"He's the editor, which I would've been if it wasn't for him," Stanna replied, frowning. Thoughts of food fled her mind. Jake was mangling her column and her career. Intolerable.
Before she knew it, she was halfway down the hallway. "I'll talk to you later," she called back over her shoulder, belatedly. Oh, well. Telly knew she was impulsive and wouldn't take her abrupt departure personally. Her roomie was probably rolling her eyes with the kind of eloquence and grace only Telly could manage.
She sped to her bedroom and flew to her desk, parking herself in front of Old Reliable. She stroked the keyboard, composing the column in her mind before typing a word. Then she began.
Reviewing it an hour later, she couldn't help laughing. It worked just fine in letting her new boss know she wasn't one to be pushed around, and she felt oh so much better now too. This was even better than drinking wine and talking to Telly, 'cause the tyrant in the corner office would actually read this!
He would recognize himself in her column, since she talked about a testosterone-soaked caveman who made business decisions with his "divining rod." She hoped it made him mad enough to call her into his office again. This time she'd be prepared, though. Now she knew what to expect. Kind of.
Not really.
Well, maybe she didn't hope he called for her. Maybe magazine life could continue on uninterrupted, though, the way it used to be. Surely he had better things to do, other responsibilities of managing the magazine business.
He’d just have to wake up to modern reality. It wasn't fair or appropriate to change her column to be the voice of Neanderthals, men's magazine or not, and it wasn’t good business despite his misguided opinion. He might give her a man's byline. "Stan" was the name he’d picked out, she thought with amusement. How many people would even be fooled by the changing of her name?
But rewrite her entire column? He wouldn’t have time.
She suddenly wondered what revenge he would have time to take. Might he use his red editor’s pencil on her column? Or might he do something worse? For a moment, a shadow of dread passed over her and a calm and reasonable voice within her asked if she knew what she was getting into.
Stanna acknowledged the voice's point even as she reached for a paperclip to fasten the editorial runsheet to her column. It really was much too late for second thoughts. She'd taken her stand.
Unlike some people who questioned themselves into a corner, she'd stick by her decision until she succeeded. Or until someone convinced her men didn't desperately need to hear what she had to say in her column every week.
Not bloody likely.
She felt a shiver of anticipation. Wondering at it, she realized she was looking forward to the battle.
CHAPTER TWO
She should’ve gone to bed earlier.
The effects of sipping wine with Telly then finessing her column until late into the night dragged on Stanna: slightly foggy upstairs, and her limbs were slow taking orders from her.
She prescribed herself coffee and walked to the Wednesday morning employee meeting. She was curious about the very first meeting chaired by the new editor/owner, but more curious about Jake's reaction to the column she’d drop on his desk afterward. The anticipation of seeing him again made her smile, a touch nervously.
Stanna warmed her hands on the mug of coffee, enjoying its heat and the new-coffee aroma wafting back as she strode to the conference room. She might actually have to give Jake a bit of credit. He'd dumped the notoriously bad industrial brew Ian called coffee and stocked the kitchen with savory Starbucks flavors sometime in the past twenty-four hours.
Stanna pushed her hip against the shining metal handlebar on one of the large glass doors to the conference room. She slipped inside with practiced skill before the door could swing shut and dislodge her coffee.
The room was the largest one on the entire floor, the length of perhaps ten employee cubicles end-to-end. The oversized glass doors fitted into glass wall, and at the other end a floor-to-ceiling window had an uninspiring view of the big brown high-rise next to theirs. Sitting at the long wooden table were most of the Men's Weekly employees, and she greeted some of her friends and pulled up a chair near the head of the table. The glass doors opened again and Jake pushed through.
"Ok, let's get this thing started." He nudged his chair further underneath the head of the table and stood behind it, lightly grasping the chair back. The glass doors shut, creating a tiny breeze that whooshed past him and over Stanna. She could smell the understated scent of his woodsy cologne along with her coffee, since he was an uncomfortably insufficient three feet away. He smelled of quality and competence, and pure, raw masculinity. It was disturbing, and she couldn't help but look at the man who originated the scent.
