The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  My last return text is to Ceil:

  I’m fine. Had ringer off like a dumbass. Come in early tomorrow. Leave coffee to me.

  Chapter 12

  I’m exhausted when I drag myself to work the next day. I’d forced myself to get up early to do my hair and makeup, then wriggled myself into a merlot pencil skirt that falls just below my knee. Topped off with a blush, silk, boatneck blouse, it’s hands down the most work I’ve put into my look for the office. I stuck with my Career Caspian makeup but swapped the Femmebot lipstick for the deeper burgundy of Full Blooded, which goes better with the rich colors of my skirt. It’s clear my efforts were not in vain the second I walk into Ceil’s office.

  “Daaaamn,” she exclaims, drawing out the a as I hand her the iced latte I made for her.

  I thank her and ask if it’s too much.

  “Absolutely not!” she assures me, then asks, “So, is all that effort for anyone in particular?”

  “Nope. I don’t have any meetings today, so I’ll just be holed up in my office. Guess I just felt like stepping it up a notch.”

  “Well, good for you. And you know I love you because I’ll say that even though I know you’re full of shit.”

  She doesn’t know about my last interaction with Booker, but apparently, she doesn’t need to in order to see through me.

  “Speaking of ‘people in particular,’ I thought you had a little something going on these days. When am I going to meet this guy? We could all go out for food sometime,” I suggest. “Maybe he’s got a hot friend I can hook up with and never see again?” I am desperately looking for a distraction. I’ve decided that if I just sleep with someone else, I’ll be able to shake off this Booker nonsense once and for all.

  “Eh, Travis is okay. His friends blow, though. I think you’ve already done better.”

  “Ugh, that’s the problem!” I complain. “Booker is insufferably good. I mean, who can live up to that?”

  Ceil sighs, “We’re supposed to choose people who can help us be better versions of ourselves. What was your last relationship like?”

  “A one-night stand in Booker’s bar,” I explain, fiddling with the fringe on her throw blanket.

  “Booker’s bar?” Ceil asks.

  “He owns the place.”

  “No shit,” Ceil replies with a look of surprise. “I had no idea he owned that bar.”

  “Neither did I until last night. We bumped into each other at that burger place near my house,” I say. “He was on a date.”

  “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

  I fill Ceil in on what happened, being sure not to miss a single mortifying aspect, from my outfit to the unlocked door to the floor panties and the aborted kiss.

  “I don’t understand why I’m even getting wound up over all of this,” I tell her. “Even if I did date people, he’s unavailable.”

  “A first date doesn’t mean he’s unavailable, it means he’s dating. I think you should be honest and talk to him.”

  “I can’t keep people, Ceil. I just can’t.”

  “What does that even mean? Do you even know?” Ceil challenges me, but she doesn’t wait for a response. “You don’t have to figure it all out now. Why don’t you start by getting between his sheets again? It sounds like you could have tested that out last night,” she purrs as she thrusts her hips, causing her office chair to appear as though it’s humping the desk.

  “Eeew!” I wrinkle my nose in feigned disgust at Ceil’s display, and we laugh. It’s the perfect time to change the subject, but for some reason, I don’t. This guy is already way too deep in my head.

  “Also, why the fuck does he own a bar?” I wonder aloud. “I thought those were a lot of work. When did he have time for that while working here and tending to a dying mother?”

  “That’s a good question. Probably one you should ask him. Perhaps in a slightly more gentle manner,” she suggests.

  As if summoned by our conversation, Booker pops his head into her office. “Have you seen—,” he starts, but cuts himself off when he sees me on the couch. “Keisler called a meeting in the fishbowl,” he says to me without even looking in my general direction. “But you weren’t answering your phone, of course.” He’s frustrated, and when I don’t move, he adds, “It starts in ten minutes,” tapping his watch with those two fingers. Those two long and elegant fingers. I’m beginning to wonder why everyone doesn’t point with them. There’s a grace in it and a subtle sophistication.

