The marketing meeting room is an enclosed space with a nice view that would be a perfect spot for putting out bagels and coffee in the morning for the team, maybe with a big stuffed chair or two for nice breaks and creative collaboration. It would be a great place to set out cake and balloons for people’s birthdays. Maybe even a Ping-Pong table and some Nerf basketball action.
This being Vossameer, of course, this perfectly nice room is where meetings with business vendors happen. It’s where the team is gathered to be yelled at. And most of all, it’s where people go to be fired.
With shaking hands I grab my phone. I text Mia one word.
Fuck.
Mia: Wut?
Me: Surprise private meeting with Sasha. In the firing chamber.
Mia sends me back several empathetic emojis. I send her a black sideways heart, then I silence my phone and put it in the pocket of my ugly dress. If there’s one thing you can count on with ugly dresses, it’s really good pockets.
Sasha is in the room when I get there. She’s sitting at the head of the table that will never hold a birthday cake. Her phone is on the table next to a yellow legal pad, over which her pen is poised.
“Take a seat,” she says.
I take a seat on the long side, leaving one chair between us.
“Do you know why I’ve called you in? Can you guess?”
I shake my head.
“How about taking a guess,” she says.
I shrug. If she’s going to fire me, I’m not helping her.
“The wake-up-call service. There isn’t one, is there?”
I frown, like I don’t get it.
She puts on a sympathetic face. “It’s you. It’s been you all along.”
How did she find out? Did Mr. Drummond spill? No way. He wouldn’t have.
I sigh. “I can explain—I really can,” I say, the three words that never lead anywhere good, but I try. I tell her how I had the Canadian service all set up. How I ordered a call for myself just to ensure it came through, and it didn’t. So I had to do it.
“Well, I wanted to tell you that I appreciate your ingenuity.”
Sasha appreciates my ingenuity? Hope begins to flutter in my heart. “You’re not going to fire me?”
“Of course not. Why would I? Mr. Drummond appreciates the service. Most men would be paying ten bucks a minute for calls like that.”
I’m flooded with shame and embarrassment. How much did he tell her? “Uh…”
“You think I wouldn’t find out? You impersonated a wake-up-call service that escalated to you masturbating and climaxing on the phone, with your boss…” She’s watching my eyes. “With him telling you what to do.”
My mouth goes dry. Heat steals up my neck. He gave her details?
Mortified, I think back to the last call. Coming on the phone. I’d felt so connected with him. Like we were in on something magical together.
I feel sick.
“I don’t get it. I’m not fired?” My voice sounds small.
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Lizzie, I’m sure you didn’t mean things to go that way. Right?”
“Not at all!” I say. “It was the furthest thing from my mind. When that Canadian place flaked out on me, I just wanted to replicate an effective service. I only wanted to keep my job.”
“Of course.” She gets this little smile. “Though it did start out rather unorthodox, you have to admit.”
I’m barely listening. I felt like Mr. Drummond and I had a relationship. I loved how we were together, and he totally betrayed me. Was anything he told me even true?
“Right?” she prompts.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that—I swear. I meant it to be boring and normal, but my roommate and I were goofing off, and when I said all those mean things, I didn’t know he was there.”
Her lips quirk. “So what exactly did you say?”
Okay, so he didn’t tell her all of it. Just the most intimate stuff. “I really didn’t mean it.”
“You’re not fired,” she says. “But I should know how it started. Just in case.”
In case of what? I wonder miserably. But does it even matter? “Well…I said, ‘wake up, motherfucker.’ Something like that. ‘People are waiting for whatever bullshit you have in store for them today.’”
She looks stunned. “You said that to Mr. Drummond?”
“I honestly didn’t know he was there. And…actually I think it might have been ‘stupid asshole’ that I called him. Jackalope. I don’t know; it all blends in.”
She looks amazed.
I’d like to call him a few new names now. I can’t believe he spilled the details to Sasha!
“So I guess that’ll wake a guy up.”
“I should think so!”
I toy with the hem of my shapeless dress. “When I realized he was on the line, I thought for sure I’d be fired. When he came down here and called it unorthodox, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather.” When I look up, she’s beaming at me. “You’re really not mad?”
She snorts. “It’s a little bit funny, you have to admit.” I’m stunned. I never thought she had much of a sense of humor. “So he enjoyed that?” she asks.
I look down, uncomfortable with her weird interest. “I don’t know that he enjoyed it. I don’t know, maybe he was more…surprised. Maybe he’s sick of everyone kissing his ass. I think his interest was more about curiosity. What kind of a wake-up caller says that? That’s why he didn’t fire the service. He’s a puzzle guy.”
She’s watching me intently. “Very true. Theo does not like a puzzle he can’t crack. So then what?”
I shrug. “It was just phone sex.” I’m done giving her details. I’m not an asshole like Mr. Drummond. Sure, maybe I gave Mia one juicy line, but Mr. Drummond gave Sasha the entire, un-cut, XXX-rated version! “One phone sex call is pretty much the same as the next.”
I feel this little whimper inside me, though. Because it really felt like more. To me, anyway.