Even more disturbing.
He wasn't looking at her, but had his strong profile turned to survey the others of his staff. He might have been counting, or just interested in seeing all his people gathered in one place.
In all, exactly nineteen employees ringed the long table. They were a varied bunch, with slightly more men than women, all dressed more or less casually or business-casual, as per norm. The publishing industry hosted a relaxed dress code, which the artistic employees who gravitated to such jobs appreciated.
Even Jake took "casual" to an extreme, for an owner anyway. Making a point about his wanting to be one of the crew? Trying to set a new casual standard? Or did he just prefer more laid-back clothes? She didn’t know, but Stanna reluctantly admired the way Jake's rugged, broken-in jeans hugged his narrow hips. Her angle next to him gave her a hip-height vantage point, and her eyes naturally fell on his pocket-tucked thumb pinning his black shirt to make an open curtain frame for the generously rounded, faded button-fly front. Her breath caught, and she looked for a full, mesmerized second before quickly lowering her gaze, her face heated. It didn't help. Now she could see his superbly muscled thigh and calf, and down by the wheels on the chair, the leather peek of cowboy boots.
His voice was smoky, melodious. She enjoyed the tone of it for a few moments before lending her attention to the content. She didn't quite dare to look up at his face yet -- had he seen her ogling his crotch? How embarrassing. What was she doing, anyway, with such thoughts of... of consorting with the enemy.
She scanned her fellow employees instead. They seemed to be hanging on every word he said. To be fair, it was interesting, the way he described his decision to buy Men's Weekly. And his declaration in ringing tones of his commitment to his employees. Very convincing. They were certainly eating it all up. Michael the art director was looking at Jake with something like adoration.
What about how he fired Ian, Stanna thought with some bitterness. Where was all Jake’s so-called employee commitment then, hmmm? A cynical puff of sound escaped her, making some of her nearer co-workers glance at her questioningly. But the disapproving compression of her lips slowly eased as she listened to Jake’s words.
"...and of course some of you must be wondering why your former editor, Ian, had to be let go, and whether there will be any more changes." Jake turned and looked down to meet Stanna's startled glance up at him. His mouth momentarily curved in sardonic amusement, then his eyes flicked back over the long table of employees calmly. "The short answer to the first question is, Ian is no longer needed since I am assuming the role of editor. For those of you who are wondering, he was receptive to the idea of an early retirement, and seemed content to accept the terms of the severance package I offered him."
Not wasn't exactly true, Jake mused, but they didn't need to know the gory details of the previous editor's refusal to accept the termination and his nastiness and threats to Jake.
Ian had finally taken Jake's more-than-generous severance and left, not without promising Jake he hadn't heard the last of him. But Jake thought that he had. The sixty-year-old would have to be a fool not to realize what a sweet deal he'd received, considering the incompetent way he’d been running the magazine.
At least Ian hadn't h
ad a contract, Jake thought, fighting the urge to look again at his female columnist. He liked the way her smooth golden hair fell to well above her small round breasts pushing against her white T-shirt. He remembered how testy she’d been in his office yesterday. Passionate. Was she the type to display the same kind of passion in bed? The thoughts made him self-consciously wonder for a moment if he possessed more than the average amount of healthy male lust, and he moved closer to the chair back in front of him.
Jake opened a manila folder and pulled out some handouts he'd prepared. Handing them to the guy on his left, he said, "Please take one and pass ‘em on. This," he said, raising his voice to include the whole table, "should answer most of your questions about the changes I want to implement in Men's Weekly. It's an overview explanation with a breakdown by department showing what each of you will be responsible for. Please take a look at it. I’ll discuss this first, then I'll answer any questions."