  “Ugh. Thanks for the couch and the chat, Ceil,” I say as I follow Booker out the door, adding, “Don’t forget to set up that double with your guy.”

  “Sure thing,” she replies, but when I look back at her, she rolls her eyes in exasperation.

  When Booker and I get to the elevator, I hit the up button with my hip and wait.

  “Why do you do that?” Booker asks.

  “Because more men work here than women, and men don’t wash their hands after they use the restroom,” I reply. “Women probably don’t either, actually. All around, commonly touched surfaces are toilets.” The elevator doors open, and we step inside.

  “So, you’re going on a double date with Ceil?”

  I make a noncommittal noise.

  I don’t look at him, but I see his hands run over his face out of the corner of my eye. “Why don’t you ever answer a question directly?”

  I choose to silently contemplate that as the elevator opens and I walk down the hall to my office to drop my bag on the couch. I’ve never been asked that before. I’ve actually never thought about it, but he might be right. When I turn back to the elevator, I see that Booker is waiting behind me. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m going to walk with you to the meeting. Everyone is probably already there, and it’ll be uncomfortable for you to walk in last.”

  Is he always so considerate? “I’m sure I can handle it,” I say with a little annoyance.

  When we’re back in the elevator, Booker asks, “Have you met the guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The double-date guy.”

  “You know what they say about curiosity, don’t you, Booker?”

  He remains quiet until we’re stepping out of the elevator and walking toward the fishbowl. “Is this about last night?”

  “Check out the ego on this one,” I say sarcastically, thrusting a thumb in his direction. An IT guy is walking past, and I know he didn’t hear what Booker said, but he seems entertained that I’m not impressed by the beautiful man next to me.

  “Greg,” Booker says stiffly with a nod. Greg’s return greeting is a nod and a wide grin.

  As we approach the fishbowl, I see that Booker is right. The room is full, and I haven’t met a few of the gentlemen yet.

  Booker holds the door for me and says hello to everyone, then turns to gesture to me. “This is Caspian Smith, our insurance SME.”

  Robert Sax is average height, trim, with a military-style blond haircut. He steps forward and shakes my hand as he introduces himself. His handshake is firm and confident, but not overpowering. I tell him it’s nice to meet him and that I’m excited to be on the team.

  “We’ve been hearing good things about you. I can’t wait to see your contributions.” He turns to the tall, hulky man next to him and introduces him. “This is Jackson, he’s my assistant.”

  Jackson sticks out his hand, and his extra-firm grip tells me he doesn’t like his title and needs me to know he’s more than that. His very essence is an overcompensation—of what, I hope never to find out. I don’t find big, beefy men the least bit attractive, and Jackson looks like he lives in a gym.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him and pull my hand back before he can damage my metacarpals, which seemed to grind against each other under his grip.

  The last team member I haven’t met steps forward, a short, stocky man with wiry hair full of frizz. I am shocked when he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me toward him, especially because his head is right at
my chest. “I’m Richard Keisler,” he says as I stiffen.

  He’s hugging me too long, and I feel gross. The flush that is spreading over my body is hot, and I doubt I’ve ever been a brighter crimson. My skin is attempting to crawl off my body as I look around at the team. They seem almost as uncomfortable as I am; everyone is diverting their eyes. Everyone except Jackson, who has an amused smile on his face. I refuse to look at Booker; I can’t stomach his reaction.

  I wish I’d worn the potato sack.

  I hate myself for even thinking this, but I can’t help but wonder if this would be happening if I had worn an outfit that was less flattering. This one isn’t even revealing, it’s just more form fitting than my slacks.

  That’s the thing about sexual harassment. The aggressors’ actions cause the women they make uncomfortable to question what it was that we did that made them think their behavior was okay. We question our own behavior instead of theirs. On top of that, we are conditioned to be nice—under any circumstances and at all costs. In more dangerous and threatening situations, the cost is much greater than it will be today.

