by Kayt Miller
I wrap up my sandwich and put the lids back on my sides. Glancing around the space, I find the area that houses condiments, plastic utensils, and bags. Looking at Alison, I say, “Excuse me,” and step over to grab something to carry the rest of my lunch upstairs. I pick up a bag for her as well, in case she wants to take that stupid salad with her.
After packing everything up, I give her a small wave and turn to leave. When she says, “Ben?” I stop. Turning back, I look down at her. I can see from her expression that she wants to apologize. At least I hope that’s the expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No worries.” The sad thing? She’s right. I am paranoid, and she’s the main reason why. She’s a consultant hired to find out if some of us need to go. At least that’s what I assume is going on.
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with your department.”
I stare at her for a moment. Pulling the chair back out, I sit and lean forward. “That’s just it, Alison. There’s nothing wrong. We’re efficient and successful. Did you take the time to look at our numbers?”
She nods.
“Our plans generate above average revenue, and as far as social media is concerned, we’ve tripled the following for MFH since last July.”
“I know.”
“So why are you here?”
I think my question startles her, because her long lashes flutter quickly. Is she upset? “I’m here because an employee lodged a complaint against your department—several, actually—and many of you are mentioned in that complaint.”
“What are the complaints?” Seriously, what’s the issue?
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Bullshit.” This is ridiculous. “If you can’t tell us what we’re accused of, how are you ever going to get answers?”
“Fine.” She flips her notebook open again. “Have you ever stolen ideas from a member of the support staff?”
She cannot be serious. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Pretty sure. I mean, sometimes when we’re brainstorming, people are shouting shit out and they don’t always get credit. It happens. It’s not intentional.
She hits me with another one. “Do you feel as those you’re treated differently than others in the department?”
“What?”
“Have you been given preferential treatment over others in your department, whether they be subordinate or on the same level as you?”
No.”
“Have you ever stolen a lunch out of the break room refrigerator?”
“What the hell?” I laugh, but it sounds more like a scoff. “No. Of course not.”
“Great. That’s all I need.” She slams her folder closed again and begins to pack up.
I’m at a loss for words. For a second, anyway. “So Clive accused me of stealing his ideas?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” I point to the green fucking folder. “That’s his. He used to be my assistant. He hates me for some inexplicable reason. Of course I’m the one he’s accusing.”
“I didn’t say that,” she repeats.
Crumpling the bag in my hand, I shove it under my arm, then turn and stomp toward the entrance to the deli. That’s when I see my boss, Sam Ford, sitting at a table near the door. Without a word, he winks at me, and I can’t figure out what the hell that means. Did he hear our exchange? Does he think this shit’s funny? It’s not. Ignoring my boss, I step out the door and make my way toward the elevator.
When I hear clicking steps behind me, I turn and see Alison approaching. Part of me thinks I should apologize for acting like a petulant child, but the other part thinks I’m entitled to these feelings.
This sucks. My day started off so promising, and now it’s utter shit.
Turning to my right, I head to the stairs. Yes, it’s twenty-two flights up, but I could use the exercise and the chance to burn off this steam—so walking it is.
Chapter Thirteen
Alison
How did I mess up with Ben so badly? I called him paranoid, for goodness’ sake. Not only that, I told him too much. Now he knows the kind of information I’m seeking, which means he could tell everyone in his department what to watch out for.
Funny, though, I don’t think he’s going to do that. I’m not sure why I feel that way, but I do. There’s just something about Ben Schilling that gives me pause. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the two Bens—the one who grabbed me on the street and the guy who just sat across from me at lunch. They seem like two different people. Perhaps he was just being professional today. He was, essentially, at work. And aren’t people different at work than they are at home or, in his case, on the street? Yes, the answer is yes.
I’m still in a quandary. Should I go with my first instinct about him? After all, he is the guy who grabbed my leg and made me feel uncomfortable. On the other hand, since I’ve gotten to know more about him from my own interactions and from the comments made by his coworkers, I think my first impression of Ben was incorrect. I mean, he hasn’t done anything to make me feel like I should worry about my safety. On the contrary, there’s something about Ben Schilling that makes me want to get closer. Way closer.
As I make my way to the elevator, I see Ben waiting. He’s already seen me, and it doesn’t look like he’s happy about it. No matter, I can let him hop on one elevator as I wait for another. But when he sees me, he quickly heads to the door labeled Stairs.
“He’s taking the stairs? Twenty-two flights?” No wonder the man is built like that.
When two elevators chime their arrival, I take the one closest. That is until Sam Ford approaches.
“This one.” He points to the other available box. “It’s faster.” Once we’re both on board, I move to the back of the elevator just as Sam says, “It’s good to see you, Alison.”
Is it? Weird. “Yeah,” I say with a smile.
“I couldn’t help noticing your cozy lunch with Ben.”
“It was a business lunch. We were discussing—”
He holds up his hand to stop me. “No need to explain your relationship.” He chuckles. “You’re just his type.”
