by Kayt Miller
Clive was right about that. I was a joke today, and it feels like shit.
Sitting, I lean back, rest my head on the back of my chair, and shut my eyes. It’s my way of meditating, regrouping.
Where did I go wrong today?
My first thought is of the woman. The one who beat the shit out of me. I really did startle her. I guess it’s not cool to run up to someone and just grab their leg. Sure, I knew that. But in my defense, I honest to God thought she was going to fall. Even if it wasn’t into traffic, she could have gotten hurt, so I’m going to stop second-guessing my reaction.
No. I did the right thing.
With a sigh, I sit back up and stare down at my notes from the meeting—just stare trancelike for more than fifteen minutes. When a knock sounds on my door, I jump. “Come in.”
I watch the knob turn slowly, and then a big foot covered in a shoe that costs more than my rent moves into my office. Graham.
“Hey, boss.”
“Ben,” he says after shutting my door. He takes a moment to look around my office. It’s nothing special. Gray walls, two gray filing cabinets, gray desk, black chair. You get the idea. His expression tells me everything I need to know. He’s not impressed. “You need a poster or something in here, Ben. It’s depressing as fuck.”
It is. It really is. “Sure. I’ll work on that.”
Not.
“Good.” He nods absently. When he looks at me, he’s not smiling. Ha! Funny. Graham Morgan isn’t a smiley kind of guy, so why am I even wondering why he’s got that grimace on his face?
“What can I do for you, Graham?” I need to get this over with.
“Well, I’m here for two reasons.”
I stare up at him. Two reasons?
“One, your presentation was a disappointment.”
Already well aware.
“According to Lindsay, your social media data was way off.”
“My data?” What’s he talking about?
“Two, Clive—”
“Clive?” Maybe he’s in trouble. He’s the one who fucking double-checked my data….
“Clive is needed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Fucking Clive. I’m not sure what to say to all of that. I should probably ask him if I’m about to be fired, but that’s the wrong way to approach this. The only thing I can think to do is nod and say, “Okay.”
“We’re moving him.”
“But he’s my assistant.” What the hell is going on?
“Not anymore. We’ll see about getting you another one.”
He’ll see about it? I’m not sure why I’m repeating everything the guy is saying in my head. Probably because I can’t seem to wrap my brain around any of this.
“If he’s not my assistant, what’s he going to do?”
“Special projects liaison.”
Special projects liaison? What the hell is a special projects liaison?
“You can give HR a call and see if they have someone who can fill in for Clive until this is all settled. In the meantime, his office will be next to yours.”
With a slow nod, I give Graham one of my patented smiles. One that means absolutely nothing. “I’m sure Clive appreciates the opportunity.”
“Of course he does,” Graham snaps.
I decide to get this meeting over and done with, so I stand. “I’m sure Clive will do a great job. I look forward to working with him.”
Lies.
“Hope so.” Graham nods. “Hope so.”
I watch the man leave my office, then step out to where Clive usually sits. He’s gone. I hear noises coming from the office next to mine, so I step over and stare into the doorway, watching as Clive hangs a poster on his wall.
He brought shit to decorate his office? How did he know?
Oh.
He knew. Before today.
The fucker.
This has been in the works for longer than a day. To say I feel betrayed is the understatement of the century.
“Congrats, Clive.” I know my voice is oozing sarcasm, but I’m doing my best to sound sincere.
He laughs. The fucker actually laughs. “Sorry, man. I’d had enough.”
“Enough? Of what?”
“You.”
The scoff shoots out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Well, you still work for me, so I don’t see how your situation has improved.”
“Actually…,” he starts to say, but he pauses. I wait for the rest.
“Actually, what?”
“I work for Graham.”
We all work for Graham.
I’m about to say that when he holds up his hand. “I’m only working next to you.”
Blinking, I stare into Clive’s new office. An office that’s about 250 percent bigger than mine. An office with a fucking window, a sitting area, and his own bathroom.
What the ever-loving hell is going on? It’s like I’m living in some sort of alternative universe. One where my assistant is suddenly promoted and I’m pushed into the basement. Like Milton in the movie Office Space.
For some inexplicable reason, I search Clive’s new mahogany desk for my stapler.
Shaking my head, I smile. “Well, I’m happy for you, man.”
“Liar,” he grumbles as he scoots a large plant into a corner.
He’s got a plant?
“Nah, man. I’m really happy for you.”
I might as well embrace this—at least while I’m here at work. I can get drunk and break shit at home. Or better yet, I can hang with Sky. She’ll commiserate with me. She always does.
Chapter Four
Ben
“Oh, Sky.” I’m sitting on my small couch, petting my favorite person, my dog. “Today was a shit show.” With my free hand, I lift my beer can. My third of the night. After a deep swallow, I mutter, “I have a bad feeling about all of it.”
I couldn’t admit that earlier at the office, but I do have a bad feeling about this. Something changed today. It’s like there’s been a shift in the universe, and one that’s not good. Not good at all.
