by Max Monroe
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying you should sit us around a campfire and make s’mores. Just back off a bit on how hard you’re riding everyone’s asses. You don’t have to be a tyrant to get people to do their work.”
A tyrant? She’s obviously never worked side by side with my father.
Before I can offer up a retort to her holier-than-thou and completely unwanted and unwarranted advice, a boy with a dark mop of hair cruises by with dirty dishes in his hand, and Greer reaches out and flicks him.
“Yo, garçon,” she says like a lunatic. “Another pickle for me, and a heart for the Tin Man over here.”
The kid shakes his head and buzzes back to the kitchen.
I fake a horrid excuse for a smile. “Very funny.”
“I thought it was pretty good.”
“For someone who acts like she knows everything about how to treat people, you sure don’t seem to mind the way you treat the busboy.”
“The busboy is my nephew.”
Skepticism makes my head shake. “No way. He has to be eighteen at least. And you’re what? Twenty-six?”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day. Seriously.” Her responding, albeit sarcastic, smile is too pretty for my liking. “But I’m thirty-three.”
I laugh. There’s no way she’s a day over thirty. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to show you my driver’s license.”
“How?”
“How what?” she asks with a raise of her brow.
“How is he your nephew?”
“Uh, biology? See, when a mommy and daddy really love each other, they do something called sex. Sex is—”
I shove back in my chair. “Funny.”
She snorts. “Well, what are you looking for here? He’s my brother’s son, which makes him my nephew.”
“Your brother must be older.”
She straightens her spine, surprised at how accurate I am. “Ten years. He pretty much raised me after my parents died.”
The unexpected admission makes my chest constrict. One second, we’re tossing insults, and the next, she’s reminding me there’s something human under all that hostility of hers.
“I’m sorry. How did they…”
She looks down at the table, pulls out the chair across from me, and takes a seat. I give her the time to collect herself before she speaks again.
“Their plane went down.”
“God, Greer, I’m—”
“One of their employees wanted to take over the company, so he paid a guy to put a bomb on their plane.”
My jaw drops. “Holy shit.”
“They found it before it went off, though, and threw it out the window. But it clipped the engine, and they went down in the ocean. I was by myself at home—except for the staff, of course—and I had no choice but to take over their company myself. Unfortunately, that made Lawrence even angrier. He wanted the company and the contents of the vault—”
Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I let her sucker me like this.
“You’re just reciting the plot for Richie Rich.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I thought you’d relate. Being a billionaire and all.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not exactly a billionaire. Turner Properties might be a multibillion-dollar empire, but that doesn’t mean my share in the company equates to ten digits in my bank account. My dad is, but I’m not. And he might not even leave the company to me when he’s ready to retire. He’s threatened to leave it to someone else several times.
“Are your parents even really dead?” I ask, and the instant the question leaves my lips, my stomach turns with discomfort. I’m not trying to be a dick; I’m just trying to gauge how far Greer’s snark goes when it comes to conversation. But shit, I might have pushed the envelope a little too far.
“Yes. They are.” I wince as she stands from her seat and kicks it back under the table with a shove of her foot. “But asking how someone’s parents died within a week of meeting them isn’t exactly the politest thing to do.”
And then she walks away from my table, leaving me feeling like…a real fucking tool.
Shit. Suddenly, the allure of my forgotten crepe doesn’t seem so powerful anymore.
Greer
Ever since my failed attempt of therapy hour at lunch, Trent’s been giving me weird looks.
He’ll be scolding one of the electrical workers, and then he’ll look over at me and the skin between his eyebrows will wrinkle.
It makes his face look broody and interesting, and all of my focus goes straight to the complex mingle of green in his eyes.
I hate it.
As a means of distraction, I’ve taken to making a list in the notes on my phone. A critique list, so to speak, that includes all sorts of things for him to work on.
Critical? Yes.
A wee bit petty? Maybe.
But completely satisfying? Most definitely.
So far, my list includes the following:
1. Consider addressing employees by their names, you know, so you don’t sound like such a dick.
2. A smile never hurt anyone. And a smile while giving orders will make you seem less like the Terminator, Ah-nold.
3. Giving a compliment won’t actually kill you. Seriously. Try it. And even better, pepper it in between all of your fucking insults.
4. Skip the gym a few times a week, bro. Your firm ass and tight muscles are distracting your team’s focus. And, as we ALL know, you’re all about the focus. To the point of overbearing insanity.
5. For the love of God, switch colognes. It’s fucking annoying how good you smell…to your team. We all hate your delicious aroma.
Okay. So, the list is in its first-draft stage, but it doesn’t really matter.
I doubt he’ll ever see it, what with me having to actually die in order for him to climb over my dead body, but it’s at least keeping my mind and eyes occupied and my sexually repressed vagina in check.
