Dr. Fellatio

by Author Stella

  “She’s nice, but I doubt I’ll hear from her.”

  “Why?”

  “Money.”

  I turned to walk back to my desk, but Jasmine jumped down and followed after me. “You could work a deal with her.”

  “I don’t do deals.”

  “Do you have any idea what she could do for your hair, Alex?”

  I stopped abruptly and turned back. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, but it could be different.”

  I ran my fingers through my tresses. “It’s one of my best features.”

  “You haven’t changed the cut since we met in college. You should go see her, and let her work her magic.”

  “As in barter?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not interested in becoming her friend.”

  “You used to be fun.”

  “I’m still fun.”

  “Yeah, about as much fun as a wooden dildo. Come on, I’ll set it up and go with you. Maybe she can do something that will revitalize your love life.” She swatted me on the behind.

  “I’m single by choice.” And I was. If I wanted to date, the pool of eligible men in Atlanta was vast—I just wasn’t interested.

  “Fine, then be single with great color.”

  “My hair is almost black, Jasmine. No one can do anything with that.”

  “Candi can.”

  I rolled my eyes and wandered back to my desk. When I sat down in front of my computer, the screen was dark and reflected my image back at me. Staring at the girl I saw, I pushed my hair away from my face and then pulled it up, scrunching it into different styles and pursing my lips.

  “You could put a bag over your head and still be beautiful. Just make sure you don’t hold it around your neck without cutting a breathing hole in it.” Carl’s voice was monotone, and he never looked up, so I wasn’t sure how he saw me making fish faces at my monitor.

  “Jasmine thinks I need to do something different with my look.”

  “I hear girls like spa days. You should treat yourself. Although, you might want to do it under a pseudonym. No one can pronounce your last name, much less spell it.”

  Glancing over, I took him in, really sized him up. His name was awful, but he was a good-looking guy. We’d been sharing a cube and sitting across from each other for five years, and I realized just how little we actually spoke. The occasional exchange of sarcastic banter hadn’t really created much of a connection, but he was funny…in a dry and slightly obnoxious way. He caught me staring at him for a second too long. I held his eyes—they were a piercing, vibrant green that would have beckoned my attention a handful of years ago.

  “What? Is there mustard on my nose? Jesus. I thought I got it all off.” He stood and marched out of our cube before I could stop giggling and tell him no.

  When he returned, he went straight to work. I had no idea what he was so intent on over there. We both worked on the same menial crap, and I hadn’t seen anything come across the group email that was even remotely interesting, much less enthralling.

  “Hey, Carl?”

  “Yeah.” Again, he didn’t look away from what he was doing.

  “Why aren’t we friends?”

  “You mean other than the fact that this company has sucked the life out of both of us?”

  I nodded…I mean, how else does one respond to that question?

  “Because I asked you out four and a half years ago and you turned me down, claiming you had just gotten out of a relationship. I figured that meant you weren’t interested in being pals, either.”

  “Pals?” I chuckled. It was impossible not to find humor in his rhetoric.

  “Amigos. Comrades. BFFs. Homies. I can come up with a list of synonyms if those aren’t clear.”

  My teeth dug into my bottom lip. I hadn’t remembered him asking me out, but I didn’t remember much about that time other than I was still under the impression that if I worked my ass off, I’d land a position on an ad team within a year. Carl, Jasmine, and I were the only three left who had started in that wave of junior account reps.

  “What’s up with all the personal questions today?” he deadpanned.

  “All? I’ve only asked two.”

  “That’s two more than you’ve asked in the last five years.”

  I didn’t have a response. Maybe Jasmine was right, maybe I’d lost my spark. I put on a bit of a show as Dr. Fellatio, but it hadn’t dawned on me how little I lived my own life. Without overthinking it, I marched over to Jasmine’s desk and hovered until she hung up the phone.

  “Make an appointment.”

  “With Candi?”

  The nod I gave caused her to squeal and clap. If she bounced one more time, I might smack her. This went against everything my contract outlined, but I let her make the arrangements before I could back out.

  “That’s right, C-a-c-i-n-i-c-z.” She repeated the spelling again before she tried sounding it out phonetically. “Oh forget it, just put Alex.” Now she saw what I dealt with on a daily basis.

  Luckily, Candi had a cancelation this Saturday. I could hear her giddy excitement as Jasmine talked to her, but I tried to keep my own at bay.

  Two days later, I sat in Candi’s chair in one of the most elite salons in all of Atlanta. Centered in the heart of Buckhead, she was to stylists what I was to oral sex—and her prices accurately reflected it.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Alex.” While she talked, I returned her gaze in the mirror. “You’ve got great hair. What did you want to do today?”

  “She needs a cut and color,” Jasmine chimed in standing next to her new friend.

  “Any ideas on what you want?”

  “Something other than the Cher vibe she has going on.”

  I swatted behind me, hitting Jasmine in the arm. “I do not look like Cher.”

  “During her Sonny Bono days…you kind of do.” Jasmine stretched her mouth out, raising her cheeks and eyebrows with an I-hate-to-tell-you expression.