  The symphony of self-doubt plays in my head. He’s just being friendly. It’s just a hug, he doesn’t mean anything by it. Look at what you’re wearing. You’re being too sensitive. He’s a harmless old man. Don’t embarrass him in front of all these people.

  Well fuck that noise. I think of how pissed my father would be and how he would tell me to handle this.

  Placing my hands firmly on my boss’s shoulders, I push away from him, choosing my words carefully. “I’m really more of a handshake person, Mr. Keisler,” I say politely but firmly, and I gesture for everyone to take a seat.

  He laughs, telling everyone, “I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy. I haven’t quite gotten used to seeing women in the office.”

  Bullshit.

  “Why don’t you just use Mr. Sax as a role model, he’s got it down,” I tell him stiffly.

  Fucking Prick. These lines we walk are so fine. I have to be firm without being a bitch. I have to find a way to sound like I’m as easygoing as any of the men, but not easy. I have to be brilliant, but not make them feel threatened by it. It’s fucking exhausting.

  I take a seat at the farthest end of the table, knowing that this is typically where Booker sits. I want to be as far from Keisler as possible. No one speaks for a moment as people shuffle into seats and look down at the table. Booker takes the seat to my immediate right, and now Tyler is shuffling to a new seat. I’m not the one who called this meeting, so I sit straight in my chair at the end of the table, staring Mr. Keisler down at the opposite end of the table. I wait without fidgeting, without impatience, without looking uncomfortable. My exterior is Unshakeable Caspian. My interior is a raging bull.

  “Well,” he laughs, shifting in his chair, “Robert and I just wanted to meet our new star and get an update on the accounts that have been added this week and the progress we’ve made so far.”

  Booker starts first, “Ms. Smith and I went to Phoenix Monday and closed the last three shops that were on the fence. She spearheaded the majority of the conversation, providing valuable insight into the insurance side of these contracts, and was instrumental in the acquisitions.” His formal use of my name is not the only part of this that surprises me. Now he is overcompensating. Trying to right the situation, to handle it, to make it better.

  I keep my face straight and motionless, but inside I’m shocked and feel a level of annoyance toward Booker that I know isn’t justified. I don’t want or need him to fix this or to oversell me. I mean, I did close the last two shops, but he helped answer questions. And the first one he closed alone. I only answered a question about why these insurance companies would consider the type of contract we were offering.

  “That’s great! I knew an insurance SME would prove invaluable for this project, and Dave insisted that you were the best he interviewed by a mile,” Mr. Sax says, and I’m grateful for the honest praise.

  “Thank you. Mr. Call gives me too much credit, it was a team effort Monday. I haven’t made it through all of the contracts and policies quite yet. I’ve shifted the Nevada policies and contracts to the front of my queue, for obvious reasons. Those will be ready in time for our trip,” I tell them all.

  “Speaking of,” Mr. Keisler speaks up, a little glimmer in his eye, “Robert and I will be sitting in on those meetings.”

  We nod an acknowledgment, and each of the guys on the team gives them a brief overview of what they’ve been working on. After 45 minutes, everyone stands to shuffle out.

  I shake both of my bosses’ hands, skipping Jackson, and say, “It was nice to meet you. If you don’t mind, I have a few things I need to go over with the team, so we’re going to keep the room for a moment.”

  When everyone is back in their seats, I tell them, “I’ve only just become aware of the Vegas meetings, and I’d like to know what the accommodations are. Assuming that nonsense didn’t change anything, I’ve been asked to join you all.”

  “We’re staying at the Cosmopolitan, and they have a conference room available for us there,” Booker says before anyone else speaks up.

  “Who is booking the rooms?” I ask.

  Booker answers again. “Sarah is handling the travel arrangements, she sent out our confirmations last week.”

  “Since I haven’t received my confirmation, is it safe to assume she hasn’t added me to the reservation yet?”

  “Yes, I can talk to her today,” Booker says.

  “Just make sure she knows that I’m going, but let her know I will make my own travel arrangements,” I say, standing. “Do any of you need anything from me before we wrap this up?”

