by Maria Benson
“Something’s coming,” Beverly said, her elbows on the table as she leaned toward me. “I’m no fool. You guys came out of last quarter smelling like a relative rose, but the warning signs were there for the perceptive among us. I’ve picked up some social media tremors about your latest product releases–I don’t know if people are actually returning a lot of shipments, but it seems they’re not very happy with what they’re getting.”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in social media,” I said, sitting ramrod straight in my chair. My posture communicated my intention to be resolute. It would take more than the lingering promise of forbidden, risky sex with Bev to make me “open the kimono” and give up insider information. There was a very real danger that she planned a “hit and run” on me–make me think I was about to get lucky, pump me for helpful intel, then act like she didn’t know my name once she won kudos for having her fund dump Star Studio’s stock ahead of an earnings warning.
After sipping on her beer, Beverly grinned. “Oh, aren’t we putting up a wall?”
“There’s no wall,” I said, “that hasn’t always been there. On either side.”
She leaned to one side, eyes narrowed. “I thought we were establishing a deeper level of trust here, Michael. I mean, that thing I pulled giving you my hotel room key? As far as I can tell, you haven’t told a soul. You could have caused me major embarrassment with that if you wanted.”
I stared back, my mouth nearly a straight line as I spoke. “Maybe I kept quiet because I want to eventually take you up on the offer. Or maybe I wanted a deposit so you’d be indebted to me.”
She grinned. “I’m self-aware enough to lean toward number two, but that’s okay.” She reached into her purse, removing her iPad. “I want you to know that whatever you’re sitting on, hiding, etc., you won’t have to keep it up for long.” She punched a few strokes out on her screen, then handed me the device. “At least not with me.”
I resisted the urge to shake with shock as I read an email Beverly had received that morning from John Reed, Star Studio’s CEO. The upshot: Reed was advising her on how to prep for an interview for an apparently big job at Star Studio.
I kept my voice appropriately low as I stared into Beverly’s luminous gaze. “We’re hiring you as our new VP of IR?”
“Oh, you’re insulting me now,” Beverly replied, leaning all the way forward and clasping my hands. “I’m going to be your new CFO, Michael.” In my perception at least, faint stars materialized over her head as she continued. Beverly explained how her past experience as a CFO, her friendship with Reed and the management suggestions she had made to him over the past year had led to his decision to install her in the job. It probably helped that Maceo, our present CFO, was an imperial stuffed suit who had lost touch with most of Star Studio’s operational management. She took a breath, her expression just this side of smug.
“John wants me to come in and shake things up,” Beverly said before pausing for the delivery of our meals. “I’m going to need some help doing that, Michael. Are you available?”
As we consumed our respective lunches, I stared into the double barrel of Bev’s question. We discussed my professional priority–having my achievements in the IR department recognized with an eventual promotion to Senior Director, with a long-term shot at either ascending to VP of IR at Star Studio or an external company. The conversation from there turned to hers–overseeing a two-year turnaround that would give her a wide range of options for advancement.
“Let’s go up to your room,” she said as if asking for a stick of my gum. Our plates were clean, the lunch rush had cleared out of Hearbeat, and her right hand lay atop my left. “We have a lot to discuss, Michael.” When I shifted wordlessly in my seat, the look in her eyes softened further. “I trust you. I want you to know you can trust me. I’m convinced we can be very useful to one another. You have clear career goals and I can help you achieve them. I just need you to get started by coming over and working directly for me. Those financial analysis skills you use to get to the root of quarterly financial performance? I need someone reporting to the CFO who can do that for me day-in and day-out.”
There was only one appropriate response. “Wow.”
“You think experience like that will put you any closer to earning a shot at IR VP?”
I blushed.
She smiled. “I haven’t even told you about the pay bump yet.” Her smile reached from ear to ear. “Maxwell will piss himself with envy.”
Five minutes later I stood at the window of my hotel room, my body humming with the game-changing promise lying before me. My only worry, as I awaited Beverly’s knock on the door, was how to balance the visions warring in my mind. On the one hand, the invigorating prospect of high-profile, challenging work that could be key to the company’s prosperity, while also allowing me to stick a daily finger into Maxwell’s eye; on the opposite ledger, the near-term opportunity and challenge to romance a woman like Beverly. For all that I had accomplished in my new identity, I had yet to be with a woman who was my superior in age, professional position, and life experience.