  “Next you’re going to say I favor Pocahontas.”

  “The Native American or the Disney princess?” She moved out of the way before I could make contact.

  “I hate you.” I didn’t really.

  “You love me.” She turned to Candi. “Make her beautiful. I’ll be back.” She didn’t wait for a response and left me with my jaw hanging open. Jasmine suggested this little soiree and then bailed, leaving me with a girl named Candi Caine.

  I directed my attention back to the stylist. “Just make me look young again.”

  “Young again? You can’t be a day over thirty-five.”

  “I’m twenty-seven.” Clearly, a makeover was long overdue.

  I should thank Jasmine.

  But I won’t.

  She began to work, and for whatever reason, I started to talk. “I haven’t done anything different to my hair in years.”

  “Lots of women get bogged down and don’t want a change. But I think we can give you some highlights and layers. It’ll create a new look that will leave people wondering what you did without realizing how you did it.”

  We entered into the obligatory chitchat that stylists shared with their clients—much like I assumed bartenders shared with drunks. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something to pamper myself—other than splurge on insanely expensive high heels—or the last time I’d let my guard down. Candi was a sweet girl. Definitely not the brightest crayon in the box, but genuinely nice, and I imagined she’d be fun to hang out with—if that were allowed in the contract, which it was not.

  She’d grown up in California and was the only child of Ken and Barbara Caine. Her mother—affectionately known to her friends as Barbie—was her best friend, and she missed her mom more than anything since moving. Knowing Barbie and Ken lived in a DreamHouse in Malibu, and Barbie sold Mary Kay—pink Cadillac level—explained a lot about Candi…and her parents’ sense of humor. The girl had a heart of gold. She was the type who o
nly saw the good in people, and it made me a tad envious. There was a time I’d been that carefree. Back when I wasn’t jaded—when love drove my life and nothing ever got me down.

  I missed that girl.

  And Candi was bound and determined to remind me that she was still inside, waiting for me to set her free. Three and a half hours later, I’d negotiated a deal for her to pay half my normal rate and the rest to be paid in salon services. Then we made plans to have dinner before we went to her house for our initial visit. When she turned me around to see my reflection for the first time since she’d started working, it brought tears to my eyes.

  My long, thick, almost black hair that had hung heavy down the middle of my back now bounced just a couple inches below my shoulders in layers, the shortest curling beneath my chin. She’d managed to give me a warm, chocolate base with so many dimensions of honey and caramel that she’d almost wiped out my Polynesian roots.

  “Wow. I’m almost not recognizable. You really are a genius.”

  “Color is my calling.” She shrugged as if her gift wasn’t all that impressive.

  She removed the cape, fluffed my layers, and then gave it a spritz of hairspray. I hadn’t felt this light in years. I never imagined the weight of my hair could have such a profound effect on my outlook. I left the salon with a pep in my step—and I dared to say, a new friend.

  3

  Lexi

  Jasmine: Not sure what’s happening, but the floor is buzzing, and your name is attached.

  Alexia: I can’t imagine why. Did I make the coffee too strong this morning?

  Jasmine: I’m serious, Alex. What did you do?

  Alexia: Nothing. I’ve been making copies and responding to emails since I got in.

  Jasmine: Martin was called upstairs.

  Alexia: Sounds like Martin has an issue, but it has nothing to do with me.

  Being summoned to the fifth floor was the equivalent of going to the principal’s office. Nothing good happened in the penthouse of Seneca Marketing for people of our rank. It was where the highest-level management offices were, and they didn’t co-mingle with those of us who actually did the work—not that I even fell into that category. I was second floor—meaning one rung up from the bottom of the barrel. The only people below me in the Seneca hierarchy were the janitors and those in the mailroom downstairs. All the junior account representatives were on the second floor, account reps, salespeople, and the IT helpdesk were on the floor above us, accounting and the risk departments on four, and the bigwigs on five. There were department heads mingled throughout, but they were few and far between, and their placement wasn’t necessarily logical—just inconvenient.

  “I heard Martin wants to see you.” Carl quirked his brow in my direction as though something scandalous was going on between our boss and me. “And it’s urgent.”

  Martin was one of the unfortunate department heads who’d ended up on a lower level to manage the riffraff.

  “Stop looking at me like that. He probably needs an espresso from Starbucks before his ten o’clock meeting.” I glanced at the time on my monitor. “Oh look, that means I have roughly six minutes to change my shoes”—I kept sneakers under my desk for such occasions—“take his order, and race down the street and back.”

  He just kept staring at me as though he waited for something more profound.

  “What?” My mind was somewhere other than Carl’s question.

  “Lover’s spat?”

  “Oh my God, I’m going to hit you.”

  “So you’re going for sexual harassment and workplace violence in one day? You’ve become a brazen little thing, Cazineechi.” He winked at me, and I noticed for the second time in a week what beautiful eyes he had. “That’s what you get for upping your game.”

  I ignored the horrible mispronunciation of my last name and focused on the only thing I cared about. “Upping my game?”

