Stuck-Up Suit

by Vi Keeland

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Once you’re off. Take a right on Whitehall and then a left on South Street.”

  I knew the area and tried to visualize the buildings around there. It was a pretty commercial neighborhood. “Won’t that take me to the East River?”

  “Exactly. Toss that asshole’s phone in, and forget you ever saw the man.”

  The phone line went dead. Well, that was interesting.

  CHAPTER 2

  SORAYA

  I HAD PLANNED TO GIVE the phone back this morning.

  No, really. I did.

  Then again, I also planned to finish college. And travel the world. Unfortunately, the furthest I’d ventured out of the city over the last year was when my uneducated ass accidentally fell asleep on the Path train and ended up in Hoboken.

  The phone safely concealed in the side compartment of my purse, I sat in car seven, one row back and diagonally across from Mr. Big Prick, stealing sidelong glances while he read The Wall Street Journal. I needed more time to study the lion. Creatures in the zoo always fascinated me, especially the way they interacted with the humans.

  A woman boarded at the next stop and sat directly across from Graham. She was young, and the length of her skirt bordered on inappropriate. Her tanned legs were toned, bare and sexy, even my eyes lingered for a moment. Yet the lion never pounced. He never even seemed to actually notice her as he alternated between reading and mindlessly clicking that big watch of his. I totally would have taken him for more of a whore than that.

  When his stop came, I made the decision that I’d give him back the phone. Tomorrow. One more day wouldn’t matter. For the rest of my trip, I went back through his pictures. Only this time, I studied them, paying close attention to the details of the background rather than the focal subject.

  The photo of him and the old lady was taken in front of a fireplace. I hadn’t noticed it before. The mantel was lined with a dozen picture frames. I zoomed in on the frame that was the least pixilated. It was of a young boy and a woman. The boy looked about eight or nine and was wearing a uniform of some sort. The woman—at least I thought it was a woman—had something close to a crew cut. The boy might have been Graham, but I couldn’t be sure. I almost missed my stop zooming in on what turned out to be a mailman in the back of another shot. What the hell was I doing?

  I stopped at my usual coffee truck and ordered. “I’ll take a grande, iced, sugar-free, vanilla latte with soy milk.”

  Anil shook his head and chuckled. Every once in a while, when he had a line of women who looked like they got lost trying to find a Starbucks, I would order something ridiculous. Loudly. I’d usually get at least one who believed Anil’s Halal Meat served fru fru drinks. Basically, you had four choices: black, milk, sugar, or go somewhere the hell else—he didn’t even carry Equal. Dropping my buck in the cup, he handed me my usual black coffee, and I laughed as I walked away hearing a woman ask if he made Frappuccinos.

  When I arrived at the office, Ida was in a particularly rancid mood. Fucking awesome. The whole world thought Ask Ida was a beloved American institution; only a select few knew the truth. The woman who delved out heaping doses of sugary advice got her jollies from screwing people and being cheap.

  “Find a number for the Celestine Hotel,” was how she greeted me.

  I powered on the tower to the old desktop computer she had me work on. The Internet on my phone was much faster, but I wasn’t using up my data because she refused to move into the twenty-first century. Five minutes later, I brought her the number in her office.

  “Here you go. Would you like me to make a reservation for you?”

  “Grab the travel folder from the file cabinet.”

  I handed it to her and waited since she never answered my question. Ida flipped through the bulging file until she found a small, folded card—the kind the hotel leaves with the maid’s name on it. She read it and then held it out to me. “Call the hotel. Tell them Margaritte doesn’t know how to clean a room. That the last time I stayed at the Celestine, the carpet wasn’t properly vacuumed, and there were black hairs on the wall in the shower.”

  “Okay…”

  “Mention Margaritte by name and that I specifically want a room cleaned by someone else. Then ask for a discount.”

  “What if they won’t give a discount?”

  “Then book the room anyway. My room was perfectly clean last time.”

