by Jamie Knight
“A double standard,” she says, “and I’m sick of it. So, a bunch of younger women and older men can get together, have relationships, and everyone is fine with all this, but not anyone else? Not us?”
She sounds angry. Livid, though, I don’t know why. Everything she’s vomiting at me doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me, and yet the way she’s looking at me, it’s as if I’m the one who’s caused her issue.
“I’m going to have you, Tommy. I’m going to make you more than my assistant. More than my clerk. You’re going to be mine.”
She leans forward to emphasize this.
“You are mine. You were the moment you accepted the job with me, son, and you’re going to start doing other tasks for me.”
I start to move away, but Vanacore darts forward like a cobra in a dress and catches me. She presses her lips on mine, wraps a hand around my head, and keeps me there.
We both sigh into the kiss, but for reasons that couldn’t be more night and day from each other. For her, it sounds like a weight has been lifted. An appetite satiated.
For me, it’s surprise and fear. My surprise and fear quickly melts, and under something, I can only describe as a fog. As a listless, meandering energy that comes over my head and body.
It’s like she’s put a roofie in my drink, but I’m not drinking. And the roofie is her entire energy.
Tommy! Tommy, your boss has just kissed you! Forced her lips on yours! Pull away! Get out of this situation, screams my brain, but it’s futile.
The longer her lips are on mine, the more helpless and under her spell I feel. With each passing second, I’m forgetting more about what the situation as it actually is, and am instead focusing on the fact that soon it will be over.
I’m being consumed by it, devoured by it, and for a while, I don’t resist. I shut off my brain. Banish the part of me that has any issue with what Vanacore has done, what my goals are in this company, or any other objections. It’s like I zone out and just want it to be over with.
But it’s when her lips come off mine, and her hands start to wander below my belt, that I’m out of my charmed state. My bespelled heart and mind practically shake “awake.” I push my chair away from her before she can get a hold of any part of my pants or the zipper.
“Tommy,” says Vanacore, rubbing the front of herself, and trying to stop my backward motion with the other, “you’ve got to take this a bit further with me if you want to get paid properly for the end of your week.”
She murmurs this like it’s the sexiest, most enthralling pick-up line she’s ever used.
“You enjoyed the kiss, so why not go a little further?”
I didn’t enjoy it, but that doesn’t seem to matter to her. She wants to make me what she wants to make me into.
Part of this rings like an offer, the other a demand.
I jump up out of my seat, move past her, thankful for once that I’m as big and muscular as I am. It allows me to make room for myself when someone’s trying to squeeze me out or crowd me like Vanacore’s is doing.
As I make it to the door, she barks out my name.
I don’t turn around, so she continues, “You’ll get a paycheck this time, but it’s going to be slightly altered.”
In my head, I know she can’t do this. She can’t legally stiff me on hours actually worked, especially since those were put in the “billable” hours section, but she still has to sign off on them.
And I have a feeling she’s not going to sign off on a few extra I put in yesterday. I don’t like this kind of abuse of power, but, as if she can hear exactly what I’m thinking — as if some other person in her life has accused her of it before — she says, “You’ll get out of the situation this time, but starting next week you’re going to behave a little better. Do your work more thoroughly, or I will get you demoted.”
I swallow nervously at this. Either way, I’m fucked. She’s just told me I am, and while I know I could go to HR about this, I don’t. I don’t want the first promotion I got to be sullied in this way. Especially not after all the work I’ve put in to get here.
“Goodnight, ma’am,” I say. “See you on Monday.”
Vanacore doesn’t reply to that.
Instead, she says, like a threat, like a sin I’ll never live down, saying, “You enjoyed kissing me, Tommy. I’m not going to let it stop there.”
I let those words hang in the air as I close the door on them in the next second.
As I make my way down the hall, I start to have my delayed panic attack. I start to breathe and gasp heavily, though, for once, it has nothing to do with my extra weight. Tears and sweat start to flow next, and as I get on the elevator, I am a hurricane of confused, terrified feelings.
Why did I let her keep kissing me like that? Why do I let her do any of this to me at all? Why couldn’t I get away? Why didn’t I? Why can’t I do anything to her once she looks at me that way? Talks to me that way?
I wipe at my tears and sweat vigorously, fearing being joined in the elevator at any moment.
How is she doing that to me? Is she some sort of sorcerer? Some sort of vampire?
My heart is pounding, but I don’t know from what. From fear, obviously. But there’s something else, adrenaline and horror, that I just can’t make sense of. I just can’t accept or reject it.
How do I stop her? Can I? And what do I do come Monday, when she expects me to do all of that for her?
I don’t have any answers, and I’m not likely to get any.
But what I do have is a friendly face. An ally. Melissa.
But as I’ve done all week, I don’t stop for her. I don’t wait, even when she shouts after me. She’s just seen the worry and fear covering my face as I run past her and out toward my car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Melissa
It’s Friday, almost the end of the workday, and the workweek. Over the last couple of days, I’ve made good on my promise to Dennis to get him on something.