When the diminished pile of handouts got to Stanna, she pulled one from the top and placed the last one, pinch-fingered, in front of Jake. Silence ruled the room. Glancing down at the sheet, Stanna's eyes widened. There, in title-type at the top of the page, was Jake's new Men's Weekly slogan: "GIVING MEN WHAT THEY WANT, WHEN THEY WANT IT."
Stanna bristled, but on second thought shrugged, figuring it was just marketing. The line could simply be referring to baseball cards. Or something that was totally innocent.
But when her eyes scanned down to her new responsibilities, she knew her problem would be much bigger than baseball cards:
"'STAN SAYS,' formerly 'Woman's Word,' is Stanna Whitland's responsibility. The voice should be a hip, hungry heterosexual male who delivers a weekly column on troubles plaguing the modern man: employment, women, finances, women, fitness, women, you get the picture. Surveys say men want to hear about women. This is the magazine's main forum for it. In addition to this weekly column, Stanna's official responsibilities now include handling the main phone line and acting as receptionist, managing the departmental correspondence (mail, Fed Ex, faxes, memos, etc.), and any other special projects I give her."
The florescent light in the conference room gave the white sheet of destiny in front of her an unpleasant glare. Stanna felt her stomach tighten in a defensive ball as the shock kicked in. There it was, committed to print for everyone to see. Her column, a forum for slobbering over women. And, as if that weren't enough, he'd made her receptionist too. Receptionist. The lowest rung on the magazine ladder. It was a joke. She, Stanna Whitland, had been training under Ian to become the next editor. The highest rung aside from being the publisher or owner. Receptionist. They'd gotten along fine without a receptionist by having everyone answer their own phone. What was this all about?
But the moment she asked herself the question, the answer popped into her head. He's doing it to make you quit.
Her anger coalesced as she stared at the paper in front of her. Scanning quickly, she saw only minor changes to the others' responsibilities.
Definitely out to get her.
It was the sound rather than the conscious decision to do it that made Stanna realize that she'd torn the paper in two. It seemed to echo in the silence of the room, and she became aware that every eye was on her.
Jake didn't seem surprised. His face held an attentive, alert, expression. She could only imagine what the other faces ringing the table revealed. They were suddenly all peripheral blurs.
"Do you have a question?" So Jake was going to play dumb. He exuded the kind of arrogance that made her want to upset his equilibrium, just for the cosmic balance of it.
Her words shot out without any premeditation. "Yes. How did such an ignorant son of a bitch get to be an editor?"
Did I really just say that? Stanna heard gasps around the room. Michael was staring at her like she'd grown a long black hat and sprouted a wart-sporting beak.
Jake's face hardened somehow, showing displeasure without a change in expression. But he controlled it, along with his voice when he answered, "If you’re referring to Ian…” His voice warned.
“I’m not.”
“Then, you’re referring to me. I will say I didn’t attain this position by rudely swearing at my superiors, I assure you."
"You’re certainly not my superior. You’re not superior to Ian either. You’re not superior, end of statement. Get over yourself." The rest of the room had disappeared as far as Stanna was concerned. It was just the two of them. Mano et mano. Duking it out. Maybe she had her "tail feathers in a twist" as her stepfather used to condescendingly tell her, but she had good cause.
So it was with momentary surprise that she registered how Jake's next words were directed at the rest of the table rather than at her.
"Please excuse the interruption, but I think it's best if we resume this meeting next week at the same time." Jake dismissed everyone with a calmness she felt certain he didn't feel. Too quietly, her fellow workers gathered up their mugs and notes and filed solemnly out of the room. The tension in the air prickled her skin.
She swallowed. They were alone.
"I'd like to discuss this further in my office." Jake gave her a neutral, almost distant glance and began walking toward the door, assuming she'd follow him.
"I'm not going to your office," Stanna responded, wishing she were more successful in injecting outrage into her voice.
