by L. Maleki
Tris emerged without a glance in my direction, though she did set an empty whiskey glass on my desk. So much for bonding. And then out came our CEO. He was wearing Adidas tennis shoes with his suit.
“Frank …” I pointed at his feet, trying to catch his eye.
“Not now.”
I started to follow but he stopped me. “Where do you think you’re going? I need you to go through my appointments and phone calls for the day and reschedule everything.”
Then he and Tris Jenson were gone. The crackle of energy left the room. Michelle was back at her computer, reabsorbed into whatever project I probably should have been doing, and the traders were gabbing, or flipping through Facebook and sliding through Tinder on their smartphones, their feet up on their desks.
For a minute, I considered talking to one of the traders about the biotech stocks Michelle mentioned. Hadn’t the bubble burst in both bio and pharmaceutical? Was Frank sticking with this sector? I needed to keep on top of the financial papers, which would be easy enough since they were lying around here like abandoned children. I wished Frank would talk to me about his strategies, how he finessed the trends. That’s why I’d taken the job, to learn about hedging from a master.
Instead, I gazed at the photos on my desk and broke into a grin. I could no longer bridle the giddiness. I needed to tell someone about Tris Jenson and my photos. Grabbing my phone and one of Lucia’s cigarettes out of my bag, I waved it at Michelle and told her I was headed to the roof for a smoke break. The air was chilly but refreshing.
“Paris. What are you doing here?”
It was Nicki. She was leaning up against a pillar, smoke wafting out of her nose. Standing a foot away, her arms crossed against the cold, was Ericka.
I glanced at Frank’s old EA in surprise but then shrugged and replied, “Smoking. What else would I be doing? Ericka, nice to see you again.”
The woman smiled, though it was strained. “Paris, right? Nice to see you, too. Well, I’m off. Have a good afternoon.”
“I’ll go down with you,” Nicki said, dropping her cigarette on the rooftop. She didn’t look at me, or put out the burning butt, as they made their way back inside.
That was so weird. Maybe they’re girlfriends.
Chapter 11
A back-alley cat fight.
An opera singer, punched in the throat on the high note.
A soccer mom in a game rage.
I covered my ears, cringing, trying to block out the cats, singers, and angry moms screaming at me. Then, slowly, it hit me: I was dreaming. I cracked open my aching eyes.
Where is that screeching coming from? Could it be morning already? As far as I could tell, it was still dark and my alarm was silent. Then the sound stopped abruptly. Thank you, Jesus. I closed my eyes, slid further under the comforter.
The screech erupted again. I sat bolt upright. The noise was not coming from my alarm—it was the buzzer for my front door and it was as loud as a death harpy.
I scrambled into my living room and pressed the intercom button next to the front door.
“What!” I didn’t bother with niceties. It was 12:32 a.m.
“Paris? Is this you? Did I wake you?”
“Darien?”
“Happy Norooz!”
I pinched my earlobe, really digging in with my nails. Nope, I wasn’t dreaming.
“Can I come up?”
“I don’t—” I stumbled in my sleepy state of alarm and my fingers fumbled across the panel. I accidentally buzzed him in. “No!” I exclaimed, but it was too late.
I’d had just enough time to slip on a cardigan over my nightgown by the time he knocked on the door. My ex. What the hell was happening? Where was my bra?
“Why are you in bed so early?” Darien leaned against the doorframe, a bottle of champagne in his hand, tall, dark, and handsome in a cream-colored cashmere sweater. “It’s New Year’s!”
“I ha-have to work tomorrow,” I stuttered, trying to gain control of my thoughts, and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to obscure my hardening nipples from the draft in the hallway.
