Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  Happy for her, I swung my gaze back to Beverly and the thug, when Scott’s and Bobby’s manifesto prodded me. Project strength.

  I whispered something resembling a prayer, saw a few years of my life flash before my eyes, but in nanoseconds I stepped between Beverly and the bully. “You wanna fight? You and I can go at it right now,” I said through gritted teeth. “Of course, I’ve already alerted Security. Either I kick your ass or they do.”

  The guy’s nostrils flared and he flexed his shoulders, but he neither swung nor spoke. His eye contact came and went, evidence of mental calculations.

  “Let me guess,” I said, wiggling a bit on the balls of my feet and starting to feel a surge of testosterone. “You’re not as hard as you act, are you? You can act hard towards your girl, but you’re not trying to leave this place in a squad car.”

  He glanced around me at Beverly, then flung his hands in their air. “Man, fuck you.” Then he was gone.

  The air was still thick with tension as Beverly and I helped an emasculated Maxwell to his feet. She shook her head as she said, “Well, this will qualify as Star Studio’s most lively gala ever.”

  Panting a bit and showing every bit of his forty years, Maxwell clapped my shoulder. “Bravo, Michael. Turned out he was just a paper tiger.”

  Beverly chuckled, eyes on me. Frankly, lingering on me. “Yes, Maxwell. A paper tiger who tossed you to the ground twice.” She ran her hands up and down the lapels of his jacket. “You got a bit roughed up there. Why don’t you go clean up in the men’s room. Michael and I will text you if we find Conway before you find us.”

  Maxwell’s shoulders slumped, but he looked at us with hope in his eyes. “You guys will text me, right?”

  “We’ve got you, big guy,” I said, sighing. His insecurity was embarrassing.

  As Maxwell walked off in search of a washroom, Beverly tapped my elbow. “So, what are the odds we catch Conway tonight?”

  I grimaced. “I have to be honest, Bev. Everyone knows Conway never attends the gala. The guy would rather spend his entire Saturday in the office before he’d come to a pure mingle-fest like this.” I began guiding her toward the nearest elevator with an eye on getting her face time with Alan Mazlowski, our VP of Sales. “Let me track Marv down at breakfast tomorrow. He has a mandatory meeting with the finance team at The Westin, so I’ll have him put some time on his Monday calendar for you then.”

  As we awaited the elevator, Beverly looked up at me with a new twinkle in her eyes. “Well, after our encounter back there I know all the more that I can trust you.” She tapped my left hand. “Move.”

  I glanced over at her. “Hmm?”

  “You’re blocking your left pocket,” she said under her breath.

  I couldn’t hide my confusion. “What?”

  “Move your hand,” she whispered.

  “O-kay.” I complied, holding my left hand out away from side.

  As the elevator door opened, Beverly slipped something into my pocket. “I just realized I need to go to the ladies’ room,” she said. “Text me your location in a few minutes and I’ll meet you, okay?” She stroked gently at her stylish layered blonde haircut, then headed off.

  Stepping onto the elevator, where I pretty much had to wedge myself into the far back left corner, curiosity sent my hand into the pocket Beverly had accessed. When I surveyed its contents, my eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.”

  Several people in the swarm of folks looked my way, probably wondering why I was talking to myself. Embarrassed, I pretended that hadn’t happened and followed the crowd out of the elevator. I couldn’t take my eyes off my left hand, off the sight of what was apparently Beverly’s Westin hotel room key. A key she had slipped me minutes after seeing me apply Rule One of my new course.

  Standing near the top of the stairway leading to the sunken lounge room before me, I slid the key card back into my pocket with a shaky hand. Scanning the crowd for Alan Mazlowski, my stomach lurched and pitched. I had the sense that by charming Beverly I had been invited to climb aboard a rocket, one that I might very well ride into the playboy stratosphere. The image I couldn’t shake, unfortunately, was of the rocket exploding beneath me.

  CHAPTER 15

  Aimee

  I strode confidently across my office, headset on, as I wrapped up a very successful conference call. At a time when Todd seemed to be questioning my judgment, the outcome of this call would help remind him of why I deserved his trust.

