coffee.
Yeah, I’m messed up. Other people get nightmares with mangy-furred werewolves tearing the shingles from their roof. I’m terrorized by Abraham Fucking Lincoln.
No point in trying to go back to sleep. I hit the fitness center.
7:00 a.m.
*
Clothes
: Black pantsuit.
*
Canon
: Dressed. Foiled again.
NOT GOING IN EARLY TODAY. He says there’s no point if they’re expecting it.
Worrisome. He may be beginning to make sense to me.
“I will need those figures from corporate.” He’s straightening his tie in the mirror.
“They’re in your email as well as hardcopies in my case.”
The tie is not cooperating. “They don’t do me any good in your case.”
I bite my tongue and pull the stack of papers out for him. It’s not really a stack so much as a ream.
It hits the desk with a thud. Help yourself. Might wanna bend at the knees when you lift it.
The sound draws him away from his battle with the rabbit and its hole. He looks like he’s about to say something but then thinks better of it. He yanks the tie free in frustration.
Wordlessly I step around the desk and hold my hands out, offering to tie it. He pulls his head back slightly and seems surprised, then takes the step to me, to where our feet touch.
So close together. Close. The soft sound of his breath fills my ears. I work, then slide the knot up and linger near his throat for a moment.
Warmth. I’m aware of every hair on my neck. Slowly, I smooth the tie down over his chest with my hand.
“Better?” My voice is hoarse in my ears.
He glances in the mirror, gives a nod.
Computers and papers are packed in silence.
10:05 a.m.
“THIS HERE’S THE MAIN FLOOR for pick-and-pack. Four tiers high for the runners. The fork trucks can reach clean up to the top.” Sean Becket, floor supervisor, has been the most personable of all the personnel.
Of course, we’re scheduled to spend a whopping ten whole minutes with him.
Peters and Fralin, however, are practically shadows. Boring, whorish shadows.
The distribution center appears monumentally efficient.
If I listen closely, I can hear the gears in Canon’s head turning. Copying it has become his plan.
Mine is still under revision.
Lagging behind, I film the operation with my phone.
I may or may not have filmed Canon’s ass. Twice.
11:37 a.m.
*
Deli Delivery Driver
: Driving me mad.
“NO, NO, A DISCOUNT is most certainly not okay. Not only will you not be paid for this, but you will be back on these premises with a suitable substitute in under twenty-three minutes.”
The deli delivery person does not seem to comprehend that some people cannot be bought with 15% off.
Wrong is wrong.
“But, ma’am, it’s over ten minutes one way.”
“Then you better call in an order to a nearby Quiznos.”
He looks aghast. He hasn’t read the COYA file. Seriously, dude. I’m not going down because your people slathered honey mustard on his sandwich.
Actually, I’m onboard with this particular preference. Honey is gross. Bee vomit. I have no idea why people willfully choose to ingest it.
The driver hustles off. Behind me, I hear movement.
“Mr. Canon. I didn’t see you there. Are we headed back in?”
His mouth may turn up. “Not yet. Everything seem to be in order?”
“It will be.” I hedge and hope Deli Man pulls this off.
Pursing his lips, almost pouting, he looks at me. Really looks. I start to feel self-conscious, flushed.
Is there something on my face? Something wrong I have not noticed? Without thinking, I tilt my head and look at him questioningly.
His eyes widen for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to inform me that I have toured the facility and met a hundred-plus people with spinach omelet in my teeth, he coughs.
“Would you like a drink, Ms. Baker?”
Knock me over with a feather. “Yes, yes, actually I would.”
“Good. Pick me up one, too,” he says and disappears into the conference room.
My nostrils flare like a dragon guarding a pile of gold.
9:00 p.m.
*
Location
: Bed. Alone. As ever.
*
Plans
: Highly overrated as a concept, it seems.
*
Homework
: Untouched.
BOSS MAN WRAPPED THINGS UP early tonight. I have rewarded myself with sleep in celebration of removing the anchovy garnish from his room service Caesar salad without detection.
Deep in pre-dream fantasy about negative calorie brownies, my phone rings.
“Request the POs for the last five years.” Well, hello to you, too.
“Will do, sir.”
“Also, the older sales contacts lists. We will need to cross-reference.”
“I’m on it.” I smother my yawn with a pillow.
“There are spec sheets for the warehouse. I need them.”
“Yes, sir.” Anything, just let me sleep.
“Now. I need them now.” Oh. Oh.
“I’ll be right there.”
Clara’s robe is a beautiful black kimono. I don’t own a robe, so it’s better than none; however, I see now that it’s rather sheer. Sheer, as in see-through.
