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by Shandi Boyes

  “How is she?” I ask when he stops at the coatrack to gather his winter jacket.

  After snagging his switched off cellphone out of the pocket of his coat, he spins on his feet to face me. “Good. She’s resting.”

  He peers past my shoulder, seeking Marcus in the empty living room. “Where’s Marcus?”

  “He had some stuff he needed to take care of,” I answer, striving to ignore the swirling of my stomach.

  Jackson’s lips purse as he nods. “Everything alright?” he questions, reading the unease portrayed by my soul-bearing eyes.

  “Yeah, we’re fine. He wanted to stay after Lexi’s attack, but I convinced him to go. He isn’t familiar with CF, so it took me a while to assure him there is no miracle cure for her condition.”

  Since the last half of my statement was honest, it concealed the deceit in the first half of my reply. Although Marcus didn’t elaborate on his sudden emergency, my intuition is telling me something seems off-kilter with him.

  “Was it really Lexi’s third attack this week?” I ask Jackson, praying I didn’t hear him right earlier.

  The concern in Jackson’s eyes deepens as he nods. “I wanted to tell you, Cleo, but she begged me not to,” he advises, his tone inhibited by remorse.

  Air escapes my lips, his admission physically winding me. “The CF specialist? Is it not helping. . .” My words trail off when I spot Jackson shaking his head.

  “She stopped going a couple of weeks ago,” he informs me while switching on his cellphone.

  I'm not surprised when he scrolls to his contacts, and I see his second most frequently dialed number is Dr. Spencer. He is the CF specialist who suggested Lexi attend daily physio session four months ago.

  “Why would Lexi stop attending therapy? If she doesn’t attend her attacks will worsen,” I mutter, more to myself than Jackson.

  “I’m about to find out.” Jackson nudges his head to the screen of his phone which has Dr. Spencer’s number displayed.

  "Dr. Spencer won't give you any information pertaining to Lexi. He can't. That would be a massive violation of patient/doctor confidentiality," I blubber out, my words fired off my tongue so quickly they aren't adequately developed.

  Jackson’s brow cocks. “Lexi put me on her HIPAA consent forms last month.”

  I take a step backward as shock registers its intention. I don't know what's more surprising: I was so wrapped up in Marcus, I failed to notice Jackson's importance in Lexi's life, or the fact my little sister may have fallen in love. I think it's a bit of both.

  “You love her,” I mumble, confirming what Marcus recognized in a matter of seconds.

  Jackson takes a moment deliberating a response before he nods. “I do. I really do. But the thought of losing her scares the shit out of me, Cleo. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

  Tears prick my eyes from the dense sentiment of his tone. I try to offer him some reassurance that she isn't going anywhere, but I can't. As much as I wish it weren't true, one day CF will take Lexi away from us. Jackson knows this as well as anyone.

  I scrub my hand over my cheek to remove my sneaky tear before Jackson sees it. Although his eyes are fixated on his phone, I have no doubt he saw it. The veins thrumming in his neck stopped pulsing the instant my rogue tear dribbled down my face.

  When Jackson lifts his cell to his ear, I excuse myself from our gathering and pad down the hall. I pretend I'm using the bathroom, where, in reality, I just want to check on Lexi. Although Lexi's coughing fits are nothing out of the ordinary for us, today's was a little more daunting. It may feel that way because of all the shit I've been hammered with the past week, but it doesn't make it any less worrying.

  Just like Jackson said, Lexi is resting in the middle of her bed. Her cheeks have returned to their regular coloring, and the frown marring her face has vanished. The only indication of her severe attack is the wheezing of her breaths as she snores softly. She is as beautiful as ever.

  Caressing her door to ensure it doesn’t give out a creak, I close it and pad to the bathroom. I did need to use the facilities, but my desire to check on Lexi outweighed the screaming protests of my bladder.

  Once I've done my business, I wash my hands in the cracked vanity and pace back into the living room. My brisk strides slow when I spot Jackson's defeated posture. His shoulders are hanging low, and his hand is scrubbing over the heavy stubble on his chin. I jump in fright when he unexpectedly punches the wall in front of him, his force so brutal, his fist dents the drywall.

