by Amanda Aksel
I think L.D. likes it too.
“You’re doing good!” Frankie says.
I turn to him and he’s leaned forward, watching the whole thing. I stop peeing. “Dude!”
He shrugs. “What? I’m basically your doctor.”
“I think I’ve got it from here,” I say and start the flow again.
“Okay.” Frankie zips up and walks off, the urinal flushing at his heels. He turns on the faucet at the sink.
“So which way do you go? Over the fence?” I ask.
“None of your business,” he says, grabbing a hand towel, then leaves me to finish on my own, which I do, very well. Not a spot of pee on the floor, on the wall, or on Frankie’s suit. As I scrub my hands at the sink, I flash a smile at the mirror. A little wine stained, but no debris. I take a closer look at my skin. Its tone has never been so even. What a relief not to be concerned with foundation flakes and smudged eyeliner in the middle of the day. I push the men’s room door open, nearly smacking into Frankie and Martino and disrupting their close encounter.
Frankie gives me a glare that says, Get out of here now!
“Sorry!” I say, picking up the pace back to the table. Our leftover wine bottle is already corked. Regina stuffs it inside her oversized designer bag that cost as much as the average American’s monthly mortgage payment. She’s still paying it off on her credit card.
Frankie emerges, flaunting his phone. A new contact by the name of Martino has a home in his address book. “We’re going out next week!”
“Good for you,” Regina huffs.
I glance at the time above Martino’s name. “Ooh, time flies when you’re choking on salami.”
“What?” She wrinkles her nose.
“I gotta go. My new colleagues will be getting my pitch by now.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cabs are practically lined up outside of the restaurant, so I slide into one. “Monty Fuhrmann Tower, please,” I tell the driver.
Damn, it feels good to say that.
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
After a twenty-minute stop-and-go drive, we approach the tower. The sun reflects off the mirrored exterior, shining brighter than a new Rolex. My stomach flips and it all settles in again. Did I really wake up like this? Hijack a pitch at the Monty Fuhrmann?
All of it feels so real. But how can it be? What if Delia-me is lying in a hospital bed, comatose from too much wine and binge-dreaming this ridiculous series of events my subconscious has produced? At the same time, life has never been so energizing. And the results speak for themselves. I’ve accomplished more in the last five hours than I have over the past five months. Does the difference between yesterday and today simply come down to having a dick?
Well, whatever it is, I’m in it now.
I pay the driver and head inside, whipping my keycard out of my Gucci and breezing through security. Riding the elevator up thirty-two floors and walking past the bullpen to my office already feels like a familiar commute. Before I can take a seat, the door lashes open, crashing hard against the doorstop. Becker stomps toward me red-faced and raging. It’s a tough call between which will explode first, his bulging bloodshot eyes or that pulsing vein down the middle of his forehead.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he screams, pointing his finger at me like a toy gun. “Reducing the fee? This makes us look like little bitches. What kind of business are we running here?”
I’ve been around hotheads like him all my professional life. I know exactly how to tamp down this fireball. “Hey! I’m getting really sick of you acting like an animal in my office.” I get right in his face. My voice lowers to a threatening tone. “I know you don’t like it, but you need to chill out or I’m gonna throw you out altogether. Now get out of my office.” Having assertive authority in business, without being labeled a little bitch, is liberating.
“You sure your name’s Richard? ’Cause I’d swear you were a Dick.” He grits his teeth so hard his face trembles. “You better watch your back!” Becker drills out of my office like a tornado.
A twinge of doubt stabs my gut. What if he’s right? What if I’m being too soft? Making too many concessions? If I were a man, would I approach it the same way?
Hold on, Delia. You’re letting him get in your head. The real question is, if I were a man, would I doubt myself right now?
Doubt it.
I can’t back down now. Not because of some baseless masculine pride but because this is the right call. It’s what Fairbanks really wants. I told him we’d surprise him, and he’s definitely not expecting this proposal. And since the tech mogul seems to have a slight disdain for Curtis Becker, I’m forced to make another shrewd move. Becker’s really gonna go berserk.