I’ve done research on my own, as well as talked with Kane, about possible charges or suits I could file on my ex-boyfriend. We’ve also talked about how to negate any conflict of interest that there might be, considering I work for the company I’m seeking representation from.
Kane’s promised me he’ll look into it and get back to me, and I’ve been so preoccupied I’ve had to be satisfied with that much. It’s been enough to get me to actually move Dennis’s picture back a little from its place of honor.
Though it’s not completely gone from the desk, it’s not as front and center as it used to be. Which is an odd metaphor for what’s going on in my heart at the moment.
And now, I’m just sitting here finishing up the last few minutes of my day. Isabella’s decided to go home early, and I let her, considering that I ditched out early last Friday.
What I’ve been through in a week, most people go through in a year. I’m exhausted and amazed by this fact, but that quickly gets moved to the back burner when I see Tommy. He bolts out of the elevator, face red and covered in sweat. He appears to be hyperventilating, his expression is terrified and guilty.
He notices me watching him, but that doesn’t make him slow down. It only makes him run faster, with his head down and his eyes away.
“Tommy!” I shout, feeling panic well up inside me.
I yank off my headset and move around my desk to follow him. I don’t know what it is, but I have this horrible feeling of dread inside of me and rising nausea.
“Tommy, please wait! What happened? What’s wrong?” I’m shouting all these things at him, but he just moves faster and further away from me. “Tommy!”
I pick up my pace, literally chasing after him now, down the hall, through the coffee bar, and towards the stairs. He doesn’t answer me or slow down, but I keep going.
I don’t bother to say anything as we both run down the stairs, but my mind is going a mile a minute — fretting and panicking for him.
What
in the hell has happened? Whatever it is, it’s not good! Whatever it is it has to do with her, Vanacore, says my heart.
That predator, says my soul.
As I burst out of the doors on the ground floor, still following Tommy across the parking lot toward his car, I shout, “Tommy, go to my car! Please! Wait there for a minute and calm down!”
At that moment, it occurs to me he doesn’t know my car from the other fifty or a hundred still parked in the lot, but I don’t care. Something about what I’ve just said has finally stopped him. Either that, or he’s finally exhausted himself or winded himself enough. Either way, he’s come to a stop, and it’s not far from my car anyway.
I catch up to him and take him under his shaking arm. It, like the rest of him, is still dressed in a frumpy, ill-fitting suit and tie.
“Take a deep breath. Deep breaths, Tommy. Just relax, and let’s get in my car to sit and talk for a moment, okay?”
I know Tommy is in no mental or emotional state to really answer me, but I feel it’s important to get his permission and to get him on the same page, even if he’s not in the space for responding. I still need his consent.
He manages something like a nod, and I take that as my permission to take him to my car, leaning him against it momentarily as I unlock both the passenger side and the driver’s side, and lead him to the former.
When he is safely in the passenger seat with the door closed, I head over to the driver’s side. Taking my seat and closing my door, I don’t question him about anything right away. I just let him sit there, try to catch his breath, and compose himself.
It takes several minutes for him to calm down and get his breathing under control, but finally, Tommy is able to talk, and when he does, they are just as devastating as I feared.
“She kissed me.”
I heard him, but I didn’t hear him. “What?”
“She kissed me,” he squeaks, looking over at me like he’s the dirty, guilty cheater in all of this. “Ms. Vanacore. She forced herself on me and kissed me.”
He looks at me like I might not believe him, like I might not understand him, like I might be judging him for being a victim.
“I don’t know what happened, she was just suddenly right there, suddenly on me.” He wipes at his face and nose angrily. “I don’t know what happens around her. I just freeze. I lose control or whatever, like I’m paralyzed. I don’t know. I just can’t get away. And I end up giving her the impression that I like it! That I want it!”
He starts to cough and gasp now, growing more hysterical. I do everything to keep him calm and keep him from making himself pass out.
“It’s all right,” I said soothingly, “It’s all right, Tommy. It’s okay. You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing at all, I promise,” I say, resisting the urge to kiss the sweat from his brow. I really want to, but can’t and won’t, given the circumstances. “You’re all right, Tommy. Just relax.”
Tommy shakes his head, his face scrunching up into even more sadness and sorrow or self-hatred and fear.
“I don’t want it,” he says. “I don’t want that kind of thing from her.”
He quickly sucks in a few breaths of air, like he’s drowning.
“I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to just shove her away. But my body betrays me!”
He looks like he’s going to tear his hair out, but I stop him. I hold his hand in mine.
“And I shouldn’t be burdening you with this! I’m your boss! I should be the listener in this situation!”
Although he’s being so rough on himself, I can’t help but smile. It’s cute for me to see how much he wants to be dependable and strong for the people under him, even when he’s having a moment like this. I can’t help it. I reach up and touch his hair. I stroke it a little bit, which amazingly, seems to help him calm down even more.
For a few long minutes, I don’t do anything other than stroke his hair. I don’t say anything. I just touch him in this way and wait for him to calm down enough again.