  “You mean the carpet and shower weren’t dirty?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh as if I was trying her patience. “Their room rates are highway robbery. I’m not paying $400 a night.”

  “So instead you want me to possibly get someone fired?”

  She raised one thick, drawn-on eyebrow. “Would you rather it be you?”

  Yeah. This bitch should be giving advice on morality.

  ***

  LUCKY FOR ME, IT WAS WEDNESDAY—the day Ida met her editor each week. So, at least, I only had to put up with her for half a day before she left me with a page long to-do list:

  Order new business cards. (Make them less colorful this time, I run a business not a circus.)

  Update blog. (Yellow folder has daily letters and responses. Do not improvise as you type. Ask Ida does NOT suggest doing it doggy style to cheer up your boyfriend who just lost his beloved Jack Russell terrier).

  Enter bills in blue folder into QuickBooks. (Take all discounts, even if past the discount date.)

  Send contracts to Lawrence for review. No direction on this one. I’d figure out why shortly after. She had written across every single page of the document with a bright orange marker. Ridiculous. Not acceptable.

  Pick up dry cleaning. (Ticket on my desk. Do not pay him if the mark on the left sleeve of my mohair jacket did not come out.) What the hell was mohair anyway?

  Delivery from Speedy Printing this afternoon. (No tip. He was ten minutes late again last week.)

  The list went on and on. I had to stop myself from scanning it and posting it on the blog under the last response she gave to an employee who was having trouble with her boss. Instead, I cranked up the tunes (Ida didn’t allow music in the workplace), tipped the printer delivery guy twenty bucks from petty cash, and took a one-hour break with my bare feet up on the desk to play with Mr. Big Prick’s phone some more. Looking down at my wiggling toes, I admired Tig’s latest handiwork—two feathers tatted on the top of my right foot that dangled from a leather ankle bracelet. Very Pocahontas. I needed to stop back at the shop so he could take a picture for his wall, now that the swelling had gone down.

  I was nearly at my data usage limit for the month, so I popped Graham Morgan into Google on his phone. I was surprised when the search returned more than a thousand results. The first one was his company’s website—Morgan Financial Holdings. I clicked on the link. It was a typical corporate website, all very sterile and businesslike. The list of holdings was a page long, everything from real estate to a financial investment firm. The site reeked of old money. I would have bet Daddy still had a big corner office and visited every Friday after golf. The common theme of the site also seemed to summarize the business—wealth management. The rich get richer. Who was managing my assets? Oh, wait. That’s right. I had none. Unless you counted my great rack. And I currently had no one managing that either.

  I clicked over to the About tab, and my jaw dropped open. The first picture was of the Adonis himself, Graham J. Morgan. The guy was seriously gorgeous. A strong blade of a nose, chiseled jaw, and eyes the color of melting milk chocolate. Something told me he might have Greek in his ancestry. I licked my lips. Damn. Underneath, I read his bio. Twenty-nine, Summa Cum Laude at Wharton, single, blah blah blah. The only thing that surprised me was the last sentence: Mr. Morgan founded Morgan Financial Holdings only eight years ago, yet its diverse client portfolio rivals the oldest and most prestigious investment firms in New York City. Guess I was wrong about Daddy.

  After wiping the drool off the keypad, I moved on to th
e Team tab. Thirty different directors and managers were outlined. There was a common theme there, too. Over educated and scowling. Except for one lone renegade who dared to smile for his corporate photo. Ben Schilling, who was apparently a marketing manager. Bored with corporate life, but still not ready to go back to my to-do list, I scrolled through Graham’s contacts again. I passed over Avery’s name and wondered if it was only women who Mr. Big Prick managed to piss off. A few names down from Avery, I landed on the first male name: Ben. Hmmm. Without overthinking it, I thumbed off a text:

  Graham: What’s up?

  I got excited when I saw the three dots start bouncing, indicating he was typing a response.

  Ben: Working on that presentation. I’ll have it ready tomorrow as planned.

  Graham: Great. Tell Linda to get you set up on my calendar.