I march over to Owen’s office. A woman sits quietly at her desk just outside his door. I send her a smile. “Hi, I’m Richard Allen.”
Her eyes light up as if I’m the first friendly face she’s seen all day. “Oh, so you’re Richard Allen.” Her eyes trail down to my chest. “Nice shirt.”
I smooth out my tie. “Thanks. And you are?”
She extends her hand and I take it. It feels so small in mine. “I’m Ashley, Owen Campbell’s assistant. Everyone around here’s talking about you, ya know?”
I tilt my head. “And what are they saying about me?” What would I say about the dramatic entrance of Richard Allen if I were in the bullpen right now?
“It depends on who you ask,” she says playfully.
“I appreciate the info. Does Mr. Campbell have a moment for me?” I keep my eyes politely on her face. Even though I know she’s wearing a cream suit I’ve been eyeing at Saks.
“Sure.” She nods and I get the feeling she likes working for Campbell. Unlike Charlene, Becker’s assistant. I’d rather clean more shit off Todd Fairbanks’s toilet than work for him.
I knock on the doorframe. “Am I interrupting?”
Owen’s office is noticeably smaller than Becker’s and even mine. But there’s something cheerier about it. Maybe it’s the direction of the sunlight or the fact that he’s actually wearing a smile. In either case, I’m warming up to him.
“Richard, come in.” He motions me to sit. “What’s going on?”
“I have a couple issues about tomorrow.” I settle down where he’s offered and search his face for some indication that he wants to overthrow me as much as Becker does.
He looks off with a sigh then returns his attention to me. “All right. What’s the problem?”
“The thing is, I can close this deal tomorrow but I’m missing something vital.”
Owen folds his arms over his chest. “Okay . . .”
“You and Becker have a personal connection with Fairbanks. I don’t. I’m concerned about the three of us coming together on this.”
Owen leans in as if he’s about to let me in on a little secret. “Well, you’re right to be concerned. Becker likes to be in control, as you can probably tell. But he and I are essentially partners. We have this sort of good-cop, bad-cop dynamic.”
“Who’s the bad cop?” I ask.
He lifts his eyebrow at my rhetorical remark. “Truth is, I was a little worried something like this was going to happen.”
“Really? Why?” I ask.
He lowers his eyes as if trying to recall a memory. “Todd said something to me earlier this year that made me think something wasn’t right. Maybe it was more of a gut feeling. But when he called, I knew I should’ve listened to my instinct. Anyhow, I think your proposal will work. It’s smart. But Becker has his own ideas. I’m amazed he’s let you move on this deal as much as he has.”
Me too. But then I remember why they’ve really let me run the show. “It’s not me. It’s Golan.”
“Right, Golan.” Owen rubs his chin, pausing for a moment. “I have to be honest. I was surprised to hear that Liam Golan knew s
o much about this. How did he know Todd was going to cancel? It’s . . . unusual.”
I can’t tell if he’s suspicious that Golan might employ spies on the streets of New York, or if Owen’s in cahoots with Becker. He did say they’re partners.
Just stick to the story, Delia.
“It’s not unusual at all. He pays closer attention to things like this than you realize. If this doesn’t happen, it’ll definitely damage our reputation. And we sure as hell don’t need that.”
“Makes sense,” Owen agrees. “Let’s meet later this afternoon and I’ll give you some insight on Todd Fairbanks.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little taken aback by his offer. Just hope it’s not a trap. Especially since his partner is so unpredictable.
“So what’s the other issue?” he asks, tapping his pen on the desk.
I stand up and close the door to his office, puffing my chest a little before I speak. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for Becker to be in the meeting with us tomorrow.”
Owen drops his pen and his jaw. “You’re kidding, right? He’ll really go ballistic.”
“Look, I’m not saying he can’t work on this deal, but I’ve been informed Fairbanks has grown . . . leery of Becker. If he’s not there, it’ll give the impression of a cleaner slate. I’m also concerned Becker will run his mouth off and we’ll lose our chance.”
