Текст книги "The Plan"
Автор книги: Qwen Salsbury
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Day of Employment:
379
8:30 a.m.
MY PHONE IS RINGING. Somewhere. It’s not on my nightstand.
Screen light shines through papers on the bed. Nothing seems right.
“H-Hello?”
“It is after eight. The day needs to start.”
“Huh?”
“I need to get ready.”
In a flood of revelation, it becomes clear this is not my room.
I fell asleep in his bed, and he…must have gone to mine.
Glad I never put up that dartboard with his picture…
“I’ll be right out¸” I say and bolt from his bed. His really, really amazing-smelling bed.
Oh, shit. The video from the plant is still paused on my laptop…
Back in my room, nonchalance is a casualty. Legs still half asleep, I’m Bambi, stumble-bumbling for the computer.
The editing program appears to be paused in the same spot. He doesn’t mention it.
11:08 a.m.
*
Canon
: AWOL.
WHICH IS DIFFERENT, since he’s usually driving me up a wall.
He hasn’t bothered to check in. Which bothers me. But I don’t have the luxury of time to deal with it. I shrug it off and keep working from my hotel room.
On shrug number eleven, Canon materializes.
“You are on your own for lunch.”
This floors me. Time to myself? “When shall I meet back with you?”
“I’ll call you.” Canon seems hesitant. For a moment, I’m drawn in to the tiny crinkles near his eyes. “Our trip has been extended for a few days. Through the holiday. Take the afternoon to make arrangements.”
What? I can’t be gone more. More 24/7 with this man? I don’t have clothes or time or money or patience or ready access to happy pills to grind up into his coffee.
Or anything better to do.
He shuffles through some papers. “We will also be attending more functions with their higher-ups, so you will need additional evening wear. I can’t imagine even you foresaw that, so use the time to purchase whatever you need.”
Blinking rapidly, I try to compose myself. I’m failing miserably. Homework, recorded lectures, coffee beans, starched white shirts. Images flood my mind.
“Is there a problem?” He finally looks up at me.
Well, hell yeah, there is a freaking problem! “I, um, I…” I say and clear my throat forcefully. “I don’t have the resources.”
“I said make arrangements, did I not?” He looks at me like maybe I’m dense.
My cheeks heat. Coming up short doesn’t sit well with me. “I mean…that is to say…There is a cash flow issue. This is, um, beyond my means.”
After a moment of monumental awkwardness, he reaches into his wallet and places a department store card near my hand. “Give them your measurements. Purchase at least one more cocktail dress.”
“You don’t have to do that. I mean, I can recycle.”
“No,” he says, waving me off. “People would notice.”
I nod, still processing all this.
“Branch out. Anything but black.”
“Very well, sir.”
From my hotel room’s desk, I watch him leave. On the other side of the door, Ms. Fralin stands, bundled up in a heavy coat.
“Alaric, darling,” she coos and ushers him out. “Finally I have you all to myself. Whatever will we do to pass the time?” The door shuts, her laughter muffled.
7:00 p.m.
*
Location
: My room.
EVERYTHING HANGS IN THE CLOSET NOW. The tags and receipt mock me from the desk.
I took that card earlier today in a moment of shock. Extended trip. More clothes. What appears to be his personal department store card.
The company dime can roll right in and purchase whatever I need as far as I’m concerned. It sure wasn’t my idea to go on this trip.
I really need to know if he’s being reimbursed. Otherwise the tags go back on and the clothes go back.
Ideally, anyway.
I still need to wear them, regardless.
I just don’t want to be indebted to him, to take any gifts from him.
Everything in me demands clarification of whose money I just spent. Hours of contemplating this situation has made me sure of only one thing: Ms. Baker cannot question Mr. Canon.
I’ve distracted myself satisfactorily with several school lectures, but now nothing is working.
Clara’s chirpy voice mail gets my message about the delayed return. Never have I so desperately wanted to hear her voice, even if only to interrogate me.
It wasn’t just lunch without Canon; I was on my own all day. Still am. I haven’t heard from Canon; he’s not come back. I’ve said, “Yes, sir,” to everyone and everything I’ve seen. Even the shower.