  Sensing he has company, he straightens his spine, extending to his full height. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he cranks his neck to the side. The panic bubbling my veins increases when I see the devastated look in his eyes. Anyone would swear he was just informed CF is an incurable disease.

  “Dr. Spencer said Lexi hasn’t arrived for an appointment in over a month.” His voice is so rough it sounds like it was dragged over a gravel road before leaving his mouth. “She stopped showing up after her health insurance claims were denied two sessions in a row.”

  I stop frozen halfway down the hall, my brain too busy racking the conditions of our health coverage to follow the prompts of my body. I am absolutely stunned by Jackson’s admission. I’ve always chosen the most comprehensive policy for Lexi’s health insurance. Even when the premiums skyrocketed, I copped the expense as her health is my utmost priority.

  It doesn't matter how many times I analyze the information Jackson supplied me; it never makes any sense. "That can't be right, Jackson. There must be a mistake. I'd just as soon starve than sacrifice Lexi's health coverage. You know I'd never jeopardize her health by choosing lower coverage."

  “I know, Cleo. You don’t need to tell me twice,” Jackson replies, the honesty in his eyes bolstering his statement. “I’m just relaying to you what Dr. Spencer told me.”

  Another stretch of silence passes between us. I spend the entire time struggling to work out why Lexi's health coverage would change. It doesn't make any sense. I only updated our premiums last quarter, and nothing in our lives has changed since then . . . I stop frozen as blood roars to my ears.

  “She wouldn’t,” I whisper under my breath.

  My heart rate spikes to a dangerous level. “Yes, she would,” I snarl as anger overtakes every nerve-ending in my body.

  I dart to the entranceway table where I left my cellphone last night. My steps are remarkably stable for how potently rage is roaring through my body. Upon discovering my cracked and beyond repair cell, I shift my eyes to Jackson.

  “Can you stay with Lexi?” I ask him.

  Not waiting for him to reply, I gather my thin winter coat and thrust my arms into the sleeves. This jacket is in even worse shape than the one I left at Marcus's hotel. Its cuffs are as decrepit as the lady I am about to go to battle with.

  Once my shuddering frame is covered with my coat, I spin a scarf around my neck and slip into a pair of stilettos I usually wear in summer. I'm halfway out my front door when reality crashes into me: I don't have my car. Intuiting my needs, Jackson's keys sail through the air. I suck in a grateful breath when my nearsightedness doesn't stop me catching them mid-air.

  “The hospital pays all my tolls,” Jackson shouts as I gallop down the front stairs, intuiting what I am about to do.

  Jackson’s truck goes shooting out of my driveway approximately five minutes later. My brisk departure was delayed from struggling to adjust his driver’s seat. Although frustrated about the delay, it was necessary. I can barely see over the steering wheel, not to mention my inability to reach the brake pedal.

  With my mind shut down, I glide Jackson's truck past Montclair Station and continue down Valley Road. Before I know it, I'm circling the multistory parking bay, seeking a free parking spot in the Global Ten Media parking lot. Considering it's a little before three on a Sunday afternoon, it only takes me mere minutes to find a free spot. After parking between a hummer and a sporty BMW, I snag my purse off the seat and slide out
of Jackson's truck. While using my coat as shelter from the miserable weather, I dodge my way through native New Yorkers smart enough to grab an umbrella before leaving their residence.

  By the time I enter Global Ten Media's foyer, I look like a drowned rat. My hair is damp and clinging to my drenched plain white tee, and my jeans have puddle marks halfway up the calf, but I push on, more determined than ever. My pace is unchecked as I scan my ID in the security system, then make a beeline to the elevator banks. Even gaining the curious glance of the two business-clad riders in the elevator cart doesn't slow my fortitude. I am far from salvage. When it comes to workplace disagreements, I am usually a reasonably placid person. But when I'm forced to protect the people I love, nothing is below me. Not even the possibility of being fired—or even worse, sued!