My nightgown is pretty much a gray slip and covers everything, so that’s not an issue, but this would not have been my first choice for traipsing across the hall to my boss’s room. Well, there’s nothing for it.
I knock, and his door swings open. Suffice it to say, Canon did not anticipate sheer anything.
While I’m standing in the hall, his eyes dart quickly to see if anyone else is there—as if that would make a lick of difference—and he yanks me inside.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He starts pacing rapidly in the small space of the room. If he rakes his hair any harder, he’s going to need plugs.
“Sir?”
“Why are you in my room like…like…like that?” His hands wave wildly around my frame.
“You said ‘now’ so I came now.”
“I have to be able to trust you. Do the right thing. Tell me.”
“Trust me?” Well now, doesn’t this just frost my buns. “You’re calling trust into question? You’ve said you’re a fair man. I want to believe that. But you’re not being fair now…sir.” I want to spit.
“Is it fair to parade around in lingerie?” He paces, his shoulders brush against the curtains.
“This is not lingerie.” I reach in the robe and pull out the very non-see-through corner of my gown. “Trust me—if I wore lingerie, you’d know it.”
“You may have boundary issues. I should have redirected you after you showed up in my room the first day.”
“You insisted we have access cards to both rooms,” I point out.
He shakes his head and seems rooted to the floor over by his window. As if lingerie cooties are catching.
If Diana Fralin showed up in this, I bet he would pull her into the room and do something other than lecture her about trust.
I think maybe he’s offended that he’s been forced to look at me. Well, screw him. I’m not repellent. Many guys would be freaking thrilled if I knocked on their doors in this. Or less.
Calmly, slowly, I bend ever so slightly and set the files on his bed. Without the papers in front of me, I should feel more exposed. I don’t. I am livid.
I smooth the fabric over my front. Pull the tie tighter.
“Mr. Canon, with all due respect, you have made it abundantly clear that I am to do as you say, when you say it. Without question.” He starts to talk, and I don’t know why I lose control of my persona and I sure don’t know what possesses him, but I hold up my hand to stop him from talking and he actually does. “It is abundantly clear that seeing me like this is distasteful to you. In the future, I will take the time to fully dress and suffer your wrath for the delay rather than forcing you to look at me when it is evident you find the view so distasteful.”
“Ms. Baker, I—”
“Mr. Canon, in the spirit of protecting you from things you don’t want to see, I need to leave.” I fight to keep tears from forming. “Good night, Mr. Canon.”
9:21 p.m.
MY PHONE RINGS. It’s him.
Has he called to apologize? I may faint…“Hello, Mr. Canon.”
“We have been invited to lunch tomorrow.”
Not a problem. I brought an extra outfit just in case. “Very well. Is there anything more, Mr. Canon?” My voice breaks. I don’t want to examine why.
“No.” His voice falls off. Pause. “Good night, Ms. Baker.”
11:20 p.m.
THIS IS AN INCREDIBLY LUMPY MATTRESS.
That’s probably what he thinks about my ass. That is, if he thinks about my ass at all.
Still…I think of the person in the next room…I want to be happy, to be grateful that I have this opportunity. I can surely use the raise. Perhaps of vastly more importance, with good reason, is to find a moment that satisfies this fixation I have about wanting him to “notice” me, so I can then get back to being a well-adjusted, contributing member of society. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
But seriously, the raise would come in handy, too.
Debts. Potential therapy’s on the horizon.
Should have requested hazard pay.
1:14 a.m.
I’M ASLEEP.
It’s not something of which I’m often aware, but this dream has that weird level of self-awareness.
Canon’s silhouette breaks the doorway. A part of me feels a glimmer of hope.
And the part in which that glimmer is located has direct contact with a cotton lining.
My dreaming hope is that he’ll ask something akin to “Will you let me show you how much better that lingerie looks on the floor?” and tilt his head back in invitation toward the open doorway. Back toward his room.
Instead, I cough softly as if to clear my throat. “I’m cold. I want to stay wrapped up.”
At least in my dreams, I can be hard-to-get.
He pauses. His shadowed hand picks at the door frame. “I have another blanket. I saw it in the dresser.”
My little glimmer fizzles, tucks itself into a ball, like an old television tube shutting down. “I’ll be okay.” Try to sound casual. Smooth the bedding out. Turn down the corner. “Thanks, though.”
Even in my dreams, I’m disappointed. I have failed spectacularly at not letting myself hope he would offer to share.
As I tuck the sheet under the cushions, I notice him stretch to turn off my bathroom light.
“Oh,” I say, my voice cracking for some reason I don’t want to analyze. “Please…please leave it.”
He looks at me, then the glow of the 75 or so watt bulbs. He shrugs and leaves it on.