Relationship? His type? What the hell?
“He likes ’em curvy,” he continues.
“Mr. Ford,” I sputter. “It’s not—”
The man won’t let me finish a damn sentence. “I’d watch out for him, though. He’s got a reputation.”
Deciding to cut my losses, I keep my mouth shut as I reach out and hit the number twenty-two again, several times, hoping it speeds up this trip. I thought he said this elevator was faster.
Like he’s just thinking aloud, he repeats, “Yep, quite a reputation.”
I count along as the lights move up: fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…
“Not really fair for the rest of the team, though.”
I can’t let this one go. “Fair? What are you talking about?”
“You doin’ Ben. It’s not fair.” His face changes from something jovial to something quite sinister. “There’s no reason for you to be here, Alison.”
“First of all, I’m not fu—I’m not doing anything of the sort with Mr. Schilling, and secondly, I’m here because Mr. Morgan hired me.”
He chuckles. “Sure. Sure.” Then the creep leans over so close that I’m forced back against the far corner. With a wink, he adds, “Your ‘consulting’”—he uses air quotes—“won’t mean shit when Morgan finds out you’re fucking the focus of the probe.”
What the hell is this guy’s problem? How does he know what my focus is?
I look up in the corner of the elevator to my right and see a camera. Thank goodness. Now let’s hope it’s picking up the audio.
It’s time to defend myself. “We met at a public deli rather than the conference room. There was nothing clandestine about our meeting.” But I learned one important thing today: I will not be meeting Sam Ford alone, that’s for damn sur
e. The guy gives me the creeps. Perhaps my liaison can finally be of service for me after all.
He’s still so close, I can smell the pastrami on his breath, and it isn’t good. He leans back an inch or two, then says, “I repeat, I’d watch out for Ben. That’s all I’m saying.”
The door finally dings, and when it does, Sam moves back quickly until he’s on the opposite side of the elevator, which tells me something.
He’s done that before.
“Meghan?” I whisper quietly as I approach her desk.
“Yeah?” She’s not so quiet.
“Can I speak to you for two minutes in the conference room?”
“Sure.” She stands and follows me down the long corridor that leads to my makeshift office. When I get there, I halt because it’s no longer my office. There’s a meeting in progress. The first thing I think about is my stuff—my laptop and printer. Everything was on the table and now it’s not. I scan the room and finally spot them on the floor, near the front. My laptop is open, but the screen is dark. Luckily, it’s password protected.
“Well.” I sigh and point to a nearby door. “Stairwell?”
“Wow, this is sort of 007 shit, huh?”
I laugh. “No.” In the stairwell, I turn to face her. “Who do I talk to about the cameras in the elevators?”
“Oh.” She leans back and taps her chin. “Building security, most likely.”
“Where is building security located?”
“Hang on.” She pulls her phone out of a pocket in her black slacks. “I know someone who works in that department.” She taps a few times, then asks, “What do you want to know?”
“Do the cameras in the elevators record audio?”
I watch as she taps away. When she pauses, I hold my breath.
“Is this a friend?”
She winks. “Friend? Not so much. Booty call, definitely.”
“Oh. I see.”
When her phone chimes, I’m tempted to move closer to read over her shoulder, but I stay put.
“All four are supposed to have audio, but one of them has been out for a while.”
I’d love to ask them why that is, but when her phone chimes again, I lean closer.
“He wants to know which elevator you’re wondering about.”
“It’s on the left side closest to reception.”
That makes her laugh. “They’re numbered.” She turns and reaches for the door handle. “Come on. Show me which one.”
I point to the elevator in question as she pushes the button to call it to us. We have to wait a good eight minutes for that particular one to arrive. When it does, we step on with several others already on board, Graham Morgan being one of them.
“Alison,” he says succinctly. “Meghan.”
“Mr. Morgan,” we say simultaneously.
“What are you two up to?”
“Just doing some reconnaissance,” Meghan says, then chuckles.
“Great.” Graham looks down at his phone and begins to type.
My eyes must be huge because when I turn to look at Meghan, she’s cracking up. The little twerp.
She types more on her phone as the elevator stops on Graham’s floor. “Keep up the good work, ladies,” he says without looking at us as he walks away.
“Uh-huh.” I say absently, doing my best to wait for word from Meghan’s “friend.”
When it comes, she frowns. “This one is video only.”
“Crap.” And weirdly, I’m not surprised. Sam specifically chose this elevator. Am I reading too much into that? Perhaps.
“He said we can come down there if you’ve got questions or concerns.”
I nod several times. “Yeah, let’s go.”
She pushes the button with the letter B on it. When we finally descend, it takes us twenty minutes to get to the basement level thanks to all the people hopping on and off on almost every floor. Once we’re there, she leads me through a maze of hallways until we reach a door that’s simply labeled “Security.” She raises her hand and knocks.