I tell myself it’s an important lesson. I promised myself I wouldn’t trust a man after Mason, and what did I do? I trusted one. Such a fool.
She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So that’s all?”
That’s all? It was a huge amount of sharing. “Yeah, that’s all.”
“Okay, then.” She pulls out her phone and taps the screen a few times, then puts it to her ear. “I need somebody up in marketing. No…no…there’s no problem, just an escort out of the building.”
Everything in the world seems to fall away. An escort? She called security?
Sasha clicks off. Gives me a hard stare. Every trace of warmth and humor is gone from her face. “I’m going to have to ask you to get your things and exit the building.”
“You said I wasn’t getting fired!”
“You can’t be fired; you’re not a real employee yet. You’re on probation, and that probationary period is now over.”
I stand. “Sasha, please. Tomorrow’s the last day for me to get my bonus. One day.”
“I’m sorry.” Sasha points a weapons-grade red fingernail in the direction where my cubicle is. “You were given an opportunity to do the most meaningful work of your life—”
“I did do meaningful work! Think of all the great work I did. The engagement numbers. The Instagram strategies. Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll work an extra week with no pay. I just need that bonus tomorrow.”
“The bonus is for employees who don’t commit fraud and pull the CEO into compromising situations. He could bring you up on charges of fraud and pandering.”
“What? No. It wasn’t like that.” I feel sick.
“No? Maybe it was all fun and games for you, but Mr. Drummond is angry and disgusted, and really, how could you blame him? He doesn’t want you calling him anymore. Not ever again. You contact him one more time and he really will look into pursuing further action against you.”
My stomach feels queasy. Pursuing action against me? So he really was just toying with m
e, then? Teaching me a lesson? I can’t believe it. But why else divulge so much to Sasha?
She points at the door.
By some miracle I’m able to stand. I head across to my cubicle. I don’t pass go. I don’t get my twelve-thousand-dollar sign-on bonus. I don’t dance on my desk to Britney Spears while making microwave popcorn.
I grab my coat and bag and the fun notepads I defiantly bought. I mumble goodbye to a few of my other neighbors, who’ve popped up from their cubicles, looking alarmed and interested. I just shake my head and trudge up front. They’ll find out soon enough. Maybe Mr. Drummond will write it up for the Vossameer newsletter.
In a brave display of affection in this thankless place, Betsy gives me a big hug. I clutch onto her, more grateful than she’ll ever know.
Sasha and the security guy look on, like she might be passing me a shiv or something.
I spin around. Face Sasha. “I want to see Mr. Drummond.” I’ve decided I want to tell him he’s an asshole right to his face.
“Mr. Drummond doesn’t want to see you. Trust me. You don’t want to push your luck.”
I grit my teeth. I have enough problems without adding in legal charges. “Well, at least I’m free,” I say. “This place sucks, and you know it. And if you don’t, you need to pull your head out of your ass.”
“Let’s go.” The security guy gestures at the door.
“Don’t worry, I know the way.” I storm out. Somehow I’m in the elevator with the security guy. Somehow the door is closing. Going down.
All this work for nothing. Lenny’s guys will come for the money, and I won’t have it. Do I leave town? Do they chase me? But then, what about Mia?
And the worst thing of all? The tears threatening have nothing to do with any of that, and everything to do with the way Mr. Drummond utterly and completely betrayed me.
I thought we had a connection. I loved our connection, so full of risky, thrilling, heartfelt honesty.
Our connection felt real. It felt beautiful.
To me, anyway.
He warned me, though, didn’t he? The world revolves around him. He’ll take what he wants.
Twenty
Theo
* * *
I push aside the notebook full of half-baked ideas and focus on my phone, sitting front and center on my desk. “It can’t merely be a good place,” I tell Willow. “I want a great place. Something stylish, but not too fussy. She’s the kind who’d be into comfort food, but with flair.”
“Okay,” Willow says. “Comfort food with flair.”
“Stylish and fun,” I say. “It can be slightly quirky, but not all-out weird. Not quirky for quirky’s sake. And the food has to be excellent. Taste-wise, but also in terms of how it looks. The plate has to look beautiful. And above all, elaborate desserts.”
“What have you done with my brother?” she asks.
“Will you help me or not?”
“You really enjoyed those calls.”
“Do I have to ask somebody else?”
“No, I’m sending you a link. The Blue Stag Club. But it’ll be impossible to get a table…”
“Thanks,” I say as the link comes up. “Got it.” The place is important. I want Sasha to feel comfortable enough to be her sassy, snarky self.
* * *
The Blue Stag Club is in the East Village. I walk in just before four. The place is everything Willow said it would be—colorful and cozy, but not overdone. A sense of humor, but nothing wacky. Exactly what Seven would like.
There are a few tables with diners—lunch stragglers, maybe. I venture in and stop at a corner table. Private. Near the window. But that’s not what attracts me. It’s the baby goat picture above the table.
The maître d’ comes up behind me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m hoping for dinner reservations,” I say. “Seven tonight. What do I have to do to get this table for seven tonight?”
“It’s not possible.”
He’s wrong. Everything is possible. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.