Owen nods, letting out a long sigh. “I see what you mean.”
“So, you agree?”
“Yeah, but let me tell him. I think it’ll be better coming from me.”
That’s too bad. I would’ve loved to see his face when he got the news. After all, I told him I’d throw him out. Then again, he warned me to watch my back. “He’s not dangerous, is he?”
Owen waves off any concern. “Only to himself.”
Not sure I buy that.
“One other thing. Why don’t we have more women on the team? It’s like a sausage party out there.”
He lets out a small laugh like he knows it. “Yeah, I’m not crazy about it either.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?” It’s not like you’re powerless.
Owen shrugs. “You know how it is. We don’t get as many female applicants. A smaller hiring pool means fewer women on the team.”
The ole “women aren’t applying” excuse. With my lack of callbacks, I’m not convinced this is really the reason for the gender gap. “Well, as soon as we close this deal, I want to get some headhunters out there looking for some kick-ass female perspective. This is the twenty-first century. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I shut Owen’s office door on my way out and breathe a sigh of relief. His support speaks volumes. Ashley flashes a smile as I walk toward her.
“Can you tell me where I can get a cup of coffee around here?” I ask.
“I can make you one,” she says in a sweet tone.
“Thanks, but I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“I don’t mind. Otherwise, there’s an employee break lounge down that hall, on the left.” She motions with her willowy arm.
“Thank you, Ashley.” I nod. “I appreciate all your help today.”
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes gleam with sincerity. A little bit of appreciation goes a long way. There were so many days at work when I felt like the job was going to kill me and no one seemed to acknowledge it. It’s not like I was asking for an award or even a raise. All I wanted was a simple thank you or we appreciate your hard work. How fucking hard is that?
I walk the perimeter of the bullpen toward the hall, keeping my head high. Ashley said they’re all talking about me. Well, they’re all staring too. But this time it doesn’t bother me. That’s right, take a good look. I’m the badass who put Becker in his place and turned the Ezeus deal around.
When I walk into the break lounge, Eric and two other guys are conversing in a casual circle. My cheeks warm at the glint in his eyes beneath the fluorescent lights and I smooth my hair around my ear. Their laughter breaks as I approach, and my straight spine begins to stoop. Were they gossiping about me?
No, guys don’t gossip.
Unless that’s just a myth.
My crush takes a sip from his steaming cup as I brush past him to the coffee maker.
“Hey, Richard.”
“Hey, Eric,” I say, hoping my face cools soon. At least Little Dickie’s down. Must’ve been that glass of wine at lunch. The other guys still haven’t spoken a word. “Don’t mind me.” I grab a clean mug from the cabinet and load the one-cup device. The quiet brew of the machine dulls the sharp edge of the uncomfortable silence, but I can still hear every crinkle of the sweetener packages as I riffle through them. This is the longest coffee drip ever.
“This is Mike and Brian. They’re associates,” Eric offers in a friendly tone, pointing the guys out. It’s not unlike him to show kindness to everyone—must be his Midwestern charm. I’ve always loved that about him, but in this moment, I appreciate it so much more. No one likes to be the outsider. And I should know. Even though I work in a male-dominated industry, I’m not a guy’s girl. I don’t drink beer. I didn’t like any of those street-racing movies—can’t even remember what they’re called. And I don’t fart in front of anyone. Ever. So sliding into an all-male water cooler conversation was never easy. I finally have a chance to be one of the guys.
“Hey, guys. I’m Richard.” I give a dude(ish) chin nod and lean against the counter, folding my arms like I’m trying on Casual Guy. “So, what’s going on?”
Hand tucked in or out?
Now I just look uncomfortable.
Mike narrows his eyes. “With . . . ?”
I shrug. “With whatever you guys were talking about.”
They exchange glances.
“We were talking about Mike’s girlfriend,” Eric says, and Mike shoots him a look. “Yeah, she’s pressuring him to get married.”
