He made no sign of affirmation as he turned to me and regarded me openly; we were standing in opposite corners. I imagined for a moment that we were two prizefighters; the spacious elevator was our ring, and the brass rails around the perimeter were the ropes. My eyes moved over him in equally plain assessment. He would definitely win if it came to blows between us.
I was tall for a girl, but he was easily six feet and three or four inches in height. I also hadn’t worked out with any seriousness or intensity since my college soccer days. He, judging by the large expanse of his shoulders, looked like he never missed a day at the gym and could bench press me as well as the box I was holding, even if it contained the pencils.
His eyes weren’t finished with their appraisal, but instead lingered around my neck. The tugging sensation beneath my left rib returned. I felt myself starting to blush again.
I tried for conversation. “I didn’t mean to be imprecise; I imagine this building has more than one basement, although I’ve never seen the blueprints. Are we going to one of the basements and, if so, why are we going to one of the basements?”
He met my gaze abruptly, his own unreadable.
“Standard procedure,” he murmured.
“Oh.” I sighed and started tearing at my lip again. Of course, there was a standard procedure. This was likely a common experience for him. I wondered if I were the only ex-employee he would be escorting out today.
“How many times have you done this?” I asked.
“This?”
“You know, escort people out of the building after they’ve been downsized; does this happen every day of the week? Layoffs typically happen on Friday afternoons in order to keep the crazies from coming back later in the same week. Today is Tuesday, so you can imagine how surprised I was. Based on the international standard adopted in most western countries, Tuesday is the second day of the week. In countries that use the Sunday-first convention, Tuesday is defined as the third day of the week.”
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
I drew in a deep breath, clamped my mouth shut, and clenched my jaw to keep from talking. I watched him watching me, his eyes narrowing slightly, and my heart pounded with loud sincerity against my chest in what I recognized—for the second time that day—as embarrassment.
I knew what I sounded like. My true friends softened the label by insisting I was merely well read; everyone else said I was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Although I’d been repeatedly urged to audition for Jeopardy and was an ideal and proven partner in games of Trivial Pursuit, my pursuit of trivial knowledge and the avalanche of verbal nonsense that spewed forth unchecked did little to endear me to men.
A quiet moment ticked by, and for the first time in recent memory, I didn’t try to focus my attention on the present. His blue eyes were piercing mine with an unnerving intensity, arresting the usual wanderlust of my brain. I thought I perceived one corner of his mouth lift, although the movement was barely perceptible.
Finally, he broke the silence. “International standard?”
“ISO 8601, data elements and interchange formats. It allows seamless intercourse between different bodies, governments, agencies, and corporations.” I couldn’t help myself as the words tumbled out. It was a sickness.
Then, he smiled. It was a small, closed-lipped, quickly suppressed smile. If I had blinked, I might have missed it, but an expression of interest remained. He leaned his long form against the wall of the elevator behind him and crossed his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his guard uniform pulled in taut lines across his shoulders.
“Tell me about this seamless intercourse.” His eyes traveled slowly downward, then, in the same leisurely pace, moved up to mine again.
I opened my mouth to respond but then quickly snapped it shut. I was suddenly and quite unexpectedly hot.
His secretive yet open and amused surveillance of my features was beginning to make me think he was just as strange as I was. He was making me extremely uncomfortable; his attention was a blinding spotlight from which I couldn’t escape.
I shifted the box to my other hip and looked away from his searching gaze. I knew now that I’d been wise in avoiding direct eye contact. The customs and acceptability of eye contact vary greatly depending on the culture; as an example, in Japan, school-aged children...
The elevator stopped and the doors opened, rousing me from my recollection of Japanese cultural norms. I straightened immediately and bolted for the exit before I realized I didn’t know where I was going. I turned dumbly and peered at Sir Handsome from beneath my lashes.
Once again, he placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me. I felt the same charged shock as before. We walked along a hallway painted nondescript beige gray with low-hanging florescent lights.
The smack smack smack of the flip-flops echoed along the vacant hall. When I quickened my step to escape the electricity of his touch, he hastened his stride and the firm pressure remained. I wondered if he thought I was a flight risk or one of the aforementioned crazies.
We approached a series of windowed rooms, and I stiffened as his hand moved to my bare arm just above the elbow. I swallowed thickly, feeling that my reaction to the simple contact was truly ridiculous. It was, after all, just his hand on my arm.
He pulled me into one of the rooms and guided me to a brown wooden chair. He took the box from my hands with an air of authoritative decisiveness and placed it on the seat to my left. There were people in cubicles and offices around the perimeter; a long reception desk with a women dressed in the same blue guard uniform that McHotpants wore was in the middle of the space. I met her eyes; she blinked once then frowned at me.
“Don’t move. Wait for me,” he ordered.
I watched him leave and their subsequent exchange with interest: he approached the woman, she stiffened and stood. He leaned over the desk and pointed to something on her computer screen. She nodded and looked at me again, her brow rising in what I read as confusion, and then she sat down and started typing.