“She’s promised — swore that she will make me hers and that I am hers — come next Monday,” he says as if he’s suddenly run out of emotions about it and is now just quoting facts to me. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do. If I don’t, she’ll send me back down to the legal aids’ pool. If I do, I’ll just be what everyone else already accuses me of being: a corporate hoe. And I’m not about to tell anyone about this,” he adds, looking at me as if he’s seen where I might have even attempted to go with this revelation. “I’m not going to. I’m not going to ruin my promotion. Not with this kind of attention.”
I don’t say anything to this. And Tommy doesn’t add anything. Not for a good while. But when he does, an energy starts to fill the car that is intoxicating, masculine, and dominating.
“I’m going to take her down. That’s what I’m going to do,” he says. “I’m going to keep a record of her behavior toward me. I’m going to let her think I’m all for this little game, and then get her on all of it. Not just for me. But for every other guy or young kid she’s ever gotten her way with. Ever victimized in this way. Including Huckleberry.”
Inside, I’m starting to feel warm and fuzzy and hot and tingly in other places. Out of all the lawyers I’ve met, I’ve never seen one be so bold and so noble.
He looks at me, looking for some kind of confirmation. So, I give it to him.
I nod and say, “If you’re going to get her, be careful. Cover your ass, even if you are going to offer it to her.”
I take out my phone, wiggle it at him.
“Get as much as you can on audio or video. Something more than just your words, as I have a feeling that unlike you, Ms. Vanacore’s been at this little racket of hers for a long time. She knows how to wiggle out of it, knows how to spin it, so you need to get her on things she can’t retract or twist. Which would be her own words or actions, captured on a phone.”
Tommy nods but gives me this look like maybe I shouldn’t know how to do these kinds of things.
I smile.
“I got your tormentors on the legal aid’s floor to leave you alone and be jobless with just such a tactic,” I say. “Just be discreet and clever with how you obtain it.”
I take this moment to start my car, to turn on the air-conditioning.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Melissa
Now Tommy’s looking at me like I’m wonderful, amazing, and surprising.
I just smile and start driving us out of the parking lot. It isn’t until we almost turn onto the main road toward the middle of town, that I realize I hadn’t made any plans to take him with me anywhere. And now I am without a second thought.
I stop, embarrassed by how natural all the feels.
“Oh, my God! I meant to just talk with you a moment, and now here I am driving away with you!” I chuckle, glad when Tommy looks the same way.
He’s embarrassed but also oddly relieved.
“Now that we’re here, would you like to go to dinner with me?”
I lick my lips.
“Maybe talk out a few more plans of how to deal with your big, bad boss?”
To my unending delight and secret pleasure, Tommy accepts immediately.
“I’d love dinner. After all, it’s been nearly a week since I’ve had a good lunch or dinner, since Vanacore only gives me enough time to get food for her, and my dad eats all the food out of my fridge and cupboards.”
I roar out of the opening to the company’s parking lot, making a decision right then and there.
“That’s it! We are going to one of my most favorite places, and I am buying you appetizers and desserts in addition to your main course! And you don’t get to object,” I add, feeling that he’s going to say something about not allowing me to pay or to treat him. “This is my treat.” I soften my tone, making it gentler and less commanding.
“Fine,” answers Tommy, sounding and looking touched, though I see he’s trying to keep some of it from
me. “But I will find a way to pay you back, Melissa.”
He looks right at me, his eyes glowing strangely, yet beautifully, in the more muted light of the evening.
“You’ve done way more than I ever expected or dreamed any woman would do for me.”
And with that, I’m breathless. I’m speechless, as we make our way to my favorite restaurant in town, with a man I wasn’t ever expecting — or expecting to need — as my companion.
Call it what you will, but the restaurant I take Tommy to, a restaurant called la cuillère du petit prince — the Little Prince’s Spoon — is one of the best French restaurants in all of America, let alone Manhattan.
Ever since our lunch was cut short, and he seemed interested and excited by French cuisine, I’ve been hungering for more — more French food for Tommy to try, as well as more actual time with him, without Ms. Vanacore or my ex-boyfriend interrupting.
The moment we walk in, I’m greeted by the hostess. Because I know Tommy likes it, I speak in French to her. I ask for a table for two in one of the nicer, more open spaces, and told her that we will be ordering a multi-course experience.
She nods, tells me that will be fine, and shows us to our seats. There, we are almost immediately greeted by a waiter, who runs down the wine list, in French as well, since I let him know on the slide that my “companion” is enamored of the language, and thinks me extra impressive when I speak it in front of him.
“I see,” says the waiter, winking, and proceeds to be very impressive in his French as well. He gives me opportunities to show off while ordering wines and looking at menus. Which I involve Tommy in, helping to explain what dishes are, and starting to use some isolated words in French as I do, so that he begins to learn a bit.
We settle on some fondue as one appetizer, artichaut poivrade (poached artichoke) for the other. The artichokes are in a lemon and herb liquid, making them extra tasty and tender. Something that Tommy isn’t immediately keen on but says is better than snails.
I laugh and say, “With enough garlic and butter, you won’t be complaining about the taste of snails, Tommy. I promise you, you won’t.”