When her knuckles hit the door, I opened it in a flash. She stood there with the jacket to her striped navy pants suit draped over her shoulder. She had stopped somewhere along the way to doff her satchel and to let her hair down. The blonde locks cascaded down to and across her shoulders, giving her a more youthful appearance. As she stepped forward, I admired the curve of her hips in the form-fitting slacks and the prominence of her bosom beneath the white silk blouse.
Her gaze penetrating me, she placed her hand over mine on the doorknob and took the initiative to slam the door closed. We pretty much circled each other for a few seconds, as if taking stock of the situation and each other. I couldn’t speak for Beverly, but my heartbeat boomed in my ears like it never had before. There was no mistaking I wanted this, but that didn’t blind me to the reality of the canyon I was leaping across.
Project strength. I stepped forward and pulled her to me, erasing any fears she would start screaming or run from the room.
Filling my nostrils with the peachy smell of her perfume, she gripped my hip and raised her face to mine.
Our lips met and we sank into a passionate, breathy kiss. Someone’s tongue came out, the other’s responded and we began streaking toward the inevitable.
That’s when she pulled back, gripped the back of my neck, and damn near bit my cheek off.
CHAPTER 23
Aimee
Even though they were footing the bill for me, I kind of resented Sydney and Tara dragging me out to Dr. Lott’s relationship seminar. Sure, I had several of Dr. Lott’s books on my shelf, but they were generally the type that had you sitting on your couch going “Mmm hmm” and “say that” the whole time you read them. You know, like a good movie or maybe even good sex. You had your fun, got your emotional lift, then put them back on your bookshelf and resumed doing all the stupid shit that made you buy them in the first place.
I had every reason to be cynical about this seminar, but after the events of the past couple weeks, I couldn’t really afford to turn my nose up to any potential source of empowerment. I needed inspiration to cope with Ian’s gradual disappearance from my life, as well as the ugly way in which our affair threatened to end.
Since Ian’s former security officer had gone public with fabricated abuse allegations involving an anonymous woman matching my profile, the stakes had escalated significantly. Ray Watkins was now claiming that he would shortly produce other league employees with knowledge of Ian’s abusive relationship, as well as women who had dated Ian as a single man and been physically abused.
Enterprising reporters were taking new levels of interest in Watkins and his allegations. As a former sports marketing and PR professional myself, I could feel it in my bones: the story was days away from exploding beyond the sports world and dominating mainstream media. Once that happened, the very idea that a leading sports commissioner, one who had appeared insensitiv
e to the domestic abuse sins of his athletes, was both a cheat and an abuser would ensure Ian’s swift removal.
The one thing around which I had clarity: I was not going to let Ian be railroaded out of office over a totally fabricated lie about the nature of our affair. He was never going to leave Nadine for me, but aside from that Ian had been the least sleazy married boyfriend in history. He had never lied about his intentions and had always treated me with respect. There hadn’t been much I could do to control the flow of our affair, but I was more armed than anyone to ensure that it didn’t end in a professional train wreck.
Walking into Metro/Smartbar, the Wrigleyille venue hosting Dr. Lott and her fans, was like entering a mini-Kenwood class reunion. Even though I knew the wife was no fan of mine, my heart always warmed when I ran into Brody and Tisha Lyons, who were local entrepreneurs raising a litter of four cute kids.
As Tara and I caught up with them, I thrilled at Tisha’s recounting of her day’s adventures getting the kids to soccer, dance and gymnastics activities. Short and lithe and dressed tonight in a pretty little red dress, she was bursting with energy, but the circles underneath her eyes betrayed the weight of motherhood. I was simultaneously jealous and seized by a sense of “There but for the grace of God . . .”
Seeing Tisha also awakened my memory of the day we had faced each other down on our school’s football field, struggling in vain to separate Michael Blake and my old boyfriend Chad Tucker. It was only the most concrete explanation for why Tisha usually looked through me with barely-veiled contempt, but as we waved “bye” to melt into different corners of the crowd, she surprised me. I could swear she was looking right at me as she flashed a wide smile.
As Dr. Lott was a former Hyde Park resident, members of every Kenwood clique were on hand for the seminar–the jocks, dealers, nerds, potheads, preps, and the ones who had fulfilled expectations by blooming into full yuppie-hood. I guess that’s why I wasn’t exactly surprised to see “the new Michael” at the bar.
Sporting a white open-necked shirt, Armani-looking blazer and a snug pair of jeans accentuating his lean waistline, he sat chilling on a stool next to Scott Dexter and Bobby Rashidi, who had inexplicably become his running crew. It was a little unnerving, but something was definitely different about Mr. Blake. I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not, but I had to admit to almost being flattered when he bothered to speak as I passed by.