  “Yeah—your hair and stuff. You just look different these days.” There was a hint of intrigue in his expression. “Martin likes his ladies with a bit of mystery.”

  I laughed. “I don’t even know what that means, Carl.”

  “Do you like older men?”

  “Not in their sixties.”

  He choked on his coffee before coughing loudly. “You realize he’s forty-two, right?”

  My eyes went wide. “No way. Mother Nature has not been kind to him.”

  “Either that or Seneca Marketing…take your pick.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and he promptly dismissed me. No sooner had I turned back to my computer than my messenger dinged, and Tracy called me to Martin’s office.

  Alexia: Do I need to put on my tennis shoes?

  I was prepared to put on my sneakers and grab my purse to make a run to the coffee shop on the corner. Nothing like an emerald Michael Kors dress that accentuated my curves with a pair of hot-pink cross trainers to really wow the fashion world.

  Tracy: No. I’m pretty sure you’re not being sent out. But you might want to bring tissues.

  Alexia: For what?

  I rolled my chair back and peered out the opening to my cube to Tracy’s desk in front of Martin’s office, but I couldn’t see her face. She had started here about the time I had, but she gave up hope for an account representative position and took the first job they had offered her. She’d been Martin’s assistant ever since. Tracy had the forethought to see the writing on the wall when Miriam Pratt was bought out. She knew with our staff joining theirs, the coveted positions on the ad teams would be harder to obtain. It was a tossup as to which of us actually had the worse job. Being a gopher wasn’t ideal, especially with the years of service I had here, but Martin was really high-strung, always stressed out, and had a tendency to bark at people. No one really cared what I did as long as I was around when they needed something and out of their way when they didn’t.

  Another message came through on my computer, pulling me back to my desk.

  Tracy: He’s waiting for you.

  Her refusal to answer my question only further served to prove Jasmine’s statement. I didn’t have a clue what I could have done to cause me to be in trouble. I couldn’t come up with anything. Mentally, I ran through the last week trying to determine what I’d missed or messed up, but I was at a dead end. Our team’s accounts were all on track—nothing I was responsible for could be called into question.

  Tracy sat stoically behind the ornate desk in front of Martin’s office when I got to the end of the row of cubicles. Her eyes were rimmed red and slightly bloodshot, but I couldn’t tell if she’d been crying or had a sudden allergy attack.

  “You okay?”

  She pulled her lips between her teeth and blinked hard, twice. Then she nodded and pointed toward our boss’s door. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and a chill ran down my spine wondering if her odd behavior foreshadowed my fate on the other side of that door. When my knuckles tapped on the frosted glass, I almost hoped there was no answer.

  “Come in,” Martin snarled from just a few feet away, but it was as if he’d been standing at my side screaming in my ear.

  I didn’t startle easily, but the sound of his command made me jump. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the handle and walked into his office.

  “Close the door, Alex.”

  This couldn’t be good.

  Martin and I didn’t have a great relationship—we basically didn’t have one at all—but he’d never said a cross word to me, much less raised his voice. Watching him hover behind his desk, he appeared intimidating in a way I’d never seen. His jacket was haphazardly thrown over the back of his chair, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His askew tie gave me every indication that whatever had taken place before I came in wasn’t good. The stare-down between the two of us probably only lasted a few seconds, but in that time, his dark eyes bored holes through me. His five-o’clock shadow added to the discontent, and he suddenly appeared larger than life—menacing.

  “Sit, Alex.
”

  I moved forward to take one of the chairs he offered. The edge of the seat wasn’t all that comfortable, but I hoped it would keep my knee from bouncing and giving away my trepidation. With my hands folded in my lap, I waited…and sweated. The heat under my arms made me even more uncomfortable than Martin. The perspiration felt like pools, and when the first trickle ran down my side, I had to force myself not to groan.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” My voice had come out far more calm and collected than I felt, but I had to try to keep it from shaking.

  “Why do you keep ignoring the emails from the IT department?”

  “The only email I saw was regarding the new director, but I didn’t get to read it before someone deleted it from the group inbox.” My brow turned in, furrowing in confusion.

  “The files you’ve been saving in the new software are uploading directly to our website. Your team’s design concepts are being posted online for our competitors to see. This morning, you uploaded a video so large it crashed the site.”

  He held up a stack of paper that was half an inch thick and waved them in my direction.

  “These are all copies of the emails from the IT department telling you the proper procedure for saving the files in the new program. They even include screenshots. I don’t understand how you’ve messed this up. I haven’t even begun to field the calls from our clients who had new products exposed before they were released.”

  My mind reeled trying to comprehend what he was talking about, but it was blank. “Martin, I don’t have anything to do with account files. I don’t even have access to the new system. The junior account reps don’t go for training until next week.” My voice cracked in my defense.

  “Your access ID is associated with every file.”

  “I don’t have access to the program. It’s not even downloaded on my computer. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We don’t get it until we go to training. Plus, I haven’t been involved with any of the campaigns currently under development. I spend my days emailing clients about colors and images, making copies, or fetching coffee. I was on the phones all last week because Todd was out.” This was asinine. Whatever happened, I wasn’t the cause of it.