  Delilah’s unfortunate receptionist Debbie glances at me, her eyes widening when she notices my tornado-like charge down the elegantly staged corridor. Just like my office, Delilah’s workplace has had a drastic uptick in design the past three months. Gone is the ghastly basement office with leaking pipes and mildew smell, replaced with an office space that looks like it should grace the pages of Home Living. I’m not at all surprised to discover Delilah is still working late on a Sunday afternoon. You can’t have a life if you have no soul.

  Ignoring Debbie’s advice that Delilah is in a meeting, I swing open her office door. My force is so brutal, her door sails through the air before smashing into the blacked-out privacy glass sheltering her office from the unlucky people working under her supervision.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Delilah! I may have taken your crap for years, but that shit ends now!”

  Hearing my commotion, the large leather chair facing the timeless view of New York swivels to the front. Wearing a midnight black pantsuit and a dark gray ruffled-neck blouse, her small frame is swamped by blackness. Fitting, considering she is the spawn of Satan. With a cellphone pushed against her ear, she runs her beady black eyes down the length of my frame. Her gaze is so fierce, the puddle stains on my jeans let off steam.

  After advising her caller she will call them back, she locks her slit gaze with me. The pompousness etched on her abhorrent face grows when she notices my split lip. A sturdy concealer and liquid foundation made quick work of the bruise on my cheek, but no amount of makeup can conceal the cut on my mouth.

  “Chloe, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Delilah slurs her greeting, ensuring I can’t miss the incorrect name.

  She glares into my eyes, aggravating me with her malicious scowl. Determined to prove her bullying has no effect on me whatsoever, I push off my feet and pace to her desk. The thinness of her eyes grows with every confident stride I take.

  "You have ten minutes to fix my sister's health coverage. If you fail to adhere to my request, my next visit will be to Mr. Carson." I cross my arms over my chest, hoisting my erratically panting breasts high into the air. "He made it very clear to me yesterday that your type of intimidation is not acceptable in his company."

  Mr. Carson built his company from the ground up with nothing but hard work and honesty. One of the main reasons I wanted to intern at Global Ten Media was because of the values he instilled in his business. He dared to take a risk in an industry he knew nothing about, and within years it was one of the most respected companies in the nation. It was a truly awe-inspiring experience to see a local New Jersey local become so successful. So much so, I gave anything to become a part of it.

  For years, Global Ten was known for its integrity, how it chose valor over comfort, and it knew right from wrong. That all changed the instant Global Ten grew too large for one man to helm. With Mr. Carson’s role replaced by a twelve-man board, the honor Mr. Carson ingrained into his company slowly slipped. The caliber of stories went from hard-hitting articles based on factual evidence to glossy entertainment pieces blinded by a chokingly hazardous amount of glitter, primarily put there to hide the loosely-based evidence the story was built on.

  As the readership Mr. Carson worked so hard to gain dwindled, so did the morals of his company. It went from a vibrantly hip workplace to dull and boring within a year. It has continued its downhill run the past four years. I was hoping Mr. Carson’s sudden revival in Global Ten Media’s headquarters was the first step to returning Global Ten back to its glory days. Clearly, my entire axis has been off-kilter the past three months, not just my heart.

  The corners of Delilah's lips crimp as she struggles to contain her vindictive smirk. "I am sure Mr. Carson will welcome you into his office with open arms, Cleo.” Her tone is low and straight to the point. "Would you like me to go with you? Then I can explain to him why I believe your level of health coverage should remain where it is?"

  I inwardly gasp, stunned she confirmed my accusation. Usually, she skirts any hostility to her closed-fist governing with blatant lies. She’s not once been upfront in the entire time we’ve worked together. I underestimated this woman. She isn’t the spawn of Satan; she is Satan.

  Taking my stunned silence as agreement, Delilah stands from her chair and walks around her desk. Her head is held high, her nose pointed down. When she stands next to me, I roll my shoulders and extend to my full height, not allowing her nearly six-foot height to swamp my five-foot-five stature.