The man who opens the door nearly takes my breath away. He’s that gorgeous, with hair as black as night and green eyes the color of freshly mown grass. He’s tall and obviously built since I can see his arm muscles bulging through his long-sleeved black shirt with a patch with the Morgan Security logo smack-dab on his left pectoral. I let my eyes scan all the way down. While he’s built like a brick outhouse, he’s lean, not bulky. For a second, I’m worried I’m going to get caught gawking, but his eyes are on Meghan, so he doesn’t even notice. I watch as he looks down at Meghan with what I’d call kind eyes. “Babe.” His voice is soft but rumbly.
She must not like the endearment because she practically growls at him, “Knock off the ‘babe’ stuff, Lucky.”
His name is Lucky? Strangely enough, the name suits him. My God, the man is so damn hot.
“Sorry,” he says quickly.
Meghan steps into the room as he moves back. She nods to me, and I follow her inside the large white cube of a room. The only thing going on in here is monitors. And lots of them.
“Tell him what you need, Alison.”
“Well, I was wondering if you could let me see some footage.” I want to know if it looks as bad as it felt to me. Meaning, if someone saw it, would they get the vibe that Sam Ford was a creeper?
“Here’s the elevator number.” Meghan holds out her phone for Lucky.
“What time?” the big man asks as he moves toward one set of keyboards.
“Around one o’clock today.”
“Sure.” He punches up the footage. “I started it about ten minutes prior, but we’ll fast-forward it. Who are we lookin’ for?”
“Me.”
Lucky’s dark brows arch. “Okay.”
We watch it speed through people entering and exiting the elevator. When I see myself enter the box, I tap Lucky on his shoulder. His hard-as-a-rock shoulder. “There.” I watch Sam Ford enter after me. I lean in, trying to see if I can read his lips, but from the angle of the camera, it’s impossible. “Damn.”
“What?” Meghan asks.
“I was hoping you’d be able to read his lips.”
When Sam begins to lean in closer, I watch myself back away. Meghan gasps. “You look scared. What the hell was he saying to you?”
“Nothing good,” I mumble.
“I can copy this for you and email it if it helps,” Lucky says, looking up at me.
I peer back down at him and wonder what the guy is doing working in a white room all alone. He should be seen. He’s that handsome.
As soon as we’re back in the elevator, I say softly, “You’re crazy if you don’t make him more than a booty call.”
Meghan snickers. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because he’s frigging gorgeous.”
She snickers again. “He’s hot. Yeah.”
“I can tell he likes you.”
She smirks. “He likes my mouth.”
When her phone dings, she pulls it out of her pocket and reads. I watch her face turn from pink to red in seconds.
“What?”
“This elevator has audio.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t help myself; I have to ask. “What’d he say?”
“He said he likes—” She clears her throat. “He likes other things about me besides my mouth.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
We don’t say anything else after that.
When we reach our floor, I step off first and wait for Meghan. I’m not done asking her about her… friend. “Is Lucky his real name?”
She shrugs. “No. It’s Liam.” She pauses. “Liam Shanahan.”
“He’s Irish?” I practically squeak the words out. Hell, I’m a quarter Irish and let me tell you, there are no men who look like Liam in my family tree. We’re all short and pasty while he’s tall, dark, and so damn handsome.
“So, they call him Lucky because he’s Irish?”
Wow. I think about that. Lucky. “It’s a good name to get when you’re in a combat zone.”
Blinking, she looks up at me. “Yeah. You’re right.”
And with that, I thank Meghan and walk toward the conference room, hoping it’s cleared out by now. I’ve got a lot to do, including interviewing seven more people. Two of whom are the director of social media and the art director.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben
The stairs are going to be my undoing. I’m out of breath and sweating profusely. “Genius idea, Ben.” I really need to add cardio to my workout. Jesus.
Sadly, somewhere around floor eleven, I abandon the bag that held my remaining lunch. Something had to be tossed overboard, and lunch was the only thing I had on me. It’s okay, I can eat the lunch I brought from home. Nothing wrong with peanut butter and jelly.
As I walk up the remaining eleven flights, I can’t believe how out of shape I am. Hell, I’m so winded I’m starting to hallucinate.
Case in point, on seventeen, I could swear I hear voices— women’s voices—coming down from above. Not only that, I’d bet my life that one of them was her. Alison. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but… hell, I probably hallucinated the whole thing due to fatigue playing havoc with my head.
“Shit,” I mumble as I trip up one step, catching myself with my hand. It’s ridiculous because I’m in good shape. I mean I lift weights, so this is pretty pathetic.
When I see the painted number 22 above the door, I sit down, relieved I finally made it. I’ve got to gather myself a bit before I step onto the floor; I can’t have my coworkers seeing me in this state. I tilt my head down and raise my arm to get a whiff of my underarm. “Fuck.” I smell. “I need a shower.” Even a change of clothes would be good, but all I’ve got in my office is a pair of sweatpants and an old tee. Definitely not business attire. I’d go ahead and change if I thought shit wouldn’t hit the fan, but since I feel like I’m being watched, it’s better to stink than look unprofessional.