The cold did help to sharpen my sleep-addled wits. I was so exhausted. I’d been up early and working late every day. Even on my requested day off for the holiday, Frank had called three times, demanding phone numbers and other information he easily could have found on his own—including wanting to know if the very young, attractive research assistant was single. Luckily, he wasn’t interrupting anything, since I’d hung out at home in my yoga pants, celebrating the first day of spring by sharing a glass of doogh with my father over a short, light-hearted Skype chat, both of us munching on stuffed grape leaves and olives with our minty yogurt drink, keeping our talk focused on my photography classes and the weather.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. I’d made it through February without Darien, including Valentine’s Day, and March had looked so promising, a fresh start for the Persian New Year.
“Hey, alright,” Darien said, with a slight slur. “Sorry. I thought you might want to go for a drink, celebrate the holiday.” He reached out a hand and ran it over my cheek, then lightly touched my ear. “I love that you’re still wearing your mom’s earrings.”
I winced, and he dropped his hand. This was real. I was awake. My father had been right. “So you’re in New York,” I said, nonplussed.
“Yeah. I heard you were on the Upper West Side.” He grinned. “I’m here, too.”
“What do you mean?” Something in his tone, his giddiness, made me suspicious. “Are you saying you’re living in my neighborhood?”
“Yes! How great is that?” His straight white teeth flashed in a beautiful smile. I hated him. Didn’t I?
The tight-knit Iranian community back home was wonderful, but damn if they didn’t gossip like old ladies at the water pump. Were they just handing out my address on business cards?
“Why? Why did you move here, of all places?” Part of me wanted to ask about his girlfriend. Was she here, too? A bigger part of me, however, wasn’t prepared to be stabbed with that knife, not in the middle of the night, out of nowhere. The bottle of champagne in his hand didn’t mean he was single. I’d learned that the hard way.
He paused a second and then continued, deflated. “I didn’t move to Manhattan for you, if that’s what you think. I’ve opened a shop here.” His voice grew angry, his face tight. “I thought you’d like knowing someone from back home was close by. I thought we could be friends, Paris. I still care for you.”
I might be awake, but this is a nightmare. I’d dreamt of this exact conversation twelve times a day. Each time it ended with him clutching me to his tall, hard body, admitting he loved me—but that was before I moved here. With time and distance, a demanding job, random barista flirtations, and flirting with Benji, the dream had melted away quietly, without me even really noticing. I missed being held at night, sure, but I didn’t miss Darien. I felt free. Independent. Peaceful.
When I didn’t respond, his edge softened. “Your dad will be relieved I can help look out for you now.” He took a step toward me, waving the the Persian food he bought from the restaurant Ravagh. “Why don’t I come in?”
There was so much to say to that. Flames filled my chest, burned hot. I stood my ground, filled the door so he couldn’t enter my new world. “No. And I don’t need to be taken care of by anyone, despite what you or my father thinks—especially not by a guy who cheated on me, or an old man who can’t take care of himself.” My stomach clenched. I had not realized until now that I wasn’t only worried about Dad, I was also mad at him. Regardless of the logic, I felt let down by him. I’m a self-centered asshole.
Darien reared his head back. “Paris?”
“I know, I didn’t mean that … about my Dad.” I tried to rally my righteous indignation.
He ignored the dig. Frowning, he said, “Ehsan has had a rough time. A man with brown skin in his sixties? Word around the neighborhood is that no one will hire him. You know how it is, he writes
down ‘Tehrani’ and these jackasses think he has a bomb tucked in his shoe.” He shook his head in disgust. “I heard he tried getting a night job, cleaning up at a middle school; apparently, the principal told him they weren’t set up for Muslims and that he’d be uncomfortable there. Ignorant sons of bitches.”
“Damn it,” I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out reality. “My poor father. I didn’t realize.”
“The Orange County gossip circles are saying he might lose his business.” He sat the bottle on the floor and placed his hands on my shoulders. The weight was unsettling. “You should talk to him. Really talk to him. People from the community have offered help but he refuses, saying he won’t take charity.”
