Crush Me

by Black, Stasia

  I’m, well, dazzled for a moment. And then the door closes.

  I just stand there. As I head back down the hall, I can only shake my head, still a bit dazed by that entire interaction and its outcome. What I do know is that I haven’t convinced him to collaborate with Gentry Tech yet. I have to salvage the deal somehow and that boils down to the only option left to me.

  I guess I’m going to a fucking gala.

  CHAPTER 9

  I don’t pull any punches when I report back to Gentry about my meeting with Jackson. There’s no point in softening the fact that Jackson didn’t make any concessions or sound very open to collaboration. I take Gentry through every step of how the meeting went and his jaw grows more and more tight. But then, as soon as I tell him that Jackson invited me to the Red Cross Gala, his entire posture relaxes.

  “Good,” he says. “You can use that opportunity to get closer to him. I’m sure between your persuasive skills and my innovative designs, we’ll sway him to our position in time. Today was only an opening salvo.”

  “I did want to talk to you about that,” I hesitantly start. “Mr. Vale seemed…” I cast around for a diplomatic word, “less than thrilled that our presentation included only the external modeling. Perhaps if we could present some of the internal algorithms, he might be persuaded more quickly —”

  Gentry makes a derisive face and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not giving away industry secrets unless he’s willing to commit.”

  “But how can he commit unless he knows something of what you’re bringing to the table?” I ask, a little of my exasperation coming through.

  Gentry’s sharp glare makes me wish I’d bit my tongue.

  “Don’t forget your pay grade, Miss Cruise. Only a novice would think that showing their hand at this stage in the game was a wise move. In poker, do you give your opponent a glimpse of your Ace?”

  This time, I do physically bite my tongue. This isn’t fucking poker. He’s trying to get Jackson to collaborate with him. Collaborate. As in, incentivize him to cooperate. Not outgun him at a freaking duel or, to use his stupid metaphor, win at a poker game. Still, I swallow down my real thoughts and shake my head no.

  Gentry smirks at me. “No. You don’t. Why don’t you go back to clearing up my backloaded correspondence? You know, your job. At least until you’re needed on Friday. Then you can do your other job. Be arm candy.”

  He looks down at his computer. I’m already dismissed from his presence even while I still stand there.

  I turn and walk to my office. I wish I could say I’m fuming the whole way. But Gentry’s words are stuck in my head. Arm candy.

  Old, veined hands groping me. Pretty girl. I could just eat you up.

  I cringe and startle at the sudden memory. I press my hands to my face when I sit down at my desk. Pull it together, Cals. I take my hands from my face, careful not to muss my makeup, then force them to my desk. I will not go to the restroom and wash them over and over until the skin is rubbed pink. I won’t give into the old compulsions that took over every time I thought about that old dirty bastard.

  I count to ten, breathe out, and open my email to get back to work.

  * * *

  On Friday I’m taking notes at a teleconference with Gentry Tech’s Japanese manufacturing partner. Gentry’s been having similar conferences with various companies all week. I wonder if these are the very contacts Gentry is dangling in front of Jackson. And why can’t Jackson just contact them directly? Gentry did keep saying ‘exclusive contracts’ in that first meeting with Jackson. Maybe that means Gentry Tech has them hired out only to work for them and no one else for a contracted period of years?

  “Miss Cruise,” Gentry’s voice jolts me. “Repeat back the specifications we’ve agreed upon so far.”

  Shit. I sit up in my chair nervously and scroll through the notes on my laptop. My improvised shorthand is all but second nature after six weeks and my fingers have been flying furiously for the last forty-five minutes. Well, except for those few moments when my mind was wandering thinking about Jackson.

  I take a quick second to adjust my Bluetooth earpiece and then get talking. “The motor should be made of carbon fiber with fiberglass central and mounting plates.” I continue paging up on my laptop. “To deal with high temperatures, the surrounding case should have a finned heatsink design to self-ventilate, able to withstand temperatures up to 240 degrees Celsius. The entire motor should weigh no more than 160 grams, 200 with copper wiring in place. The voltage range should be 16.8 to 34.” I continue rattling off statistics from my notes for another five minutes.

  When I finish, there’s silence on the other end. Mr. Kuramoto finally responds, “I thought we agreed on 12 kHz for the ESC PWM Rate. That’s generally accepted as standard.”

  Gentry rolls his eyes, but his voice is calm and professional as he responds, “With the specs of this motor, it should easily push to 16 kHz, maybe even 20. I’d like to set that as our goal.”

  There’s a murmur of assent on the other end of the line. “Yes. I like the idea that our motor will set the new standard.”

  “Exactly. Gentry Tech and KDI Industries should be the names that come to mind when people think of the future of robotics, don’t you agree?”

  “Very true, sir.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to touring your factories and getting to speak more one-on-one when I visit in two weeks.”

  “Yes. We will have some initial drawings of what we have discussed today and you can talk with our engineers.”

  Gentry and Mr. Kuramoto finish with some more closing pleasantries and then Gentry closes the teleconference. I breathe out in relief as I take out my earpiece. We’ve had several of these teleconferences with different manufacturers this week and each one has made me nervous that I’ll miss out on recording some important detail.