I don’t feel like explaining that I’m scared of the dark. Not to a guy who must give the boogeyman the heebie-jeebies.
He looks back at me. I fight my eyes not to follow the slope of his sides. “I can get the blanket now. Just in case you need it.”
“I’ll be okay,” I repeat. I haven’t even convinced myself yet. Fluff the pillow and drop it in back place. “If I get cold, maybe I’ll knock on your door.”
It’s a comment I haven’t thought about, and I don’t know where it came from. I want to say it was a joke…not to acknowledge I was testing the waters.
Behind me, I hear him pad onto the tiles near the door. “Um…” His voice trails off in an unspoken question.
I scramble to save face. “J-Just for body heat. Not to snuggle or anything.” I force a short laugh.
Yes, yes. Yes, it’s all so fucking funny.
“I barely do that with my girlfriends.”
Ack. My mental spine goes straight. Girlfriends. Dates. The kind of women he has voluntarily spent time with. Unlike me. Not ones he has been harangued into working alongside.
I’m still in panic mode from my slip into revealing how much I wish…
“Just for body heat.” Fuck, did I already say that? “Like to prevent frostbite. Like to not lose toes. Plane crash in the Andes. That sort of thing. Not to cuddle.” My God. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup. Plane crash in the Andes? Really? That’s harkening up some sexy imagery there, huh?
Hey, man, how did you first realize you loved her?
When I was starving and got her confused with a savory pot roast.
“Just kidding,” I add a bit too quickly.
He’s back at his door. Pauses. Looks back. Smiles. Smiles a smile that I can’t decipher; it’s impossible to tell if he thinks I’m funny or pathetic or insane. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I say, pulling the corner of the blanket away from cool sheets and slipping under. Under the blanket. Further under his spell.
Between the door and the floor, the air is pitch black.
Maybe his smile meant it’s a unique situation for him to go to sleep with a woman so close and not be tempted to be intimate.
Not sure what time it is. Or how long I have been asleep. Or how long it took me to fall asleep rather than replay the past days’ events again and again.
The calls. The complaints. The flayed pelt of panda bears.
Multiple nightmares revolving around our sixteenth president.
Look this over. Organize that. If it needs gotten, get it.
It. Yeah, I get it.
But I do not get him.
Now, hopefully not looking too much like an overeager puppy, I’m his PA. I’m still trying to let that sink in.
The dream shifts.
The room is decorated. It’s still night, a tree is now lit, and the hotel room is dressed to the nines. Like an apparition, I open my door and practically float across the hallway over into his room. Garland over the doorways. Candles on the minibar. Greenery adorns his headboard.
The lights from his tree barely stretch to illuminate his bed, barely show the shadowy sheets which flutter and rise with his breaths. Barely light the contours of his face.
He’s right in the middle, where I would have imagined him to be. Walking to him, my hand hovers above his form. I trace his frame, note the tug of his warmth.
Suddenly, his hand encircles my wrist, and I tumble across him.
I wish I could actually feel the scorch of his skin against my own.
His hand presses against my lower back, pulls me to him. Heat. And hard. And desire. And too, too good to be true…
…so I grab this little glimpse of REM heaven and stare and study and stake my claim. My thumbs learn the lines of his face. My chest mirrors his rise and fall. My legs entwine with his.
In darkness, my eyes see what I want to see in daylight: Love behind his eyes.
Warm. Mine. His. Real. Or as real as I can get.
Gasp. Echo.
Impossible.
He can’t be gasping, simply can’t, because this is a realistic dream—I insist, I insist—and my tongue is somewhere around his third molar.
But someone gasps. Moans. Practically purrs.
Again. But different. Low. Lower.
Shit. The spell breaks.
And double shit.
It’s me. I’m full-on, unadulterated moaning.
Is it not enough that my every waking moment has been monopolized by this man and his persnickety patoot? Must he now rampage around like a prize bull in my slumberland china shop as well?
Rampaging anality. Raging hormones.
If I get any more regressively juvenile with these fantasies, I’m gonna need to invest in some Clearasil. And lube.
Pull the covers up to my nose. Cast a wary look at the door that stands between myself and Canon.
He’s right over there. Asleep. Or recharging the lithium ion battery cell that runs his mainframe. Waiting for another opportunity to make me question myself, my choices, my sanity.
Unlike John Wilkes Booth, I may actually miss Lincoln.
Day of Employment:
378
8:00 a.m.
*
Clothes
: Jeans and black turtleneck sweater.
*
Hair
: Pulled back severely.
*
Breakfast
: Skipped.
*
Mood
: Foul.
THE PLACE IS EMPTY. As it should be. Coming to an office for three hours to marvel at the wonders of meticulous bookkeeping on the Saturday before Christmas is not something most people would choose to do.