It’s like I’ve had something removed, and yet I keep feeling it. A phantom limb. A phantom pain in my ass that replaces the pain in my ass. Whatever. It’s just not the same.
Why does this bug me so? Should I check on him? He could be hurt…
I’m not fooling myself. I want to check because he may still be with her.
It’s not my business. He’s not my business. I don’t care.
Keep saying it. It might make it true.
I had a plan. This was not the plan.
Fully intent on flipping more channels, I dial him without thought.
“Canon.” His voice is a surprise in my ear. Why did I call him? What’s wrong with me?
“Yes, um,” I say and look around the room for some non-existent guidance. Nothing. “Is there anything you’d like for me to be working on?”
“Are the purchases categorized?”
All the places he could be, the things…and people…he could be doing crowd my thoughts.
“Yes, all in order. Every pencil and enough Tyvek to furnish a clean room environment all accounted for.” Word vomit. “We can only have these rooms until Tuesday.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You did make other reservations, though?”
“Yes. Three places. When you have a moment, I can go over th—”
A crash, maybe something small breaking, on his end of the line interrupts me.
“Whatever you choose will be fine…Good night, Ms. Baker.”
“Good night, Mr. Canon.”
One bath, two room service desserts, and a nightie that makes me feel beautiful don’t chase away the glumness.
I feel lonely.
I fall asleep reading a textbook.
9:22 p.m.
LINCOLN IS HERE. In my room. I throw the bedspread at him.
Lincoln is unfazed by bacteria. He uses my ChapStick. He paints my toes. He licks them. He sucks them in.
I twist and claw at my mattress and beg him to stop, but he—
“Emma! You have got to wake up.”
Canon is holding me, but I feel jostled. He’s been shaking me. I gulp down air.
“Shh.” His hand smooths my hair out of my face and down my back. Pulling back, he looks at me. “I thought…oh, God, I thought you were being…and I heard you, and I could see the lights, and then and then and th—oh, my God, what the motherfuck are you wearing?”
He propels himself backward from the bed.
This is all so weird. I look down and remember the pity party that ended in donning a peach negligee with black lace inlays and fabric that makes Clara’s sheer robe look like plaid flannel.
“This? This is actually lingerie.”
I told him he would know it if I wore it. I don’t do things halfway.
“W-Why?”
Deer in headlights. Yeah, that description works here.
And just to keep things straight, I’m sporting the headlights.
Maybe we could call them blips.
I may have just set off the radar…
There’s something about flustered Alaric Canon I can’t get enough of. I’m practically naked, yet he’s the one uncomfortable.
“Why? What did you expect me to wear?” I stand to usher him out…and show off the cute little coordinating panties. “Did you think I sleep in the nude?”
“Good night, Ms. Baker,” he calls behind him. He has already crossed the hall.
“And a good night to you, Mr. Canon.”
Day of Employment:
380
10:00 a.m.
*
Meetings
: All day. Shoot me.
*
Location
: Conference room.
THIS IS OUR SHOW. Canon is in game mode. Proposals. PowerPoints. Power suit.
Sweet mercy, just look at him. Yum.
He points out that they seem to have “lost” an important sales area about the time this merger was proposed—a whole product category, just suddenly gone from the line-up.
His tone is smooth, his insinuation clear: he thinks they are attempting to retain an exclusive area.
Ms. Fralin adjusts her cleavage so thoroughly I begin to suspect the lost sales area is actually in there somewhere. She pulls an index card out from behind her neckline.
“That was part of a former associate’s territory,” she offers, glancing at the card. “Anyone have an explanation?”
Flustered, Peters shuffles through some papers. This guy knows zilch about his job. “Looks like LaCygne oversaw that most recently. Is he…let me see…he may be on site…” Peters flounders while clearly looking for who this LaCygne person might actually be.
Peters has forgotten to bring a file. He can’t find his pen. Fralin fishes one out of her bra. It’s like the damned Room of Requirement in there.
Canon is unimpressed. He’s been working the room during his presentation; this breaks his stride. His fingers are in his pockets, his shoulders set.
The tension is palpable. “I can go track him down,” I offer finally.