“Where are the samples?” Trent asks, his voice stern and his steady, glare-y gaze directed at George. “There were supposed to be samples two days ago.”
George, the poor guy, flounders like a fish on dry land. “The…samples. Right. I’ll check, sir.”
Ole George might as well be a monkey sidekick to the Man with the Yellow Hat because all he has when it comes to these “samples” is curiosity. Floor samples, paint samples, fucking urine samples…the mysterious samples could basically be anything. And if I were George, I’d be incredibly tempted to prove my point in the worst possible way.
Lucky for everyone on this job, including me and my big fat impulsive mouth, I am not George.
But I am me. And because of my boss’s inability to be clear in his instructions, I have inspiration for item number six on my new list.
I open up my notes and add a new Trent Turner critique.
6. Be specific so people know what you’re talking about. On this team alone, we have two male construction workers who literally go by Dick and Beaver. And that doesn’t include lovely Carrie Balls who is assisting the painting team.
Shit gets real confusing real flipping quick if you don’t explain yourself.
“Greer,” Trent calls, and my eyes jerk up like a deer in the middle of the road.
“Huh?”
His face curls into impatience, and the rest of the crowd looks on wide-eyed. Apparently, he asked me a question I didn’t hear.
Mental note to self: pay better fucking attention instead of making notes about beavers and balls.
“I asked what you had in mind for the reception desk. We need to order materials by the end of this week at the latest.”
I’d make a note that he shouldn’t emphasize words with attitude, but I’m pretty sure I deserve it this time around.
Instead, I spout ideas for the reception area on the fly and hope they’re good.
“I think the front desk should mirror the look of a historic kitchen
island. Black woodwork for the base with a light marble top and brass accents and maybe even some shelving with touches of the French Quarter behind. We can build drawers and cabinetry into the employee side to assure plenty of storage for supplies, but the look will be sleek and area appropriate from the outside.”
“What about the computer systems for check in?” Trent challenges. “Seems like that will look clunky on top of the streamlined counter.”
“We can do a lower tier on the hotel side if you’re worried about the look of everything on top. That would solve the problem, and from the front entrance, the reception area would stay consistent with clean and smooth lines.”
“Can you sketch something up for tomorrow?” he asks, and I’m nodding before he even finishes the question—despite the hours I know it will take me.
I’m committed to making a good impression with my work and work ethic, even if I can’t seem to take my foot out of my mouth.
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” he says, his voice devoid of disappointment for maybe the first time today.
I give myself a mental pat on the back and promise a cookie or two as a reward. In fact, maybe I’ll have that donut I bought at Easy Roast before I came into work this morning.
My purse is a Mary Poppins-style wormhole of varied goods, but I know it’s in there somewhere.
And it’s that inflated ego and misplaced food focus that get me in trouble. By the time I stop giving myself mental high fives and digging in my purse, the group has moved on, and I haven’t a clue where they went.
Shit.
It’s not like they’re miles away, but this place is still a maze of dark construction hallways and unexplained rooms. They could have gone any of several directions from here, and I haven’t the faintest clue which one.
Donut in hand, I jog from one end of the half-constructed lobby to the other, listening for the sound of Trent riding someone’s ass.
The silence is deafening.
Jesus. Of all the times for him to talk at a normal decibel, he had to pick this one.
Tucking the donut back into my bag, I take off in the other direction at a jog. Two turns in and down a long hallway, with my hearing dialed up to dog-whistle, I finally think I hear the faintest hint of human voices.
My heels clack as I run across the unfinished floors and skid around the corner and into another unknown room—and right into a sawhorse table holding an open can of bright-red paint.
Everything around me turns to slow motion, and it’s like I’m watching my very own car crash.
The table jolts.
The can of paint jumps into the air.
And pow! A paint explosion splats onto my khaki pencil skirt. I look down with wide eyes to find the entire crotch region—son of a sugartit!—of my garment is covered in red. Stephen King’s The Shining, Redrum kind of red.
Well, fuck. Fucking fuck me with a super-flow, extra plug-power tampon.
And seriously? Where in the hell did this godawful paint come from? Thirsty vampires?
All it takes is a single moment—a tiny little blip in time—to completely refocus your goals and priorities.
Suddenly, I must avoid finding the group at any cost.
I drop my bag to the ground and immediately start rifling through it again. I know I don’t have a change of clothes—stupid, stupid, stupid—but surely, there’s something in here I can use.
After a minute and a half of digging, the best thing I can come up with is my phone.
I take it out and dial the only woman in New Orleans who has the free time to take my frantic call.
My moneybags bestie.
“Hello?” Emory answers on the second ring, and I don’t waste any time with pleasantries.
“I need assistance, and I need it now. Alert the media, send out one of those broadcast warnings, and change the road signs.”
“Oh, good,” she sighs. “I see the first week on the job is going well.”