Alaricenezar Scrooge.
“Do you have access to the cleanser and toner market trials?”
“Yes. Here they are, Mr. Canon.” Enjoy them, asshole.
“ETA for the POs?”
“They will be delivered to the hotel late today. They’re stored off-site, sir.” Sir Asshat.
“Does market data suggest—”
I hand him the market research analysis for each test product before he can finish. Final scores have been highlighted.
Lunch with the execs is early and casual. I say nothing. I point to my selection on the menu. I’m all quiet smiles.
Stepford Secretary.
12:15 p.m.
“YOUR COFFEE, SIR.”
“We will set up in my room and go through the POs.”
All of them? Years’ worth?
“Yes, sir. As you wish.”
“Order room service.”
“As you wish.”
“Could you bring me some water?”
“As you wish.”
“You do realize I have seen that movie.”
“Sir?”
His eyebrows rise. Oh, Buttercup, you smug bastard.
4:00 p.m.
*
Purchase Orders
: Cover every flat surface of the room.
*
Mood
: About one purchase order from conniption fit.
*
Ass
: Asleep. As are both feet.
BEEN SITTING FOR HOURS. Need to walk around.
Canon yawns. Even his yawn is magnificent. Sickening.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“Okay,” I say, perking up.
He stretches, treating me to a glimpse of skin between his shirt and jeans. “My ass has been mostly dead all day.”
So you’re gonna flash trail and throw in a reference joke, then still expect me to function? Hardest job ever.
We walk around the Plaza shops and admire this city’s many fountains. Most are ornate and traditional.
There are several cow statues. Who knows why anyone thought that was a good idea?
The bronze boar statue reduces us both to fits when we spot it near to the hotel.
This is easy. Conversation. Interaction.
He’s never been so attractive. That’s saying something. I’m doing a terrible job of staying mad.
“Want some?” Canon points toward a little mom-and-pop donut shop. Rough around the edges. Needs a bit of paint. I bet they’re amazing. The kind of place that outlasts corporate sprawl. Grandfathered-in equipment. My mouth waters. Canon motions again. “Want some?”
So tempting. Oh, we’re only talking about donuts. “I better not.”
“Do you have something against donuts?”
“Oh, no. I have something against walking them back off.”
He shakes his head and mutters something as he heads to the doors. I guess I’m supposed to follow.
Painful. The display is truly fucking painful. Strawberry. Crunchy peanut butter cinnamon rolls. Apple spice cake.
“Ready?” He holds the door open, purchase dangling from his hand.
9:14 p.m.
*
Room Service Trays
: In the hall.
*
My Thoughts on Purchase Orders
: #%*&* $#@!
*
Donuts
: Gone. I caved almost immediately. He had bought enough for two.
TIRED. I’M TIRED. And I do stupid shit when I’m tired.
“Would you like for me to put on some coffee?”
Canon is sitting on his bed. Legs crossed and barefoot. Stifling a yawn, he shakes his head.
Oh, please let that be a sign this day is nearly over. I mean, looking at him in faded jeans is a definite perk, but I am so over cataloging purchase patterns.
“Long day, huh?” His eyes change somehow. I nod. “Maybe you could find some Cokes?”
Oh. We’re not done yet.
“Okay,” I say, unintentionally laying a bit too long on the last syllable.
“I know this is taking forever. This is our only chance. It is the best way to make sure they are not fudging their numbers. Go change into something more comfortable.”
More comfortable than jeans?
“I have pajamas,” I say.
He sits up straight and rubs his hands over his face. “All right.”
Twelve minutes later, I’m back with Cokes and wearing my “That is what I’m Tolkien About” PJs.
To say Canon looks relieved would be an understatement. He may have been expecting the kimono again.
In that case, I wonder why he would torture himself.
I’m thinking this is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. Canon’s wearing pajama pants and a white tee. All my theories are blown.
It is almost a foregone conclusion that I will embarrass myself by ogling him at some point. I can imagine what point: his point. The hold I have on my wandering eyes is tenuous.
He takes a swig of pop. Plunking myself on his bed and being careful not to scatter papers everywhere, I pat the mattress. “Let’s do it.”
Spit-take. Coke everywhere.
“You okay?” I ask.
Canon nods. And coughs. A lot.
Sometime…
“HEY…HEY, EMMA. WAKE UP.”
I feel hands in my hair. They shake my shoulder. I’m cold. I turn toward the warmth beside me.
“Emma. Emma?”
Just ignore them; they’ll stop.
They do.
Then the warmth goes away.
Lincoln chases me. Through Walmart. I don’t know which part is scarier.