Looking down, Canon nods. He wants this info; he wants this deal between our companies to be on the up-and-up. This glitch was the principal concern that seemed to stand out to him in all those hours of research we logged.
11:10 a.m.
I FIND HIM ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. Just had to ask a non-suit. They always know the score.
LaCygne is Mitchell LaCygne. We went to undergrad together. Small world. Dated a couple of times.
Blue eyes and blue jeans. Baritone Scottish brogue. That is quite a perplexing family tree. Roots must span Europe.
My, oh my, why did we only go out twice?
Oh, yeah. Kellie.
Lucky ho.
“Hey, Emma, it sure is a pleasure to see you. You part of the new regime?”
I smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
The next hour plus is spent at a break table. He’s got records of everything. Looks like the line fell through because his predecessor had failed to deliver on time for the preceding several years. He had inherited a mess. A dying moose.
“I have no idea why. Just consistent bad luck…poor planning.” He stretches back in the chair, popping his back.
We catch up for a bit. He’s only been here a year.
“That’s something else we have in common,” I say, laughing.
“Ms. Baker.” Suddenly Canon materializes in front of us. “If you can manage to tear yourself away…”
Mitchell lets the chair legs hit the floor. “You must be Alaric Canon.” He offers his hand without standing.
Canon ignores him. “We’re breaking for lunch early. Since you have been enjoying social hour, it seems we will have to catch up before everyone gets back.”
I feel as though I’ve been smacked on the hand.
Mitchell tries the phlegmatic approach. “Emma and I went to undergrad together.”
“One big, happy OU family.” Canon scowls. “Ms. Baker?” It’s not a question. It’s a command.
Forcing a smile, my face on fire, I say goodbye to Mitchell and trail behind Canon. He leads us to our temporary office. I haven’t been gone that long, but he’s incensed. Quiet and fuming.
“Shall I go get your lunch?”
“Can you manage to do so without attracting a throng of admirers?”
“Excuse me?”
“You are paid to do a job. Why is it that at every turn, you are filling your dance card?”
“My dance card?” I don’t even recall the last time anyone danced with me. Probably when Shady still had people imitating. “I went to school with Mitchell.” One would think the instant rapport would be valued.
It occurs me that normally Canon would be grateful for something like this, for in-depth knowledge.
“Mitchell,” he snorts.
“Mr. LaCygne,” I correct myself.
“Expanding this trip is not ideal for me either, I hope you realize. Every hour is critical,” he says.
Unbidden, I think of him leaving with Ms. Fralin yesterday. Spending some untold portion of his day with her. Just exactly how critical am I expected to believe a late night meeting with Executive Expando Bra is? I want to ask.
I don’t.
Not that it should matter.
“Dinner is at the owner’s home tonight,” he says, tapping his pen. “Will you be able to make it, or will you be spending yet more quality time with the illustrious Mr. Mitchell?”
“I don’t normally spend quality time with my former college roommates’ husbands,” I level at him.
His pen stops clicking.
We work in silence the rest of the day.
6:15 p.m.
*
Location
: Samuel Dowry residence.
*
Dinner
: Pretentious dish. Name forgotten. “Tastes like chicken” would be a marked improvement.
*
Hair
: Down and straight.
*
Drink
: Rum and Coke.
LANCE ROWE, the executive who acquired a new limp in the conference room the other day, thanks to my pen jab, attempts to ply me with alcohol.
Let us observe the mating rituals of the lecherous North American lounge lizard in his native habitat: The Open Bar.
He thinks he’s being smooth. Suave. He tried handing me a Cosmopolitan at first. I told him that he might not wish to advertise that he digs Sex and the City.
Now he’s operating under the mistaken belief that I have consumed three rum and Cokes.
Let’s get something straight: I can drink. Hold my liquor. The table? That’s what I put other people under.
It’s a gift. The one thing I have inherited from my mother that I can truly use. Her favorite story is about the time a dive bar band challenged her, and whoever got drunk first had to pay. The night ended with her packing up the band’s gear after every member passed out. Sounds more like a hassle than a victory to me. Mom is a little off.