I pull out my wallet and start peeling off bills.
“Really,” he says. “We have a policy.”
I keep going. And eventually it’s possible.
I get out of there and email Sasha with the plans. I tell her I’ll pick her up at 6:30. I’m about to tell her where we’re going, but I decide to leave it as a surprise. She’ll probably call me an asshole when she finds out how I secured our table.
I smile at the thought. I’ve never felt so connected to a woman. Though it’s Operator Seven I’m feeling connected to, not Sasha. I need to work on changing that.
I head home and grab a little time in my study, updating computer models, but I’m incredibly distracted. I answer emails until it’s time to get dressed, dithering over what tie to put with my black-and-gray-checked bespoke suit. I’d typically go with a black tie, but this is Seven. I grab a yellow tie with pineapples on it, fix my cuffs, and head down to the street where the limo is waiting. I give Sasha’s address.
I’ve never been one to get overly excited about the possibility of fucking, maybe because the opportunities are always so plentiful.
But you’d think I’d be excited by the chance to finally be with Seven, considering how many times I’ve imagined it. I close my eyes and picture getting an earful of her snark before pressing her to the wall and tasting her lips, her neck, enjoying the sound of her moans as I get her off.
It’s still the faceless woman on the phone I’m imagining. Still her husky voice, even if it is an app.
Damn.
I grab the bottle of scotch from the backseat bar and pour myself two fingers.
Eventually we arrive at Sasha’s building, an ultra-contemporary high-rise near Astor Place. I double-check the address. I’d imagined Seven in a prewar place. Something with heft and history. An ornate elevator that only works half the time. I suppose it’s possible the ceilings in there have crown moldings, but they wouldn’t be historic.
Sasha’s grinning as she crosses the sidewalk. I get out and open the door for her.
“The jackalope has arrived!” she declares.
I manage a smile. I should hardly be put off—she’s called me worse, but it’s always been…different, somehow. “You look lovely,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow. “So do you, Mr. Drummond.”
“I’m back to Mr. Drummond?”
She stares blankly at me, then shrugs. “Oh, that whole thing…” She waves, as if to dismiss an unruly subject. “I say we start from square one.”
I smile politely, though I really don’t know what she means. “Ready?”
“Sure am.”
I take her hand and help her into the back of the car, and get in after her. I offer her a drink and tell her we’re going to the Blue Stag Club. “Have you heard of it?”
“Heard of it? Of course!” she says. “I thought they were booked out for months.”
“They were. I did an in-person visit to get a table. I was…persuasive.”
She beams at me. “It’s perfect.”
I gaze out the window, disheartened. I hoped she’d be less…something out of the office environment. More how she is on the phone.
“Gorgeous,” she says as we walk into the Blue Stag. I take her coat and hand it off, and we’re led to our table.
She doesn’t seem to notice the baby goat picture. Maybe it’s for the best. It’ll be a good thing to draw her attention to later during a lull in the conversation.
The waiter brings our drinks—a scotch for me and a dry martini for her.
“You’re so full of surprises,” I say.
“What do you mean?” She pulls out the stick and slips an olive between her lips.
“I wouldn’t have guessed a dry martini.”
She tilts her head and smiles. Her smile is pretty. She’s pretty. I have to give her a chance. “Why not?”
“I would’ve guessed something sweeter.”
She rolls he
r eyes. “Such an asshole.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
She narrows her eyes. “You heard me.”
I drain my drink as my mood deflates. I, of all people, should know that reality never matches the pretty surface of things. The phone calls were magical. Utterly magical—a word I never apply to anything but they were.
And I had to break the spell. I had to take more.
Worse, I feel like she knows it. I can feel her nervousness.
“Can I ask you, what made you call me like that in the first place?”
She grins sheepishly. “There actually was another service set up. A Canadian service. But I was so nervous they wouldn’t come through that I set up a call for myself for ten minutes before that. And they never came through.” She goes on to tell me a funny story about her roommate, about the comedy of errors that led to her calling me a motherfucker.
It’s amusing. I’m laughing.
“I was so paranoid when I saw you next. I thought for sure you’d fire me. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you said the service was unorthodox!”
The appetizers and more drinks come. We’re actually having fun. I never imagined her with a roommate, either. I push the last bruschetta her way. “I’m saving room.”
Her eyes sparkle. She reaches across the table with a napkin and dabs at my lapel.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “User error?”
“Just a little one. It would be a shame to ruin this beautiful jacket.”
“I had half a mind to wear my lab coat. Maybe I should’ve.”
She snorts. “To the Blue Stag? Why on earth would you do that?”
“I thought you might appreciate it.”
“Well, you know I do.” She smiles. She seems about to say something more, but then our entrees come.
This is all wrong. Is she feeling as unenthusiastic about our date as I am?
“Talk to me,” I say as soon as the waiter leaves.
“What do you mean?”
“This is me. We’re here. Cards on the table. Are you feeling weird about this? I want you to tell me if you are.”
“Why would you think that?” She tilts her head. “I’m happy we’re out, finally. It’s just all…so unusual.”
The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl Page 14