“Oh, Sky,” I say with another sigh. “At least I’ve got you.”
She snuggles in closer to my leg and gives me her own doggy sigh.
See? She gets me.
I woke up this morning with a revised attitude. Yesterday was a fluke. Everyone has bad days now and then, and that was mine. I woke up early so I could take Sky out for an extra-long walk. On my way to work, I grabbed a cup of coffee from my favorite coffee shop and hummed, out loud, on the subway. You’d think that would have drawn stares, but it’s New York; humming is nothing.
I enter the Morgan building with a skip in my step and a smile on my face—until I get up to my office and discover the place is deserted. Strange. Start time here is 9:00 a.m., and it’s currently five after nine. I look at Clive’s old desk, then walk to his new office and see it’s empty. I head down the short hallway and peek into various offices of the marketing personnel and the place is deserted.
“Where is everyone?” I ask aloud.
“In the auditorium on five.” I turn to see Lindsay, our social media director.
I stare at her for a second as she gathers up things from her desk. “Is everyone supposed to be there?”
“Yep. They sent an email last night.”
I checked my email last night. Several times. I pull my phone out of the inside pocket of my suit jacket and quickly get to my work email account. I scan the emails but don’t see one about a meeting. Quickly, I check my Spam email and still don’t see it. “I didn’t get one.” I’m talking to myself, but Lindsay hears.
“Don’t know, but we’d better get there. It sounded important.”
I follow her down the hall to a set of elevators. She presses the button and we wait in silence. I’m not sure what to say, especially since my mind is whirring about not getting the email. That’s never happened before. I always get company emails.
On the fifth floor, I wait for Lindsay to step off first so I can foll
ow her into the room. Pausing outside the large doors, she pulls the door open slowly and peeks in. “Good.” She sighs. “It hasn’t started yet.”
We enter the room, and I quickly scan for an empty seat. As I do, I can’t help noticing that it appears my entire department of about forty-five people is in attendance. That means the art department, marketing, and advertising, plus a bunch of jobs in between are all here.
Making my way to the back, the first person I make eye contact with is Clive. I attempt a smile, but the scowl he’s giving me says all I need know.
That’s okay. Fuck Clive.
The moment I take my seat, Graham steps onto the stage in front of us, looking down at us in our seats like he’s the fucking king of the world. He is, sort of. I mean, whatever the guy touches turns to gold, so that’s very king-like. Right? He certainly dresses like royalty. I bet his suit cost five grand. At least.
“Thanks for coming,” he mutters as he tosses down a thick green folder onto the podium set up in the middle of the room. He doesn’t miss a beat when he adds, “I’m not happy with the direction things are going, so there’s going to be some changes.”
Wow, he’s not wasting time. He just went for it.
Shit.
I hear a few people actually whisper similar words. Other than that, the room is dead silent.
From my right, I see one brave hand slowly rise.
“What?” Graham snaps, looking at the hand.
It’s a woman’s voice. I pull myself up a little to see who it is. It’s Maureen, one of our graphic designers. We call her Mo for short. “Wh-What kind of changes?”
Wow, she’s stuttering. I don’t blame her. You can tell Graham is angry about something. He’s never been a very pleasant boss, and even though his mood has improved thanks to his love life, the guy is still cold as ice.
“Well, Maureen,” he growls, “I was getting to that.”
“Right,” she says quickly.
Turning his glare from Mo to the rest of us, he pauses, then says, “It has been brought to my attention that there’s a great deal of dysfunction in your department. Dysfunction that’s having a direct impact on Morgan Financial Holdings.”
What the hell is he talking about? I look to my left and catch Clive in my peripheral vision. He’s smiling.
He’s the only one smiling.
“I’ve hired a consultant to come in to do an audit of Marketing. Clive Burgess will be the liaison between that firm and myself.”
Okay. Now it all makes sense. Special projects liaison. That’s Clive’s new title. Clive’s the go-between for this consultant and Graham.
I glance at Clive again. He’s now leaning forward with his back straight and his head turning and nodding to his coworkers in the room like he’s just won first prize. In what contest, I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say Clive wins the prize for the head furthest up Graham’s ass.
No contest.
My question is, how long has the weasel been working on this thing? He’s certainly been secretive about all of it. And what kind of bullshit did he spew to our leader to make this happen?
I don’t have the answers to any of those questions, but I’m going to find out. It’s time for some of my own secret meetings.
I search the room for the head of marketing, Sam Ford. When I spot him, he’s already looking at me, brow arched. As subtle as possible, I hold my hand up in with my thumb and first finger in the “call me” sign. His nod is so subtle, you’d have to be looking for it to see it.
With that done, I turn back to the front of the room, where Graham has picked up his thick folder. I take a longer look at it and realize it’s one of Clive’s. At least it looks like one of his. Clive loves the color green. I swear the man wears something green every day. And that folder, it looks exactly like the green ones he has me order for him, except he doesn’t call them green. No, they’re chartreuse to him.