  From her end of the line, Nina Ellis, the editor of Todd’s bestselling memoir, ‘Cause I Said So, cleared her throat. “I need one promise from you before we’re done, Aimee.”

  I stood at my window, hands on my hips. Wait for it.

  “You, my dear,” said Nina, “have to commit to staying with Todd all the way through publication of this new book. I was very serious about trying to add you as co-author on the first one, and I think we should do it this time. I don’t think Todd can get a word written without your involvement. That first record-breaker was your creation, not his,” Nina said, clicking her teeth for emphasis. ‘Cause I Said So had rocketed to the top of the New York Times nonfiction bestsellers’ list last spring. By the time it dropped off, it had sold over three hundred thousand copies, an unheard of feat these days for debut authors.

  Nina wasn’t letting up. “I’m proceeding with publication of this next book because of my faith in the team of Chase and Terry. He’s the voice, you’re the scribe. As long as you’re committed to do the writing for him, we will happily proceed with the publication process.”

  I took a seat at my desk, fingers tenting in thought. Nina’s emphatic insistence on my involvement in the book made me wonder: Was she aware of the tension existing between me and Todd? Did she know that our personal interactions were still minimal, even though they had improved some in the past couple of weeks? I decided not to test those waters, and instead joked for a while with Nina about my desire to rewrite Todd’s contract with Nina’s publishing company. We were discussing the publishing timeline for the second book when Betty, my admin, knocked on my door. “Aimee? Mr. Terry wanted to see you.”

  I sat up straight in my seat, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think he was in town this week.”

  Betty shrugged. “You know he doesn’t let me see his daily calendar.” This was a bit of a sore spot; though Betty was admin support for both me and Todd, he tended to have a True Fan network secretary manage most of his business.

  After winding down my call with Nina, I walked the few steps around to Todd’s office. After knocking a few times but seeing no one come to the door, despite hearing Todd speaking in low tones on the other side, I turned to head back. That’s when I heard a whoosh of air.

  “There you are,” Todd said as I pivoted to face him. He stood there in a silk shirt, jeans and a beige blazer. Oddly jovial, he extended a hand. “Guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “I-I thought you were in New York for the week,” I replied, irritated at sounding rattled.

  “Pull up a chair,” he said, nodding over his shoulder as he turned back into the office. “I delayed my trip to deal with an emergency. I’d like your help addressing it, actually.”

  I took a seat across from him as he settled into his plush desk chair. “Okay, what’s up?” Legs crossed, I leaned forward, eager to support my boss with whatever crisis confronted him.

  “I have this cousin,” Todd said, drawing himself high in his seat. “Good dude historically –nicest person in the world. I helped put him through Morehouse College, even introduced him to the guy who gave him his first job. Problem is, he keeps short-circuiting his upward mobility because of the company he keeps. My cousin’s in his late twenties, a white-collar professional with a baby on the way, and still running with idiot childhood friends with gang ties. He hasn’t caught a prison sentence yet, but he keeps winding up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “Like getting pulled over in traffic stops
with friends who have illegal guns or drugs on them?”

  Todd grimaced. “Exactly like that. It’s driving me crazy. He’s been fired or laid off shortly after three separate brushes with the law now.” His eyes swung back up to lock with mine. “His mother’s asking me to pull out all the stops to reach him. What would you do?”

  Considering my answer, I felt my brow wrinkle. “I don’t guess there’s any magic answer. If you’ve already talked to him and he keeps going back to the same friends, he probably won’t change until he values his career enough to protect it by changing who he associates with.”

  Todd settled back in his chair, letting a sudden, uneasy silence fill the room. At least it felt uneasy to me. “It’s interesting to hear you say that. So, if he values his career, he would know well enough to steer away from people who can endanger that?”

  A sudden, solitary bead of sweat popped out on my right temple as I replied. “I would think so.”

  Todd tapped his desk, then licked his lips. “So I ask you, Aimee, do you value your career?”