Humoring the guy seems like the path of least resistance. Not rocking the boat, I take the drinks, smile, and then set them down elsewhere. Or tip them into a potted plant.
The fern may need detox.
I dump most of the latest drink. Say hello to my little fronds…
This is the largest dinner party I have ever attended. It’s also the only formal one. There are about twenty people roaming around. Execs and a few spouses enjoying drinks.
“Ms. Baker, how long have you worked for the company?”
“Ms. Baker, how are you enjoying our fair city?”
“Ms. Baker, this is an exciting opportunity for us all, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Ms. Baker, that is a lovely dress.”
The banter is innocuous enough, but I feel the need to guard my words. Remain opinion-free.
My dress actually is lovely, I must agree. It’s silk in a gradient fade from teal to charcoal with a neck so wide the straps sit on the very edges of my shoulders. Nothing revealing, but the way the air touches my collarbones feels sensual. Sexy.
My heels click across the marble floor as I position myself in the corner.
From behind the rim of my glass, as I pretend to take another sip, I watch Canon. He maneuvers through the clusters of people. Talking. He slides to another group when Fralin appears. A few minutes later—after she appears to count down to “not too obvious” parameters—she inserts herself into his new group. Shortly after, he moves away.
Their game begins anew.
Oh, his discomfort pleases me greatly. Enjoy, sir. Enjoy.
9:20 p.m.
IN MY HAND, I hold the ninth rum and Coke of the evening. All totaled, I’ve taken enough sips to equate one whole drink.
This guy thinks he’s adding stains to my hotel bedspread tonight.
Moron. I’m not even acting tipsy.
“No, thank you, Mr. Rowe. Enjoy the veranda without me.”
“Thank you for the drink, Mr. Rowe.”
“Really, Mr. Rowe? Four touchdowns in a single game?”
Canon is looking at me from across the room. I may have been hasty in congratulating myself on how I’ve handled this situation. That is one heckuva scowl he’s rocking.
Extricating myself from the lecherous delusions of Mr. Rowe yet again, I walk closer to Canon. Letting him know I can tell he has something to say. I stop a few feet away; I am not going to heel. He can come to me.
He does.
“I see your reputation for professionalism is undeserved,” he hisses over my shoulder.
“If you feel I have behaved unprofessionally, please clarify, Mr. Canon.”
“Drinking.”
“I can handle it.” I turn to face him. As punctuation, I take a sip. “You are drinking too.”
“It seems Rowe thinks he is what’s going to get handled.”
“He can think what he wants.”
“That is your fifth drink.”
“Ninth,” I say just to irk him.
His mouth drops open. “Do not move. I will say the goodbyes.”
Before I can formulate a response, he’s gone. He makes the rounds, shaking hands enthusiastically and thanking the owner for a lovely dinner. When he sidesteps Rowe’s outstretched hand, I can’t help but smile.
“Give me your arm.”
“Excuse me?”
He rolls his eyes, grabs my hand and wraps it around his bent elbow. His pace is slower than normal as he leads us outside.
Utter silence until we’re in the car.
“I’m not drunk.” My voice echoes in the car.
At a stoplight, his gaze shifts to me. Silently assessing. His hands wring the steering wheel.
“I didn’t do anything to embarrass you,” I say in the hotel parking lot.
“Surely you’re not implying I should’ve waited until after you did.” His sentence is punctuated by the door’s near slam. He escorts me through the lobby. I allow his flat palm at the small of my back to guide me. Our pace is quicker, closer to normal.
Mute elevator ride. He removes his jacket and watches the numbers climb.
The doors open, and he turns toward our rooms.
He’s going to fire me. Maybe I don’t care anymore. I have done my best. I have been his ideal. Even when I felt certain he wanted to find fault, I gave him nothing to complain about.
Well, fine. Have it your way, Canon. Enjoy the stimulating company of Lawrence Peters without me. Good luck with closing this deal on your own. I’m taking your coffee with me too, you picky bastard.
“Good luck,” I say, seething as he watches me open my door. I’m so pissed I actually do fumble and miss the first two times I try to slide the card. Fantastic. “I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Be quiet.” He steps into my room.