“Ah, she wants you to put a ring on it,” I tease, flashing my left hand back and forth and popping my hip. From Casual Guy to Beyoncé Backup Dancer. By the looks on their faces, I see I’ve become a whole other type of leper. I immediately knock it off and stuff my hands in my pockets.
That would have gone over so much better with a group of girls.
“Um, yeah . . .” Mike says.
Okay, Delia, less Queen B, more Jay-Z.
You can come back from this.
“That’s what my girlfriend always says. ‘When are you gonna put a ring on it? When are you gonna put a ring on it?’ ” The guys give me nothing as my palms go clammy. Without taking a second to think or breathe, I stumble on and reach for something, anything, a dude would say. “I’m like, whoa, slow your roll. It’s not like I’m bugging her to put a ring on my dick.”
Uh, what the fuck did I just say?
“Right . . .” Mike replies with a look that reflects my own confusion. “Anyway, I’m not ready to settle down and all that.” Brian and Eric nod with affirming expressions as they raise their mugs to their mouths. I’m not ready to get married either, mostly because that’s when everyone starts hounding you about when you’re gonna start a family and get pregnant. But seeing Eric agree without a second thought makes me wonder if he’s not the commitment type. Are any men in this city the commitment type?
“How come?” I ask and drip a single creamer pod into my hot mug, stirring slowly.
Mike narrows his eyes. “ ’Cause, you know,” he says as if I should know. I don’t, of course, but I want to. Maybe even have to. So I take what I believe to be an educated guess.
“Yeah. A playa’s gotta play.” I raise my hand and wait for fraternal daps of acceptance. But the guys look deadpan, leaving me hanging.
Guess again, Delia.
How am I in this body but no better off relating to guys than I was befo
re? And why did I say that thing about putting a ring on my dick? Now they probably think I’m into cock rings. What the hell are cock rings for anyway?
Walking away isn’t the worst option right now. But I refuse to leave on this awkward note.
I rock on my heels, hoping someone will say something, but the room grows cringingly silent again. “So uh,” I start. “Have you guys . . .” Blank. My mind is totally freaking blank.
C’mon, Delia, say something. What are all men into?
“Seen any good porn lately?” I blurt out like word-vomit and Brian nearly chokes on his brew.
Eric snorts a laugh. “What?”
Okay . . . so not that, but I can’t backtrack now.
“Like on the internet.” If I could capture their faces on camera it would make the perfect WTF GIF.
Eric leans in, lowering his voice. “We know what you’re talking about. Do you always talk about porn with strangers?”
“Pff!” I send a dismissive wave. “Yeah, Swiss people are very open on the subject of porn. It’s as common as discussing art films.”
“Really?” Brian gives an intrigued expression and his full attention.
“Mm-hmm,” I mutter. After this, I’m writing an apology letter to the good people of Switzerland.
Eric shrugs. “Well, have you seen any good porn lately?”
Staying in this room was a total mistake. They’re just staring at me, awaiting my answer. Then again, they do seem genuinely interested in what I’m going to say. Could I have cracked the code?
Hmm . . . okay, porn. Have I seen any good porn lately? Since losing my job, I’ve been home alone a lot. All horned up. So I’ve been cleaning my browser history almost as much as I clean toilets. “Uh . . . sure. Yeah, I saw a good one last week.”
“What site?” Mike asks.
I only know one porn website and it’s got porn-for-women written all over it. “Uhh . . . I honestly can’t remember.”
“What was so good about it?” Brian smirks.
I scan my brain trying to remember any porn I’ve seen. They’re all kind of the same. Girl blows guy. Guy does girl. The finale comes, because he does, and it’s over. Hmm, there is one porno flick that sticks out in my mind. “They were in the kitchen,” I say, but the guys don’t seem to follow. “I like that stuff, you know, when my girlfriend surprises me in the kitchen. It’s spontaneous . . .” I nod slowly, clearly unsure of myself.