No. How could this be? My father had gone from running a successful business to a state of panic so quickly—unless he’d been hiding the depth of the problems with Tehrani Tax Services. Dad had not mentioned closing the business. He was about to lose it? And why would nobody hire him? It was shocking that in our modern times, in a civilized, multicultural city, racism was alive and well, dressed up in politically correct phrases.
Dad was a highly educated, peace-loving American, misaligned because of the lottery ticket his soul drew the day he was born, setting him down in the countryside outside of Tehran instead of Dallas or Kansas City. He grew up surrounded by men wearing skullcaps and head scarves, but fate just as easily could have surrounded him with cowboy hats and baseball caps—all the heads beneath being more similar than different.
I shivered in the cold and Darien’s hands tightened on my shoulders. He drew me slowly to him and suddenly I didn’t want to stop him. Leaning into his sinewy body, I felt protected and cared for. And wanted. His hard body fit against me perfectly, just as I remembered. His face hovered close for a brief second, and then his lips met mine. I immediately wanted more, my tongue and lips greedily moving against his mouth, my body moving against his. The tingle that roared through my veins woke me up, every sense on high alert. Unfortunately, that same alertness brought my brain to attention: Danger! Danger! it cried out.
With a self-control I didn’t know I possessed, I slid away.
“I’m not doing this, Darien. We’re done.”
“Please, just let me in. I know you want to.”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“She’s not you. Come on—”
“I knew it.” I straightened my nightgown, furious at myself for allowing him back into my headspace, almost back into my bed. “I need to sleep. I’ve got a lot going on at work.” The last person I needed back in my life was Darien. I did not want to start relying on him to be a confidant, a shoulder to lean on, or a lover. I knew where that path led.
“Can I call you tomorrow?” His face was hopeful.
Anger thrilled up my spine. With narrowed eyes, I said, “I don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate it.” Then I shut the door in his face.
I had to struggle with myself not to reopen the door, bashing down the jumping hormones begging for physical attention.
What’s wrong with me?
Wrapped in an old quilt, I sat on the fire escape and finally lit up one of the cigarettes I’d been carrying around for weeks. It was time to burn something down.
The next morning, Michelle’s blonde ponytail seemed less stern than usual, not as tightly slicked back. Even her face was duller when she caught up with me in the break room, her movements slow. She took down an extra mug and poured me a cup of coffee. “Some analysts and a trader are being let go today. Be prepared for high drama.”
“Oh no! Why?” I put down the bag of groceries I had for Frank. Not exactly how I wanted to start out my “new year.”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve been on the losing end of some big trades lately. Todd told me yesterday they have to cut back.” She frowned. “It’s not just us. A lot of hedge funds have had trouble restabilizing after the recession. We’ve done well, thanks to Frank, but that doesn’t mean we don’t take the same hits occasionally.”
I took the coffee to my desk, hoping it would wake me up after a night tossing and turning and muttering to myself, but I eventually switched to chamomile tea and Alka-Seltzer in order to soothe my stomach. Did I really smoke a cigarette last night? Did I really tell Darien he couldn’t come in?
The mood in the office was subdued, everyone trying to make themselves invisible. Thinking about it, I realized I should be doing the same thing. Panic blossomed in my chest when I saw one of the younger traders trying to hide his tears behind sunglasses as he packed up his desk.
That could be me. Today. I sat back. A realization struck me, the accompanying headache almost blinding. I needed this job. Really needed it. It was one thing if I was struggling financially, but my dad … I gritted my teeth. Whether I liked it or not, it was my turn to step up. For him. I struggled with my selfish anger with him for not being perfect, but if he needed me, I could help. My position at PRCM might not be my dream job, but it paid well. Extremely well.
I watched the trader trudging out with his small box of possessions. I will be indispensable, I decided.
I was absorbed in a report when my desk phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Hi, this is Tony. Frank’s trainer.”
“I know who you are, Tony.” I talked to the guy at least once a week, usually to let him know Frank was running late or out sick, but what the trainer lacked in brains showed up in his pecs. And he was the sweetest guy on steroids I’d ever met.