  When no one says anything, I leave the office, making a beeline for the elevator.

  “That was pretty shitty what Mr. Keisler did,” Tyler says, assuming his standard post-meeting spot walking next to me.

  “For the most part, people only do what you allow them to, and now he knows what’s acceptable and what’s not,” I tell him matter-of-factly. I know this doesn’t always work. For some men, what I’ve just done will only make it worse, painting a target on my back. I don’t think Mr. Keisler has what it takes to be one of those men, though.

  “You’re right,” he agrees, ending conversation on the topic. “So, you’re coming to Vegas? That’ll be fun!” he says enthusiastically.

  “I guess, if you enjoy stuffy business meetings with your bosses breathing down your neck,” I tell him, humorlessly.

  Once again, the elevator is filled with Tyler, Steve, Booker, and me.

  John must have an office on the first floor, because he never travels with us.

  Tyler is standing beside me in the front, and I can feel Booker behind me. Steve is behind Tyler on the right. I’ve always found it interesting how human beings operate. There is no reason for us to assume the same positions while walking to or standing in the elevator after every meeting, but we do. We even sit in the same seats, with the exception of today. Change is typically avoided by humans until their desire for something outweighs their need for continuity and the comfort of familiarity.

  “Yeah, but the meetings will end at five or so, and then we’ll have the nights free to do whatever we want,” Tyler says, bringing me back to our conversation. “Plus,” he adds, “we all go out on Wednesday night, and I’m going to stay the weekend after the meetings are done.”

  I laugh half-heartedly and tell him, “Just make sure you show up to the meetings each morning, preferably not too hungover.”

  Even if I did drink, I wouldn’t on a business trip; I can’t afford to look unprofessional. I probably think about these things too much, but this is my reality when I am the only female on the team, and I usually am. It’s really not hard to do what I do, but for some reason, there aren’t many women who last in the industry. It takes thick skin and the ability to brush off sexual harassment daily. Brushing off comments is one thing, but I draw the line at a person actually touching m
e. As a woman in this industry, it isn’t enough to be good at the job. I have to be the best. I wonder if that’s just me.

  Chapter 13

  Back in my office, I shut the door, close all of the blinds, and sag into my chair. I’m not looking forward to the Vegas trip at all. I prop my elbows on my desk and rest my face in my palms. I stay like that, with my eyes closed, just breathing, until I decide that I will do absolutely nothing but eat, sleep, and work until this project is done. In fact, I’m going to finish my portion three weeks early and have everything done by the time the Vegas trip happens. Perhaps I can transfer to one of the sister branches. I wasn’t actually planning on a long-term career in Tucson anyway, but I’ll think about that another day.

  When I lift my head, I let out a little yelp. Booker is sitting on the couch, watching me.

  “I knocked. When you didn’t answer, I cracked the door open and said your name. I figured I’d just wait it out on your couch for a few more minutes,” he says, and his tone is irritatingly soft.

  I take a deep breath in, straighten up, and ask, “What can I do for you?”

  “Are you okay?” he asks. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees. When I say nothing, he asks, “What were you thinking about just now?”

  “You didn’t come into my office uninvited to ask what I was thinking about, so what do you need?” I snap, pinning him with my eyes.

  “I’ve spoken to Sarah and let her know she didn’t need to arrange your travel. I have a company credit card, so I’ll book it for you. You’ll get a company credit card once you’ve been added to the team more permanently. Is there a reason that you wanted to book yourself? Any special accommodations I should be aware of?”

  “Aside from the glaringly obvious?” I ask harshly.

  “Yes, aside from that,” he asks too patiently. He’s dealing with me the way he would an injured animal, and I have to heal my temper. I hate being handled, and the look on his face is slipping closer to pity every second. How can such a small moment change everything? Over the span of 15 seconds today, I’ve gone from strong and independent to weak and vulnerable. I hate everyone. Especially Booker.