Jake whipped around. "Yes you will," he snapped, "because I've had enough of this putting on a circus." He stalked toward her, then sideways as he brushed his hair off his face. His movements radiated suppressed energy. There it was, his dangerous side revealed. For some reason she wasn't surprised or afraid; she'd sensed his animal side and seen too much of his ability to control his temper to be fearful, though the tension she sensed made her almost supernaturally alert. And increasingly uncomfortable.
The scent of his cologne wafted over her again, and she couldn't help noticing the commanding presence in the way his stride took possession of the room. It was such a masculine body to be so graceful. The ridiculous thought occurred to her that if he were, indeed, in a circus, then he would be the lion tamer. The cats couldn't help but acknowledge him as their master. It was in the way he stalked.
One arm shot out to point at the clear glass walls, and Stanna blinked.
"Glass is acceptable for design, but it doesn't offer much in the way of privacy. I prefer privacy when I discipline an employee."
Noticing the way she bristled, he smiled tightly. "Also, I’d better take this opportunity to tell you that when I ask for something at work, I expect it to happen, right away, otherwise it's known as insubordination, and I can and will write you up for that." He turned around again and pushed the glass door without looking back. "Enough write ups," she heard him say in a frustrated sotto-voice, "and maybe a lawyer will let me tear up that contract."
Stanna sat for a moment, alone and shaken. Her mind cast about for some sort of plan. Get a lawyer herself? Get out her contract and rip it the way she'd ripped the handout? Give up on the magazine business and try her hand at something more her speed, say, knitting quilts?
No.
The negation came from somewhere deep within her. No lawyers. Whatever had begun, here, with Jake coming and altering her profession and trying to kill her goals, it wasn't finished playing out yet. A lawyer would change the game, making her lose even if she won.
She wouldn't run, she wouldn't cry for help. Strangely enough, she heard her stepfather's sincere but rough Texan-tinged advisory: Play the cards you’ve been dealt. For once, the domineering voice actually seemed to guide her decision rather than give her something to rebel against.
Besides, she was just plain curious how the situation could get any worse. Surely anything she attempted could only improve the situation?
He seemed to really hate her. It bothered her that she cared. Was it possible to hate someone you met only the day before? She believed she hated him too. He was evil, he was ignorant, he was the devil.
She
didn't really think he was the devil though. Stanna rose, resolved to do what she could to repair any damage done. Maybe she’d spoken and acted a trifle hastily. Maybe more than a trifle. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Her face burned as delayed embarrassment about the scene she made struck her. She shouldn't have gone public with their little feud. It hadn’t helped anybody. Especially her. But as it occasionally did, her temper had gotten the better of her.
She would have to call on all her reserves of diplomacy, she thought as she swept up the torn paper. She deposited the two pieces in a narrow, mesh-steel trash receptacle tucked discreetly next to the glass doors on her way out. She’d be humble.
It was too quiet in the industrial-brown carpeted hallway. As if the troops had all retreated to their solitary posts to sift through the morning's events. Or cowered in their foxholes. No hum of gossip or even radios playing.
It made her uneasy.
She walked with her head high toward his lair. Worry dogged her steps, sending spikes of anxiety through her. She admitted to herself, for the first time, she might actually be outgunned.
In his office, Jake tossed his briefcase on his chair instead of his desk. Lumped high with half-unpacked boxes and crowded with somewhat organized piles of paper and film to be sorted, the desk seemed to forbid any more items being placed upon it.
That damn contract. She was going to be much more trouble than he’d realized. He seriously contemplated firing her despite the contract. What a sweet thought. Unfortunately, an impossible one. Jake stroked his temples wearily and leaned against his desk.
He didn't need any legal expenses now, not when he had everything staked on the magazine's success.
Which meant he was stuck with the little pain in the ass. He pressed the flat of his palm against some paper covering the solid wood of his desk, then hit it. It made a satisfying thwap. She had spirit, which under other circumstances he'd admire. She had some talent, too, he reluctantly admitted. He'd read some of her old columns. Her writing snapped and crackled even with the blame-the-men-for-everything feminist subject matter.
L.A. Caveman Page 3