  At least, I had gotten her name right. I watched the three dots start and then stop. Then start again.

  Ben: I didn’t think Linda was coming back anymore. After what happened at the meeting yesterday.

  Now we were getting somewhere. I sat up in my chair.

  Graham: A lot happened at the meeting yesterday. What, specifically, are you referring to?

  Ben: Ummm…I meant when you yelled you’re fired, get the hell out of my office.

  This guy really was a total prick. Someone needed to fix his ass. I launched Safari and reopened the last page I had visited. Halfway down, I found what I was looking for: Meredith Kline, Human Resources Manager.

  Graham: Maybe I was a little harsh. I’m in meetings all afternoon. Could you stop over and tell Meredith in HR to make sure Linda gets a month of severance?

  Ben: Of course. I’m sure she will appreciate that.

  If I was too nice, I thought he might have suspected something.

  Graham: I appreciate not getting sued. What she appreciates isn’t my concern.

  I figured I had pushed far enough, so I tossed the phone into my purse before I could do any more damage. Tomorrow I would return it. And I was looking forward to meeting the jerk in person.

  CHAPTER 3

  SORAYA

  MORGAN FINANCIAL HOLDINGS occupied the entire twentieth floor according to the sign in the lobby. My stomach growled as I waited for an elevator. Seeing as though I’d just had my breakfast, I knew it was nerves, and that pissed me off.

  Why was the thought of coming face to face with this jackass making me nervous?

  His looks.

  Deep down, I knew it was his looks, and that was ridiculous. I wasn’t a superficial person, but a part of me couldn’t help swooning over this jerk. That part of me really needed to shut up right now.

  The elevator made a dinging sound and opened up, allowing myself and an older businessman to enter. It was just the two of us as the doors shut. When the man scratched his balls, I looked down at the feather tattoo on my foot to distract myself from it. Why was I a magnet for men who scratched their junk? Thankfully, the car arrived at the twentieth floor soon enough. I exited the elevator, allowing the man free reign to go to town on himself in private.

  A black sign with gold lettering that read Morgan Financial Holdings hung atop two clear glass doors. Taking a deep breath in and adjusting my little red dress, I made my way through the entrance. Yes, I’d gotten dolled up for this shit. Don’t judge.

  A young, redheaded receptionist smiled at me. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Graham Morgan.”

  She looked like she was about to laugh at me. “Is he expecting you?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Morgan doesn’t see anyone who doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “Well, I have something very important of his, so I really need to see him.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Soraya Venedetta.”

  “Can you spell your last name for me? Vendetta? Like a vendetta against someone?”

  “No, it’s Ven-E-detta. There’s an E in the middle. V-E-N-E-D-E-T-T-A.” If I had a nickel for every time someone screwed up my last name…well, I’d be richer than Graham J. Morgan.

  “Okay. Miss Venedetta. Well, if you like, you can take a seat right there. When Mr. Morgan arrives, I will ask him if he’s willing to see you. ”

  “Thank you.”

  Straightening my dress, I took a seat on the plush, microfiber couch diagonally across from the front desk. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Mr. Big Prick wasn’t here yet, since he wasn’t on the usual train this morning. I wondered exactly how long I’d have to wait; I only took a half-day and was due back at Ida’s after lunchtime.

  Mindlessly fishing through some financial magazines, I almost hadn’t looked up when the doors opened. My heart started pounding when I noticed Graham, looking angry as ever. He was decked out in black pants and a crisp white shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. There was that gleaming watch wrapped around his wrist. He was holding a burgundy tie in one hand and a laptop in the other. When he passed by, a waft of his intoxicating cologne immediately hit me like a punch in the nose. He was looking straight ahead, completely oblivious to me or anything else around him.

  The receptionist lit up as he walked by her. “Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”

  Graham didn’t respond. He simply let out a barely audible groan in response as he swiftly passed us and disappeared down the hall.

  Really.