“Is Frank here? He asked me to come in, but I’ve been waiting in the gym for over an hour now. I’m way late for another client now. What should I do?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Just go, Tony. I’m sorry. But make sure you bill him for your time.”
I didn’t want to get into it face-to-face with Frank, so I sent an instant message, telling him Tony had an emergency and had to leave. I knew that wouldn’t stop him from bitching out the poor guy.
Then my cell phone rang. Weird. It was Frank, who was in his office, as far as I knew. I hadn’t seen him leave. And he usually just shouted for me.
“Yes?” I projected a kindness I did not feel.
“I’m out of toilet paper.”
“Alllllright.” I paused, waiting for him to go on. Finally, I said, “So, are you asking me to come into your bathroom and hand you a roll of toilet paper?”
Why me?
“What the fuck, Paris. Don’t be a child. Bring me some goddamned toilet paper.” He hung up.
I sighed. No need to worry about my job security.
If not for me, Frank wouldn’t eat or have clothes to wear, nor would his family. I’m not sure what Sonya, his wife, did all day, but it had nothing to do with basic needs for any of them, including their nine-year-old son. I knew, because I set up her twice-weekly spa appointments, her daily luncheons and mani-pedis, and weekly visits to galleries where she bought “art,” such as the hideous ball of metal hangers wrapped around each other recently installed in Frank’s office. It sat on a marble pedestal. But I also coordinated with the house staff regarding Frank, Sonya, and their son’s meals, their dry cleaning, and their separate car services. I wondered if any of them stopped for a second, did a three-sixty, and just appreciated their life.
Trying to blank my mind, I grabbed a roll from the staff bathroom, strolled across his office, and twisted the knob to his bathroom door. The door was locked.
“You’re going to have to unlock it,” he called out.
Grumbling, I set the roll on the floor and marched back to the break room. Nicki and Michelle were stocking shelves.
“What’s got your Kotex in a twist?” Nicki said, her resting bitch face securely in place.
Maybe I can get you fired along with everyone else. “Frank’s locked in his bathroom. I need to unlock it. Any idea where the key is?”
“Ah. Sadly, this is not the first time,” said Michelle, pushing Nicki to the side. “Here, this will do the trick.” She handed me
a butter knife.
She was right—a slight twist of the blade and I was in. Lucky me. I thrust the roll through the door, a hand over my eyes. If only I could have also covered my nose. The guy had no shame.
“Closer … closer … thanks.”
The roll was snatched from my hand, and I bolted. I dropped the butter knife in a wastebasket on my way out of his office.
Hoping to wash my brain free of the last five minutes, I opened up Benji’s website for his gallery. I wanted to make sure there was a class listed for that night. I needed to surround myself by beautiful art. A beautiful man wouldn’t be hard to look at, either. Okay, enough. Learn to make your own beautiful art and be satisfied with that. Benji is off limits, yo.
I reopened the report on my desktop. The analysts and research assistants sent me information on ownership trends, showing me activity on our most sold and purchased stocks, so I could collapse and organize the information for the CEOs. I could see most of the trades originated from Frank, especially the shorts, though there were quite a few from Andrew.
Oddly, some of the transactions weren’t attached to anyone. Lazy bastards, I thought. How hard is it to write down who’s telling you to make the trade? I picked up the phone to call the lead trader but was stopped by a familiar shout.
“Paris!”
I pushed through his door hesitantly. First, I hoped he was dressed. Second, I hoped we weren’t going to talk about the TP incident. Ever. Third, I was ready to take the bullet for Tony the trainer, if that’s what this was about, but I hoped the wound would be small. And painless.
He squinted from under his floppy, dull hair. “I need you to go to a baseball game.”
“I don’t have to play, do I?” I smiled, relieved to have dodged a bullet, though I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance I’d be sliding into a base by the end of the day.