  I should have known he’d put me on the spot today. All week, Gentry’s been occasionally tossing me a question out of nowhere, so I always have to be on point. It’s been terrifying, but if I’m honest, also totally thrilling. A few months ago, I could only dream of being involved with work like this, even if just in this peripheral support position.

  Gentry leans back in his chair and smiles at me. It appears genuine, not calculating in any way. “You’ve done a wonderful job this week on these calls, Callie. Not just coordinating their set up and getting everyone connected at the right time. You’re fielding every query I’ve tossed your way. Don’t think I haven’t been noticing.” He nods as if to himself. “You’re really proving yourself here.”

  I feel a ridiculous blush at the praise and stand up, laptop clutched to my chest. “Thank you,” I murmur as I turn away. “I’ll have the notes from the meeting typed up and to you within the hour.”

  And then I get the hell out of there, forcing myself not to look back at Gentry. When I get into my office, the window between Gentry’s room and mine stays frosted, just like it’s been all week. I finally let myself look back in the direction of his office, even though I can’t see through the opaque glass.

  But seriously. What the fuck?

  It’s like some other boss has body-snatched the Gentry I’d known for the first few weeks I worked here. Again, it feels like the good twin has taken up residence. I dub him Mr. Respectful. As opposed to Mr. Asshole.

  Today isn’t the first time he’s complimented my work. He’s been at it after every teleconference and even after the weekly internal head of departments meeting.

  Just my work. Not accompanied by any lewd remarks about my body or person. I shake my head. No requests to work topless. Nothing. He must really want this deal with Jackson to go through. As if I didn’t already feel enough pressure not to fuck up tonight. I don’t know how much shop talk Gentry really expects I can accomplish at a social outing. I rub my temples and then get back to work typing up the notes from the meeting with Mr. Kuramoto.

  * * *

  After I send Gentry the meeting notes, he emails back wi
th a one-liner saying I should go home early so I have extra time to get ready for my event. So I take off at four o’clock, unsure if I’m grateful or not for the extra time without the distraction of work to obsess about the night ahead.

  I get home a little bit faster than I normally do since it’s not yet rush hour. There are actually seats available on the light rail too, something that’s never true at five when I usually get on. Since it’s a little earlier in the day, I don’t feel quite as exhausted. Not to mention, in spite of myself, some really stupid little girl Disney Princess part of me that I thought long dead and buried got all excited last night when the three dresses were delivered.

  Disney’s screwed us all. That’s all I’m saying.

  Long flowy dresses? A gala? Apparently that sounds close enough to a ball to my inner eight-year-old princess’s ears.

  And the dresses. Let me tell you. That personal shopper that Jackson was talking about? Yeah. She deserves her commission for the year and then some. How am I supposed to choose just one?

  I tried on each one and Shannon took pictures. For once, we actually got along. I thought she would give me shit about a bunch of super fancy dresses being delivered—it reeked too much of my beauty pageant days, which had always been a sore subject between us. But when I explained it was for a work function, to my surprise she asked if I wanted help looking through them and choosing what to wear. After our blowup the other night, I’d noticed her making small moves toward reconciliation and maybe this was another one. I wasn’t going to hold a grudge.

  I agreed and we unzipped each of the three garment bags, assessing each like we were guest judges on Project Runway.

  “Well,” Shannon said, eyeing each of the three dresses critically. “They’re all pretty and even have good hanger appeal, but you really need to try them on before we can make any real decisions.”

  I grinned. I hadn’t enjoyed dressing up in a very long time. Being poked and prodded and pinned into pageant gowns for a significant portion of my adolescence had killed it for me, but seeing Shannon’s enthusiasm made it feel fresh. Enough to even forget that this was supposed to be a working event. I clapped my hands like a little kid.

  She rolled her eyes at me, but for once it was a good-natured gesture. “Just get your butt in the blue dress.” She held a strapless blue bandage dress that looked like it would hit just below the knees. “I’ll go get my camera.”

  I tried on each dress in turn and Shannon took pictures. Though, saying she took pictures is an understatement. She got all into it like she was a budding fashion photographer or something. Actually, thinking about it, didn’t she minor in photography in college? I remember thinking it was so strange because it was like, artistic, and that was always the last word I would’ve associated with my dreary, studious sister.

  Anyway, she was really into the photoshoot. She had one of those cameras with the giant lenses and everything. It was pretty hilarious, but I didn’t dare laugh. Shannon actually seemed like she was having fun.

  My sister.

  Fun.

  Yeah, it took a while to compute for me too.

  “The lighting is better over here by this lamp,” she said, after I changed into a shimmery gold dress. She all but dragged me by the wrist over to a standing lamp near our front curtains. “It has a yellow bulb and the ambient light will really make the gold color pop.”

  She nodded as I positioned myself in front of the curtain. The dress had a sweetheart neckline with a peplum detail at the waist before dropping dramatically to the floor.

  “Mmm, yes,” she murmured, “that’s much better.”