“Quit telling me what to do!”
“Don’t act like you need to be told.”
“You can’t boss me around!” I switch on the bathroom light in the darkened room.
“It may have escaped your notice, but I am your boss.”
“Not anymore. You’re firing me!”
“You’re being nonsensical. Sleep it off.” He towers over me, his breath smoothing across my exposed shoulders.
Sensory overload. I’m so exhausted I can’t think properly, and I can’t take it anymore. I put my hands on his shirt and push him. Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s surprised.
“Either you are firing me or I quit. Either you fire me because you’re convinced I was going to embarrass you or I quit because you actually did embarrass me.” I shake my arms, but he must think I plan to slap him because he grabs both my hands in his.
“Emma,” he says, jaw clenched. “You may very well not be intoxicated but neither I, nor any reasonably observant human for that matter, would be able to conclude differently from your antics. Also, for some unfathomable reason, you did not see fit to clue me in,” he spits and lets go of my wrists with a shove, as if he suddenly realized he was holding an oven fresh Idaho spud. “Emma, you can hardly fault me for being rational.”
“Antics? Fault you! You do the social equivalent of dragging me out by my pigtails and you think I shouldn’t ‘fault’ you?” I step closer, heels stomping the carpet. “What I think is that there is an apology in order.”
“See? And you thought we were at an impasse,” he says and moves enough tower over me. “Proceed. I’m ready to hear it.”
I bump my shoulder into his chest, curse myself for reveling in the treacherous warmth, and stand firm, pressing against him enough that his stature sways. “You enjoying pushing people, don’t you? It’s different when someone else is doing the pushing, isn’t it?”
“Good night, Ms. Baker.” He turns to leave.
“You think you’re so superior to me.” I’m hot on his tail.
“Ms. Baker, I’m not insulting you. It’s simple biology: your body mass can’t handle the amount of alcohol which you appeared to ingest.”
This is it. This is the final straw—a drinking straw, no less—for my tolerance of Alaric Canon. These may be my final moments with this man, and I can’t even see him properly in this damned dim light. Sometimes he seems to connect with me, but now he is so condescending. Who does he think he is? “Any reasonably observant human.” Pfft. He won’t hold me “responsible for my actions.” He thinks I would embarrass him, that I would embarrass myself, by drinking too much at a business function, that I “can’t handle that much liquor.”
Drunk, huh? He thinks I’m drunk? Ha! If I was drunk with Alaric Canon in my room…well, let’s just say this would go down differently.
An idea: it hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. Hell, what have I got to lose at this point?
He’s such an ass. Underestimating me. Doesn’t think I can handle things. I’ll show him what I can handle. I’ll show him I can handle an ass.
I reach out and grab hold of that glorious ass and squeeze for all I’m worth.
Air whooshes from him, and he wheels around.
If I’m going down, I’m going down in a blaze of glory.
I don’t give him a chance to say anything, and I stretch around him with both hands and knead the ever-loving fuck out of his butt. It is motherfucking glorious, and I think the memory will keep me satisfied when I’m living off ramen for the next few months.
Off-balance and stumbling, he falls against me. Hard.
Actually, he falls against me gently. He is what’s hard…part of him anyway.
Blip.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have blip.
“Mr. Canon,” I whisper up to him, “explain yourself.” My left hand runs smoothly along his hip, drawing ever closer to his…revelation.
I’m not sure where this boldness is coming from. My index finger traces his length. The fabric is rough under my touch.
He hisses. He hesitates. I feel his palms smooth over my arms.
“Some might say this constitutes an offer,” I breathe. Warmth from his hands sears my skin. I’m calm; I don’t let it show.
“One should not make offers one is not prepared to complete.” I turn his words back on him and grasp him firmly.
His head rolls back. I watch his throat as he swallows repeatedly.
He’s losing it. I want more. The power intoxicates me.
Watching him for a reaction, I pull his zipper. He doesn’t disappoint; his breath ceases.
“Stop me,” I say.
He doesn’t. I slip inside and hold him. Grip. Fist.
Claim.