“This isn’t the time for your jokes, Emory!” I whisper-yell into the receiver. “I’ve got a red stain on my crotch the size of a basketball.”
“Wow. This escalated quickly.”
“It’s a long story!” I shout. “I don’t have time to tell you it. Just know that I got separated from the group, bumped into some paint, and now I look like a shark just took a bite out of shark week!”
“Just relax,” Emory commands. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It is. It is that bad, Emory, I promise you. I look like a menstrual volcano!”
“Well, it’s not actual blood. Just explain that it’s paint, and I’m sure everyone will laugh it off.”
“Laugh it off? You’re kidding, right? I look like I don’t know how to use modern sanitary products on the first official week of work, and you think my coworkers are just going to laugh it off? I work with mostly men, Em! If anything, they’ll all start passing the fuck out from the mere idea of periods and feminine hygiene products!”
“Technically, you’re only a contracted employee. They’re not really coworkers in the traditional sense—”
“Can we please stay on topic here?” I cut her off. “For the love of God, get on your computer and find out how to get paint out of a skirt with basically nothing. Tell Google to MacGyver that shit.”
“I’m not at my computer—”
“Emory Marie!” I screech. “Focus. I look like my vagina is a blood geyser. Any minute now, the dragons from Game of Thrones are going to show up and burn this place to the ground.”
“Fine. But you’ll have to hold on for a second because I have to look it up on my phone.”
After a quick grumble and grunt of agreement, I start humming the music from Jeopardy to put subtle pressure on her.
She doesn’t appreciate it.
“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to quit my search, get in my car, drive to the hotel, and murder you so violently, no one will be able to see the paint for all the blood.”
“Geez. I think you might be harboring some questionable tendencies, E. Answer me this—have you ever experimented with hurting animals?”
As expected, Emory ignores me. But it’s not like serial killers usually admit to being serial killers. I’ll have to keep a vigilant eye, just in case.
“Google says there’s no way to get the paint stain out without supplies. All you can do is keep it wet until you get home and then use rubbing alcohol and a toothbrush.”
“Oh, good. Keep it wet. Just what I need to do to make it look even more like I’m riding the crimson wave.”
“All right, all right. If you can stop freaking the fuck out and find a place to hide out for fifteen minutes or so, I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”
“Really?” I squeal.
“Yes,” she sighs.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, E…you’re the only woman for me. When do you want to get married? I’m thinking May at the Botanical Gardens. The hibiscus will be beautiful.”
“Shut up and lie low. I’ll call you when I get there.”
She hangs up after I agree, and now I’m left with nothing but time to kill.
I take a seat on a bucket in the corner of the room, pull out the donut that caused it all and my sketch pad, and set to work.
There’s a whole hotel here that needs designing, and the least I can do while avoiding my boss and colleagues is work.
Trent
I notice nearly immediately that Greer hasn’t followed the group when we move on from the lobby to the lounge on the sixth floor, but at some point, I expected her to catch up.
When she’s still missing twenty-five minutes later, I have no choice but to go look for her.
I hand out assignments to the rest of the group, make sure they know I’ll be back soon to check on their progress, and take the stairwell back down to the ground floor.
Backtracking is my only means of search at this point. If she’s wandered somewhere else on the property, I might not find her un
til her body starts to smell.
The stairwell is empty as I jog down six floors and bust through the door at the bottom with the weight of my body. There’s a long hallway of conference and banquet rooms, followed by a left-hand turn up at the end.
It’s a bit of a maze, but it’s meant to be that way. The sole purpose of this intricate design is to prevent other guests from stumbling their way into an important meeting or conference.
I’m nearly two-thirds of the way back to the lobby when a pool of red paint in the doorway to the business center catches my attention.
I pause for the briefest of moments and have to force a deep breath into my lungs.
Goddammit.
My anger fires at the carelessness of the workers, and I pick my pace back up, prepared to give whoever left it to sit on the floor coverings a stern word.
It won’t take long to soak through the cardboard we’ve laid out and stain the tile, and the time and cost of replacing this caliber of marble in the whole area is an expenditure we don’t need. My father has laid out a tight budget he expects me to follow, regardless of the necessary margin of error doing a project of this magnitude guarantees.
Careful of my step, I turn the corner…and run right into the sight of Greer’s bare back and ass, the thin string of her barely there thong the only fabric covering skin.
It’s a millimeter of surface area at most.
Jesus.
Frozen in place, I feel my heart speed up and my dick stir.
My eyes do a better job of roving than the robot thing they use on Mars, despite the fact that I haven’t given them permission.
Her hair is long and just barely waved and cascades in a perfect waterfall down the center of her back. It highlights the length of her spine, and son of a bitch, I’m now picturing fucking her from behind.
Dear God, stop thinking about that!
The effort it takes to remove myself from the doorway is almost too much to conquer, but I know the longer I stand here and stare, the more of a chance there is that she’ll notice me.