I stare at the folder again. It’s got to be an inch thick. And what do you suppose he’s got in there? It’s not rocket science to see that little traitor has been keeping a file on me—maybe on all of us. And God only knows what’s in it.
“Let me introduce you to the woman who’ll be spearheading the audit, Alison Kirby.”
You could hear a damn pin drop as we watch someone stand up from somewhere in the first row. When she turns and gives us all a small wave, my heart starts pounding in my chest. She’s gorgeous. Dark hair, red lips, porcelain skin. And curves. My God, the curves—all obvious in her tight pencil skirt. Her blouse is white, and she’s got on a matching jacket. Her shoes are obscured by seats, but I’d guess they’re black and shiny.
That’s not the only thing I know about this woman. I know she’s got a lethal elbow and an even more destructive foot, because she’s the woman from yesterday. The one I tried to save.
My heart stops beating for just a second because the sense of doom is overwhelming. The woman, this Alison Kirby, the one who beat the shit out of me, now has control over my future, over my career.
Then it dawns on me.
I’m screwed.
I know she’s talking up there, but I can’t hear anything. There’s a weird buzzing sound in my ears. So I do what everyone else is doing: I pretend to listen. When she’s done, I watch her pick up the chartreuse folder and leave.
Graham claps his hands together loudly, which breaks me out of my spell. “That’s it. Alison will be stopping in to introduce herself to you all later today. She’ll set up individual meetings with support staff first, then management after that.”
The room is so quiet it’s giving me the creeps.
“Got it?”
A few murmurs in the room, and then Graham is out of there.
Standing, I search the space for Sam. As I’m about to make my way over, I’m stopped by one of the other marketing managers, Brendan Lang. “Wasn’t that one of your folders?”
“My folder?” I shake my head. “No. Clive always uses the green ones.”
He looks to my left, then back to me. “So, Clive is the snake?”
I shrug because I don’t know. “Can’t say.” But I’m damn well going to find out.
“Can’t or won’t?”
The guy thinks I’m behind all of this? Ha! That’s funny. He’ll get it when I’m the first one this Alison woman fires.
“Can’t. I’m just as surprised by this as you are.” I move to step around him, but I pause and lean back. “Watch your back. I have no idea what’s in that folder, but my guess is someone’s been gathering up information for a while.”
“Motherfucker,” he grunts. “This is bullshit.”
It is. It really is.
Chapter Five
Alison
I spotted him the minute he stepped into the room. Sure, the black eye and the slight limp helped, but I’d recognize the lech anywhere. The fact that he works in the department that, according to Graham, has “become fucking dysfunctional” doesn’t bother me. I’m a professional. I can handle this. I’ll just avoid that asshole for as long as I possibly can while also gathering intel on the jerk. It’d be unprofessional of me to label him until I know more about him. And I’m nothing if not professional.
I’ve done the rounds and met every single person in Morgan Financial Holdings’ marketing department. All except one. But I’ve put this off until almost quitting time, and now I need to face the music. I’ve gone alone to each impromptu introduction, but I’m tempted to ask that Clive guy to come along with me to meet Ben Schilling. I’m not going to do that, though. I’m going to merely stand in his doorway to introduce myself, give him my usual spiel, and then be on my way back to my new office, which, sadly, is next to Ben’s, in a shared space with Clive Burgess.
And then there’s Clive.
I haven’t quite figured that guy out. According to Graham, Clive gave him the folder, but it’s unclear whether or not he’s the author. Call me Sherlock, but my guess is Mr. Burgess is the one who compiled the dossier-li
ke information on each and every member on this marketing team. Most of which is not flattering. Especially about Ben Schilling. He received the most scathing remarks. Sure, I know there’s a backstory there. One of the support staff mentioned that Clive was Ben’s assistant up until the day before I arrived, and he’d been in that job for almost eighteen months. So there’s bad blood there, obviously. The question is, why?
I’ve checked out the background on those mentioned in the report. Clive’s is impressive. He got his business degree from Yale, which makes him overqualified for whatever the hell this job is. Special projects liaison. I give myself an inner eye roll because I don’t like this liaison stuff. In the past, I’ve always reported directly to the company head. It’s easier that way, and it prevents things from getting lost in translation. But if Graham Morgan wants a liaison, he can have one.
Choosing to go it alone rather than including Clive for this one, I step up to Ben’s door and knock. When there’s no response, I knock again.
“Come in.”
Turning the knob, I push the door open but remain just outside the threshold. He’s not at his desk, so I lean in and look left, just around the door, but he’s not there either. Scanning right, I can’t help wondering where he is. He can’t be far—his office is small, the smallest I’ve seen so far—so I say, “Ben Schilling?”
When his head pops up from behind his desk, it startles me. I’m guessing I surprised him too, because his face looks rather flushed and… is that sweat?
“Yeah?” He quickly jumps to his feet, and I can see he’s winded.
“What were you doing?”
“Push-ups.”
Push-ups? “In your office?” I try not to but can’t help myself. I look at his arms through his dress shirt.