  I looked over at her. “Why didn’t you tell him I was here to see him?”

  She laughed. “Mr. Morgan needs time to decompress in the morning. I can’t hit him with an unannounced visitor the second he walks in the door.”

  “Well, exactly how long am I going to have to wait?”

  “I’ll check in with his secretary in about thirty minutes.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “That’s fucking ridiculous. It’s going to take two minutes to do what I need to do. I can’t wait all morning. I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Miss Vendetta…”

  “Ven-E-detta…”

  “Venedetta. Sorry. There are certain rules here. Rule number one is, unless Mr. Morgan has an important meeting scheduled in the morning, he is not to be disturbed as soon as he arrives.”

  “What exactly will he do if you bother him?”

  “I don’t want to find out.”

  “Well, I do.” Getting up from my seat, I charged down the hall as the redhead scurried behind me.

  “Miss Venedetta. You don’t know what you’re doing. Get back here right now! I’m serious.”

  I stopped when I came upon a dark, cherry wood door with the name Graham J. Morgan engraved into a placard upon it. The shades to the glass windows surrounding the door were completely closed.

  “Where is his secretary?”

  She pointed to an empty desk across from his office. “She normally sits right there, but she doesn’t appear to be in yet. So, that’s even more of a reason why I cannot disturb him right now because he’s probably angry about that.”

  She looked over at another female employee who was working in a nearby cubicle. “Do you know why Rebecca isn’t here yet?”

  “Rebecca quit. The agency is looking for a replacement.”

  “Great,” the receptionist huffed. “And she lasted all of what…two days?”

  The woman laughed. “Not bad, considering…”

  What the hell kind of a person was this Graham Morgan?

  Who did he think he was?

  Adrenaline suddenly coursed through me. I walked over to the secretary’s empty desk and pressed the intercom button that was labeled GJM.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are…The Wizard of Oz? I’m pretty sure I’d have easier access to Queen Elizabeth.”

  The fear in the receptionist’s eyes was palpable, but she knew it was too late, so she just stayed on the sidelines and watched.

  There was no response for about a full minute. Then came his deep penetrating voice. “Who is this?”<
br />
  “My name is Soraya Venedetta.”

  “Venedetta.” He’d repeated my name clearly. It wasn’t lost on me that unlike everyone else, he had pronounced my name precisely.

  When he didn’t say anything else, I pressed the button again. “I’ve been waiting patiently to see you. But apparently, you’re whacking off in there or something. Everyone here is scared out of their wits of you, so no one wants to tell you I’m here. I have something I imagine you’ve been looking for.”

  His voice came on again. “Oh really?”

  “Yes. And I’m not going to give it to you unless you open that door.”

  “Let me ask you something, Ms. Venedetta.”

  “Okay…”

  “This thing you claim I’m looking for. Is it the cure for cancer?”

  “No.”

  “Is it an original Shelby Cobra?”

  A what?

  “Um…No.”

  “Then, you’re wrong. There’s nothing you could possibly have that I’m looking for, that would make opening that door and having to deal with you worth it. Now please leave this floor, or I’ll have security escort you out.”

  Eff this. I wasn’t going to deal with this crap anymore. I didn’t want anything to do with him from this point forward, so I decided I would leave his stupid phone. Grabbing my own phone, I got an idea. A parting gift. I snapped three pictures of myself: one of my cleavage with a big middle finger in the middle, one of my legs and one of my rear end. I then programmed my number into his phone, naming myself You’re Welcome Asshole. I specifically chose not to show my face since I didn’t want him to recognize me on the train.

  I sent all three pictures and followed them up with one final text.

  Your mother should be ashamed of you.

  I handed the receptionist the phone and said, “Make sure he gets his phone back.”

  I sashayed out of there despite feeling a little defeated and a whole lot irate.

  My mood had only worsened by the time I got back to work. The only good thing was that Ida had an unexpected out of office meeting, so I didn’t have to deal with her. I ended up taking advantage and leaving for the day an hour early.