He turned, and I made the mistake of looking directly at him. For a moment he paused, the same disquieting steadiness in his gaze causing the same heat to rise to my cheeks. I felt like pressing my hands to my face to cover the blush. He crossed the room toward me but was intercepted by an older man in a well-tailored suit holding a clipboard. I watched their exchange with interest as well.
After pulling a series of papers off the printer, the woman approached me. She gave me a closed-mouth smile that reached her eyes as she crossed the room.
I stood and she extended her hand. “I’m Joy. You must be Ms. Morris.”
I nodded once, tucking a restive curl behind my ear. “Yes, but please call me Janie; nice to meet you.”
“I guess you’ve had a hard day.” Joy took the empty seat next to mine; she didn’t wait for me to answer. “Don’t worry about it, hun. It happens to the best of us. I just have these papers for you to sign. I’ll need your badge and your key, and then we’ll pull the car around for you.”
“Uh...the car?”
“Yes, it will take you wherever you need to go.”
“Oh, ok.” I was surprised by the arrangement of a car, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.
I took the pen she offered and skimmed over the papers. They looked benign enough. I hazarded a glance toward Sir Handsome and found him peering at me while he seemed to be listening to the man in the suit. Without really reading the text, I signed and initialed in the places she indicated, pulled my badge from around my neck along with my key, and handed it to her. She took the documents from me and initialed next to my name in several places.
She paused when she got to the address section of the form. “Is this your current address and home phone number?”
I saw where I had filled in Jon’s address when I was first hired; I grimaced. “No; no it isn’t. Why?”
“They need a place to send your last paycheck. Also, we also need a current address in case they need to send you a
nything that might have been left behind. I’ll need you to write out your current address next to it.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know what to write. “I’m sorry, I-” I swallowed with effort and studied the page. “I just, uh, I am actually between apartments. Is there any way I could call back with the information?”
“What about a cell phone number?”
I gritted my teeth. “I don’t have a cell phone; I don’t believe in them.”
Joy raised her eyebrows. “You don’t believe in them?”
I wanted to tell her how I truly loathed cell phones. I hated the way they made me feel reachable twenty-four hours a day; it was akin to having a chip implanted in your brain that tracked your location and told you what to think and do until, finally, you became completely obsessed with the tiny touch screen as the sole interface between your existence and the real world.
Did the real world actually exist if everyone only interacted via cell phones? Would Angry Birds one day become my reality? Was I the unsuspecting pig or the exploding bird? These Descartes-based musings rarely made me popular at parties. Maybe I read too much science fiction and too many comic books, but cell phones reminded me of the brain implants in the novel Neuromancer. As further evidence, I wanted to tell her about the recent article published in Accident Analysis & Prevention about risky driving behaviors.
Instead, I just said, “I don’t believe in them.”
“O-o-o-o-k-a-y,” she said. “No problem.” Joy reached into her breast pocket and withdrew a white paper rectangle. “Here is my card; just give me a call when you’re settled, and I’ll enter you into the system.”
I stood with her and took the card, letting the crisp points dig into the pads of my thumbs and forefingers. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”
Joy reached around me and picked up my box, motioning with her shoulder that I should follow. “Come on; I’ll take you to the car.”
I followed her, but like a self-indulgent child, allowed a lingering glance over my shoulder at Sir Handsome McHotpants. He was turned in profile, no longer peering at me with that discombobulating gaze; his attention was wholly fixed on the man in the suit.
I was dually relieved and disappointed. Likely, this was the last time I would see him. I was pleased to be able to admire him one last time without the blinding intensity of his blue eyes. But part of me missed the heated twisting in my chest and the saturating tangible awareness I’d felt when his eyes met mine.
Mangled Hearts
Francesca and Cade
By
Felicia Tatum
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the “Cade’s” of the world. I hope you find your peace.
Chapter One—Francesca
The steaming hot water rolled down my skin, leaving a trail of red lines. I lathered the shampoo through my long, dark blonde hair. Closing my eyes, I let the strawberry scent tickle my nose. Inhaling deeply, my lungs filled and my body relaxed. Continuing the gentle massage of my head I thought about the past year, the stress consuming me to the point I missed on much needed rest.
I went through the same routine every morning. Nightmares tortured me throughout the night, reminding me of all that could have been. I woke with the memory fresh on my mind. The day that was forever etched in my brain; my best friend coming to break the heartbreaking news to me, the world shattering before my eyes, and the blur that followed. I always woke in a tangle of blankets and covered in sweat. I would lie in my bed attempting to calm my fast beating heart. My breath would finally slow enough for me to get up and shower.
I finished rinsing my hair and body, the suds covering me like a white, fluffy blanket. The water mixed in with my lingering tears, clearing my face of the night before.
###
I hurried up the stairs of my building, tripping over my own feet and almost falling flat on my face. “Perfect,” I muttered as I gripped the handrail for support. I bent and slipped the too high heels off. I regularly took my shoes off in the office, so I would just do it a little sooner than usual today. I rushed in the door, raising my hand to wave at the office assistant, Zander. He usually wanted me to stop and chat, but I was running late. I spent too long trying to forget and missed my bus. I ended up walking to work, which wasn’t very fun, and now I might miss a meeting with my boss.