It is silk and heat and pulsing want. His body jerks, surges forward, and I can barely contain my shit because I know, I just know, this is a pure reaction. This is a human moment, and it is everything I wanted and more.
So much more.
My body sings. Oh, my—I am controlling him…I have him in the palm of my hand. Literally. Figuratively.
Fingers curling around, thumb in tight circling circuits, pressing his flesh. He rocks and pants into my hair, down my face. Power. Intoxicating power. This, this I could get drunk on. My free hand follows along the path of his shirt buttons. I release him, and he makes a noise that sounds like a pained whimper, but it dies on his lips when I grab his shirt and tear it open, broken buttons flying across the room.
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” I say as I press my lips to his chest.
“Em…you…you don’t really want this…”
I shove him against the wall. The thud sounds through the room.
“Don’t tell me what I want.” I speak against his skin as I tongue and bend and descend…lower, lower.
“I’m sure I know what you want.” My knees hit the floor. “I’m excellent with non-verbal communication.”
A rhythmic beat resounds in the room. I think it’s the blood rushing through my system, but then I realize he’s banging his head against the wall again and again. He is losing it. I want more.
He’s still nearly fully dressed; I watch his chest rise and fall between partially untucked shirt scraps and draw him out through his open zipper.
My mouth closes around him. He clamps down on my shoulders as if to steady himself, as though the wall is not enough to support his weight. He’s leaning on me. Needs me.
Tapping on his belt buckle, I pull back and say, “Off.”
He nods mutely and complies.
Now, there is an element to oral sex that might be called worshipful, and I’m a fan of it—and even in the pale light it’s clear his cock is worthy of worship, praise, maybe some hymns—but that is not what I’m here for today. I suck him in, swallow around him, press my tongue flat and create enough suction to rival a Hoover.
His knees give a bit, and since his legs are so long, it actually puts him at a better angle.
One hand returns to his ass, securing him where I want him, and I stroke him with the other. He’s moaning and writhing, and I know this is going to be fast.
Embarrassingly fast.
I want nothing more.
I pull out all the stops. Tongue his slit. Tight in my mouth. Hint of teeth. In unison, my hand moves from his ass to massage his perineum while I pull him to the back of my throat, hum, and swallow.
Whoo-hoo. Mind over matter. Deep throat. I have never been able to do that before.
I hum—sorta, it’s not the easiest thing when your airway is obstructed—and only I know it is the opening bars of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
“I…I’m…Christ.” His back is bowed out, arcing, as he twitches and swells. I pull back, and he spills onto my tongue and struggles to stop rocking.
He’s gasping for air, and his hands are running through my hair, then along my face with…reverence?
That is unexpected.
I stand and spit.
“I will add pineapple juice to your breakfasts,” I say and pat his tie twice, his chest heaving underneath. “Drink it if you ever want that to happen again.”
10:10 p.m.
*
Emma Baker
: I don’t give head. I claim it.
ROWE WAS ON THE MONEY about one thing tonight: I did get new stains on my bedspread.
Oh, my God. I sucked off Alaric Canon.
This is something we need to talk about. Discuss. Hash out. Cover.
What have I done?
I wonder if going to his room now is a good idea.
Oh, sure—now I worry about crossing a line. Knocking on a door now is not too invasive; I have tasted the man’s semen, pinged his radar so hard I pretty much sank his battleship.
He would let me know if he wanted to talk, surely.
I’m definitely the sort of person who would want to talk about this…situation. Explain myself, if there is any explanation. Defend if it is defensible. Hear these same things from him. I want to understand him, this. He wanted it, even in a war with himself, he wanted…me?
Maybe this isn’t such a mystery. What guy is gonna turn down a blow job?
I need answers. It’s only natural. It’s in my nature.
But…
I’m not me right now. Nothing I’m doing is natural. Today, the role of Docile will be played by Emma Baker.
And a docile Emma wouldn’t go seeking answers.
She would make sure Mr. Canon’s coffee was ready at 7:00 a.m.
She would turn the lights out and go to sleep so she had her head on straight and could facilitate her boss’s schedule, and she would not not not fellate her boss’s tool.
Since I am only acting like a docile Emma, the lights go out but sleep doesn’t happen.