  My gums felt as if they’d been vacuumed dry, but I re-crossed my legs and sat straighter in my chair. “You know I do.”

  Todd stood, gently shoving his chair back and stepping to his windowsill. “My smartphone is like one of those Big Data databases, whatever the hell the Silicon Valley eggheads call them these days.” He was staring out the window, barely glancing at me in his periphery. “Between texts, IMs, Skype, FaceTime and my Twitter feed, I get a load of incoming data points, and this man knows how to connect dots.”

  I was smart enough to guess where this was going, but I decided to let him continue his theatrics. In return, he might show an ounce more mercy.

  “The other night, I see where a couple of soccer journalists I like tweeted that Ian Wallace himself was chilling in one of the suites at the Fire game. Interesting tidbit, I suppose– the eight hundred pound gorilla of sports validating the upstart rookie with his presence. Same night, though, I get a text from a Fire exec I’m cool with. Guess he saw you exiting one of the super-duper suites there, and you must have been working your thing because he was bowled over. He’d met you before when visiting the office here, and he was full of questions. ‘Is she single? Would I have a shot with her?’ You know, all the stuff most dudes with no game ask when they encounter you.”

  My patience was waning. “How sweet, Todd.”

  He turned and faced me, his hands in his pockets. “I’ll cut to the chase, pardon the pun. I know enough history to know it’s no coincidence that you–who pretty much disdains soccer– happened to be there the same night as your ex-boyfriend. You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

  Remaining seated, I placed a hand to my head. It had been gradual, but I realized my body was moving into “fight or flight” territory; head swelling with shame, vision reddening in anger, breaths coming in increasingly labored fashion.

  I forced myself to maintain eye contact as I spoke, my voice shaking like a plane battling turbulence. “I really care about him, Todd.”

  “And you had him first,” he replied, his tone devoid of sympathy. “What did we just discuss a few weeks ago? Did my concerns about you dating people in the industry have anything to do with whether you were in love with them?”

  “You can’t judge our relationship,” I said. The words rang true, but their force surprised me. I was a human thermometer, the red on my needle high enough to bust through the tip. A voice in my head told me I should just leave, but weeks of fatigue–from on-the-job stress to the self-examination spurred by Michael Blake’s and Todd’s accusations against me–had set in. I decided to be real, damn the consequences.

  For the first time, Todd raised his voice. “Oh, hold up. I can judge the fact that you’re endangering my business. Aimee, this man has a wife who, from what I hear, wants to preserve the marriage, and two little girls depending on him. That means that whether you ride off into the sunset with him or not, this ends in a way that will negatively impact Terry Town.” He threw his hands in the air, began pacing. “I mean, what happens the day after everything hits the fan with you two? I’ll tell you: my access to Ian, to the entire league, gets shut off. It makes me look unprofessional.”

  I shook my head, too worn to combat Todd’s paranoia but too defensive to just take my punishment. “That’s rich.”

  Todd stopped his pacing, pausing a few feet from me. With his hands on his hips: “Really? Please expound.”

  I looked up into his arresting eyes, speaking truth with no particular joy. “I have managed your business while helping you navigate a few personal life complications, Todd. The occasional jilted girlfriend? Your still-vengeful ex-wife? We both know you have situations in your history that aren’t ideal, just like most of us. I’ve never judged you, though.” I dropped my chin. “I hope that counts for something.”

  “What the–” Todd’s sharp tone made me look up to see him standing a step closer to me, his eyes now closed. Inhaling and exhaling deliberately, he cooled himself until he opened his eyes, the scowl on his mouth morphing into a near-grin. His question came out breathy, almost gleeful. “Did that feel good?”

  I balled my fists, ready in case his body language was a head fake. “It was the truth.”

  “Well congratulations, Aimee Chase,” he replied as he fake-clapped, “because you’re fired. I may not be perfect, but I’ve earned more respect from you than that.”