I flung my briefcase on my desk, sending papers flying. I groaned and crawled around the floor picking them up. Pain shot through my head as I rammed it into the desk while attempting to stand. I rubbed the spot in a circle, trying to ease the intensity. I searched for the folder with my notes on the Archuleta case. Slumping in the chair, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. This was the worst Wednesday I’d ever had. Nothing seemed to be going right today, and it was only 9 a.m.
Working as a Worker’s Compensation lawyer for the last three years had been rough on me. Directly after graduating college with my B.S. in Business, I ran off to law school. My thinking then was that I would be in another town with new people, and maybe I could forget. And I did for a brief period, but it didn’t last. After that graduation ceremony, I got a job with a firm back in my hometown, putting me right back to where I started. Only now I had a job I didn’t particularly like, mainly because they treated me like an intern still. Most entry level lawyers were at least able to work on the higher end cases after their second year, but not me. I was still stuck on the simple cases, which frustrated me to no end.
Sighing, I opened the top drawer of my rusted desk to see if the folder was there by some miracle. I shuffled the contents, gasping when I realized it was in my briefcase. Muttering obscenities to myself, I pulled the heavy leather case closer to my seat. The lock clicked as I popped it open to reveal the treasure. I laughed at myself as I opened the folder to ensure all needed papers were present. I moved my feet around under my desk, attempting to find my shoes. I got them on just in time to see my boss walk by on his way to our meeting. I jumped up, sliding the chair away from my desk and rounding the edge to get to the door. “Mr. Phillips,” I called, taking long strides to catch up. It wasn’t difficult, because I was fairly tall for a woman. At five feet, eight inches, I generally stood well above other women. And some men. When I was younger, I hated my height. It seemed that every boy I had a crush on was at least three inches shorter than me, making me feel extremely awkward for most of my teen years. Once I hit my twenties, and grew in confidence, I didn’t mind it as much. If I was attracted to the man, height shouldn’t matter.
“Ms. Taymon,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement.
I smiled politely, and slid in step with him. “Good morning, sir. I was just on my way to our meeting for the Archuleta case.”
“Yes, indeed. I am too. Do you have everything ready?”
I held the folder up for him to see, shaking it a bit. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. We have a conference call with the company at 11 a.m. So this meeting needs to happen fast so we’re prepared.”
Great. A conference call meant he would want to make our final offers today. We had a long meeting ahead of us and I dreaded what would happen. The Archuleta case was about a woman that was injured while driving her company’s car to the post office. A semi-truck rammed into the driver’s side, completely crushing her. She had survived, barely, but her spine had to be completely restructured. She was in a wheelchair, and her doctors seemed uncertain if she would ever walk again. Her company didn’t want to accommodate her new needs, nor did they want to pay the big settlement she deserved. The lawyers at J & B Law Firm were determined to get her the money she would need to survive. I wished I was the lawyer fighting in court, but I was only here to gather facts, numbers, and information. The case would most definitely go to court, because the company felt they were getting the low end of the deal. How they figured they were getting the bad end when Ms. Archuleta may never walk again, I don’t know.
“I’m ready, Mr. Phillips. I have all the information you asked for, and I made a few more not
es with relevant facts and cases I came across while researching.”
“You always do a thorough job, Francesca. Thank you. You may sit in on the conference call, if you’d like.”
I nodded, a twinge of pain shooting through me. He said I could “sit in”, not participate. Once again, I was stuck on the sidelines.
###
I listened intently during the call, though it drove me crazy not being able to chime in when I felt like it. I took notes, hoping to impress Mr. Phillips. I planned to discuss this with him during my next evaluation, but that was a few months away. After, I gathered my stuff to take back to my office. I had another folder with all the information I’d given Mr. Phillips, in case anything happened to his copies. I filed everything away in the proper places, and pulled my to-do list for the rest of the day out. The conference call set me back a couple of hours, so I’d most likely be staying late tonight. The joys of being a lawyer were few and far between. At least in my current position.
I scribbled down a short list of what I would need to do for the rest of the Archuleta case. I put that paper in my to-do pile, and moved on to the next. Researching old court cases was getting old for me, and I groaned as the list got longer and longer. I mumbled a few words when I heard a man clear his throat. My head snapped up, and my eyes widened in shock. Mr. Phillips stood a few feet from my desk with a smirk on his face. I never heard him come in, so I had no idea how long he had been there or what he heard.
“Oh, Mr. Phillips,” I exclaimed as I stood hastily. My knee connected with the bottom of the desk, causing me to sharply inhale. “I apologize, sir. I didn’t hear you come in.”
He laughed, “It’s alright, Francesca. You work hard, I appreciate that. I have a task for you, that’s why I’m here.”
Hope soared through me. Could he be allowing me to work on a case as the actual lawyer? I couldn’t get too excited. I’d had my hopes and dreams crushed too many times before. “I’d be happy to help. What do you need?”
The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories Page 103