  “Lead the way,” I suggest, waving my hand across the front of my body, my tone void of a single snip of hesitation.

  Delilah’s eyes blaze with contempt. “Give me a few moments to gather some documentation. I’d hate for Mr. Carson to make an ill-informed decision due to lack of evidence.”

  “What evidence could you possibly have to present? Other than defying his direct order? We had an agreement, Delilah. Global Ten Media was to pay my sister’s medical and school expenses for the remainder of her life. Although slapping you was worth a million pennies, it wasn’t worthy enough to cease the terms of the agreement I signed with Global Ten three months ago. Unless they want a lawsuit on their hands, they will uphold their end of our agreement.”

  The condescension in Delilah’s eyes grows, as does the pompous smirk carved on her thin lips. She looks like a woman holding a royal flush; little does she know I’ve already peered at her deck. She has nothing but worthless threats stacking her overused hand.

  I jump out of my skin when Delilah unexpectedly shrieks, “Debbie!” Her boisterous roar rockets through my eardrums.

  Like magic, Debbie appears at Delilah’s side before the ringing of Delilah’s loud squeal clears from my ears.

  “I need a copy of Cleo’s employment contract she signed three months ago,” Delilah informs Debbie, her eyes unwavering from mine “Most particularly, section 2.3.2 of her contract.”

  Delilah waits for Debbie to leave her office before turning her gleaming-with-victory gaze back to me. She glances into my eyes, soundlessly building suspense. The silence makes my skin clammy and my stomach jittery.

  Only once the air becomes thick with tension does she say, “Did you bother reading the confidentiality provision of your contract, Cleo? In particular, the indemnification clause?”

  Knowing exactly where she is taking our conversation, I nod. “Only a fool would sign a contract without reading the terms.”

  Delilah steps closer to me, infusing the air with a rich bottled perfume scent. “So you're aware of your legal responsibility for any losses, damages, or expenses, including attorney fees, if you do not adhere to the contract?” Her tone is low—borderline psychotic.

  Not waiting for me to reply, Delilah continues speaking, “The repercussions for your failure to adhere to your employment contract will be endless. By the time I’m finished with you, the loss of a few luxuries on your health insurance coverage will be the least of your concerns.”

  “I haven’t breached my contract, Delilah,” I respond, shaking my head.

  Although last night I disclosed to Marcus I work as a journalist at Global Ten Media, that information is public knowledge. It does not put me in breach of my employment contra
ct.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised by your failure to thoroughly research a topic, Delilah. You’ve always had a horrid tendency to jump the gun.” I grimace when my words don’t come out with the assuredness I am aiming for.

  “Cavorting with a man you're investigating may not place you in violation of your contract, but disclosing and tampering with imperative information on a story we are investigating does.”

  “How have I disclosed or tampered with imperative information?” I retaliate, my pitch rising in anger. “I’d have to know imperative information before I could disclose it. And considering you’ve spent the last three months treating me as if I am a dumb bimbo without a brain, I don’t know a darn thing. My knowledge on the Chains story is as lacking as your grace and dignity. Both are severely overdue for an overhaul.”

  My rant comes to an end when Delilah sneers, “I know you not only went undercover in the BDSM lifestyle, Cleo, you’re immersed in it. As if it isn’t disgraceful enough you bowed on your knees, you took it one step further by tampering with classified information. Thus, not only placing your employment status on the line, but also risking your freedom.”

  I balk, utterly flabbergasted. My lips move as I struggle to issue some type of comeback, but not a peep seeps from my lips. I am wholly stumped for a reply, too confused from deciphering her ill-guided assumptions to formulate a response.

  Although I am stunned, that doesn’t mean I’ll roll over and take every willful blow from Delilah. It's finally time to stand up for myself. And the first person I am going to take down is the witch glaring at me in disdain.

  “My employee contract clearly states ‘the private affairs of an employee should be of no concern to the employer unless they are found to portray the company in a negative light.’”