  I differed with Todd’s assessment of his own respectability, but as if on auto-pilot I rose from the seat without arguing. Though my lungs burned, my heart rate throttled to a new pace and I tasted bile, my legs did their job and got me down Todd’s office hallway, past Betty’s desk, and into the office I would soon vacate. I slammed the door behind me, then crumpled to the floor, struggling to catch my breath. A lone, clear thought floated through my mind before panic set in: I had just chosen emotional transparency over my career.

  I hoped I wouldn’t live to regret it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Michael

  I was having one hell of a dream. A woman with a healthy bosom and toned hips pulled me onto her bed, simultaneously guiding me in the art of removing her chocolate lace bikini panties and matching sheer bra. The air was scented by a vase of fresh red roses and a laser beam of sweet, smoky perfume, heightening the sensory rush. Her face registered as a blur, but that was okay as she shoved a Gillian Flynn novel from the edge of the bed and pulled me in for a deep kiss.

  My shirt and slacks fell away in seconds as my nature rose firm and fast, then everything was enveloped in inky darkness. My lips ran across the curves of her chest, the slightly poached surface of her stomach, the insides of her long thighs. The ride was smooth, slow, and damn good. From one position to another, we attacked each other until my body, then eventually hers, spasmed a final time and she collapsed with exhaustion on top of me.

  The peal of my phone’s alarm jerked me from peaceful slumber and I sat up, instantly confused as to where I was. It was a small bedroom, where I lay entwined in the sheets of a full-size bed that reminded me of the ones in my American U. dorm rooms. While the room’s walls were painted in a peeling shade of off-white, the vibe was brightened by even more flowers than I had recognized hours earlier. In addition to the roses, cobalt blue vases bulging with carnations and others I didn’t recognize dotted the dresser, armoire and night table.

  From the hallway, the smell of coffee and oatmeal wafted under the closed door to tweak my nostrils. Sliding out of the bed, untangling myself from sheets soaked in the smell of sex, I tried to recall what I had spent the past few hours doing, or more importantly to whom I had been doing it. I couldn’t have spent the night with Beverly; I was pretty sure a couple days had passed since she had propositioned me at the investor conference gala. After implying that I was acting like a “pussy,” Scott had grudgingly coached me through a careful dismount process where I had declined Beverly’s room invitation. I had acknowledged her slipping me the key card at the end
of the night, and stressed that I was flattered but that I was still in the process of ending another relationship. Beverly had been pretty chill about the whole thing, stopping short of suggesting “another time, another place” but sending signals that her interest might survive the night in question.

  That situation was manageable for the moment; right now I had to figure out what was up with this one. It had been a long time since I’d awakened from a one-night stand. What now?

  My phone rang suddenly, and my heart leaped in fear it would bring my potentially strange bedfellow running. I answered without even registering the caller ID, my voice a whisper. “Hello?”

  “Hey, stranger.” I caught Brody’s voice instantly. “Hey, you disappeared with the quickness last night. You already taking strange girls home from parties?” His crack reminded me that I had spent last night at the surprise birthday party Brody threw for Tisha at an emerging lounge spot down near State Street. It had been a chill gathering of maybe twenty-five folks, primarily enjoying expensive appetizers, birthday cupcakes and a semi-open bar. The attendees were mostly female, which had made it perfect ground for my assignment of the day, which was focused on honing the art of conversation.

  As I admitted my uncertain situation to Brody, his laughter boomed across the phone. “Don’t hurt yourself now, Mike. And try to pretend you know her name when she appears.” I heard his two-year-old son, Jason, gurgling in the background. “Got my hands full right now and clearly you do, too. We’ll catch up when you can come up for air. Tisha, on the other hand, is not so understanding. You got a sec to tolerate her interrogations while I go change J’s diaper?”

  I turned toward the little bedroom’s closed door, unsure how many seconds of privacy I had left. “Put her on.” We’d have to make it quick, but ignoring Tisha would only antagonize her and inflict unfair penalties on Brody.

  Tisha hopped on the line as if we had already made five minutes’ worth of small talk. “So I need to know how you’re doing, Michael.”