  She brought her camera up to her eye and adjusted the big lens on the front several times before clicking away. “Drop your chin. No,” she shook her head after I moved my head, “not that much.” I re-adjusted. “Better. No, now I can see up your nose. Down some. There. Now don’t move.”

  I barely stopped myself from shaking my head. No wonder Shannon loved this. It was the perfect excuse to order me around.

  Finally we finished with the gold one. Then there was the last dress. The red one.

  No, red was the wrong word. The dress was magenta, a deep, rich magenta. Made from an expensive chiffon, the neckline swept down in a V that showed just a hint of cleavage but still kept it classy. The rest of the bodice was fitted, and it kept its shape over the hips but then it flared—or no, again that was the wrong word—the material floated as it brushed the ground.

  I spun in a circle and the material swirled in a cloud of flowing fabric around me. Shannon’s camera was click, click, clicking away on some super-fast shutter speed.

  I looked up at her and our eyes met across the small expanse of our living room.

  “This is the one,” I said at exactly the same time as she said, “that’s the one.”

  We both laughed and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a moment like this between us. I walked over to her, lifting the hem of the dress as I went so I didn’t step on it.

  Shannon was busy looking at the screen on her camera, clicking to look through the pictures. I lifted a hand to the camera and lowered it.

  “What happened to us, Shannon?”

  Her eyes briefly flipped up to mine, but then she lowered them again. She lifted the camera and went back to clicking through the pictures. I could see flashes of red and then gold as she ticked through the pictures way too fast to really be seeing anything.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I let out a snort. “Oh, come on. I hate how it is between us.”

  Silence.

  I tried again. “Do you realize how much I appreciate all that you’ve done for me and Charlie?” And then I wondered if I’d told her that. Well, I knew I’d told her, but it might have only been in the beginning. I thought it in my head all the time. Granted, I thought it because I was trying to remind myself to be nice to her, but still. I didn’t say it out loud nearly enough. “Because I do. I really do. I couldn’t have made it without you, Shan. I so appreciate you.”

  She moved her finger to another button and reversed to look through the pictures again. She shrugged, still not looking up at me. “I know you do.”

  “Do you?”

  She shrugged again.

  “I want us to be the kind of sisters who can talk to each other. Not just about the bills and Charlie’s schedule. About real things.”

  I could see her body start to shrug again so again, I blocked the camera screen.

  She sighed and finally looked up at me. “What do you want me to say, Callie? We can’t just magically fix things with one conversation. Of course I wish things were better between us. But it all just got…” Again her shoulders went up and then dropped.

  She looked toward the ceiling as if searching for patience or for a word to encapsulate everything she was thinking. “…I don’t know. We just lost that kind of connection a long time ago.”

  My own shoulders sank. So that was it then.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s how it always has to be, though,” she knocked me on the shoulder with the hand not holding the camera. “We’re adults now. The past doesn’t have to define us anymore.”

  That only made me more confused. Exactly what had I done when we were younger that was so bad she was still so pissed about it? I was her younger sister and all I’d ever wanted was for her to give me the time of day. Mom smothered me with attention during all the pageant crap, but what I really could have used, then and certainly during the much worse situation that followed in high school, was a big sister. If anyone should be still mad about it, it was me, not her.

  Then she let out a heavy breath. “I admit that I can be one to hold a grudge,” she smiled in a self-deprecating way. “I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to work on it.”

  In spite of the part of me that wanted to be upset about the past, I felt a stupid grin start to light up my face. It seemed like my big sister might finally be willing to let bygones be bygones. She rolled her e
yes again. “Oh for God’s sake, don’t think we’re going to hug it out or anything.”

  I put my hands up and took a step back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She shook her head again, but I didn’t miss the smile teasing the edges of her lips. She lifted her camera and started looking through pictures again. “Okay. So the red dress is obviously the winner. Come check you out.”

  Yeah. So not only did I have this great night with my sister, but the dress also looked amazing on me. For serious.

  All day I’ve been fighting these random terrors that something has happened to it in the twenty-two hours since I first put it on. That Charlie has gotten into it and decided to have funtime with scissors on mommy’s new dress. Or the apartment has flooded or suddenly gotten an infestation of mice overnight. Something will have happened. Something always does. This is my life we’re talking about, after all.

  But when I step in the house and immediately go to the closet, not only is the red dress perfectly fine, but so are the others that the personal shopper texted they’ll pick up tomorrow. I breathe out and then lay my forehead against the doorframe. A note says Charlie and Shannon are out for their afternoon park outing. Another rarity, for me to be home before them.

  Alrighty. No time to enjoy that I get the apartment to myself. I scurry into the shower and turn it to as hot as I can stand it. Ah, that feels good.

  Usually I shower at six-thirty in the morning along with everyone else in the complex. I’m lucky to get tepidly warm water at that time of day.

  So I bask in the first truly hot shower I’ve had in what feels like forever. Which means I stay in longer than I should.

  When I finally get out and notice the time, there’s a lot more cursing involved. I still have to blow out my hair and figure out some kind of styling to do. Son of a bitch. Because there’s that gorgeous magenta dress and I’m supposed to do something with my hair that matches its elegance… fuck, I’m screwed.