“Aimee, what’s up? Can we set you ladies up with some drinks?” Michael smiled warmly, but there was something about the slack in his jaw and the twinkle in his eyes that sent a different message. The way he sat tall in his seat, the way his lips curved, turned his words into so much more. This wasn’t the tentative invitation of a gentleman; it was the promise of a man who knew exactly what he’d do if I wanted more than a free drink.
I slowed my stride, considering his offer, and smiled back as I noticed the nasty bruise on his right cheek. “Ouch,” I said, feinting toward the welt, “who did you piss off?”
Michael’s eyes flashed playfully, but he pulled back a bit. “Slow down and I’ll tell you.”
The lights overhead began to flicker. Showtime was near, and given the sweat dampening my brow I appreciated the timing. Sydney pinched the back of my blouse and smiled back at Michael and Scott. “Sorry boys, we better get to our seats before the show begins. See you later.”
###
As Sydney led Aimee and Tara to a table near the back of the main room, Scott fiddled with his overpriced tie and stared at the back of Sydney’s wide-but-slimming load. “Dr. Sydney’s getting her cock-block on, Mike. You think she’s trying to recruit Aimee over to her team?”
One hand in his beard, Bobby used his free arm to elbow Scott off his stool. “That’s not right, Scotty. Don’t be insinuating shit with no basis.” Bobby’s tolerance for anything resembling homophobia had disappeared once he’d learned of his father’s orientation.
I chugged another swig of beer, stuffing my annoyance that Sydney had dragged Aimee away so quickly. “New Michael” or not, I really wanted to rekindle my friendship with Aimee. Sure, I told her that night at Winthrop’s that I had no intention of being an emasculated “friend,” but I was starting to wonder if I really meant it.
Word around town was that Aimee was not just unemployed, but unemployable. There was nothing shocking about her getting fired by a likely head case like Todd J. Terry, but apparently Aimee had burned a few professional bridges when she went to work for him. It seemed she had been turned down left and right for gigs that were squarely in her wheelhouse.
That made no sense to me. A woman of Aimee’s intelligence, beauty and charm could add major value to just about any industry, but even in our late twenties we were all nearing that point where the desirable job openings required specialized expertise. I knew others who had been dumped into the job market and found the doors in their field closed to them, and the stories didn’t always have happy endings. My reach-out to Aimee, one I specifically avoided that night at the Freaky Fridays event, had been sincere.
My thoughts were interrupted by a slap on my back. Scott stared at me with suspicion in his eyes. “Michael, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were sitting there bumming about Aimee. I hope I’m wrong.”
I grabbed my beer and got on my feet. “Now why would I be thinking about any one woman? You’ve taught me better.”
“Look on the bright side. You’ve got her attention–proves you’re on the right track at least.”
Bobby’s shoulders jiggled with laughter. “I guess, though seem to me she was most intrigued by that raspberry on your cheek.”
“Yeah,” I said, fingering the eyesore in question, “that.” I had myself one hell of a passion mark. I recalled my junior high days, envying other kids walking around with bruises earned by boyfriends or girlfriends, recalled how proud I was when Alicia Parker gave me my first ones. At some point, the phenomenon ceased to be cute.
I still hadn’t quite made peace with my W New York hook-up with Beverly. I wasn’t sure what to call our behavior–it was more sex as sport than anything like intimacy. Beverly proved to be aggressive, profanely talkative and very specific about what she wanted. While I had apparently performed to her satisfaction, I had emerged feeling, well, used. I wouldn’t be repeating the experience, a decision that felt right but might complicate my work life more than continuing to sleep with her would.
My hand was still on my cheek, and I realized Scott was grimacing at the sight. “Oh, are we on Beverly now? Dude, wear your war scar with pride. Bobby and I could keep you here all night with tales of much worse.” He clapped me on the back. “You’re still hearing from her, right?”
“Daily,” I said after turning up my beer. “She just knocked out her first round of CFO interviews yesterday.”
Bobby offered me a fist pound. “You did your thing, homie. Baby girl is looking to be in the Michael Blake business. You can literally ride that to the top!”
As we located one of the last few tables with open seats, I avoided continuing the Beverly thread; I didn’t need them egging me on to get with her again. I distracted them by getting Scott talking about his and Ava’s elaborate wedding plans until the house lights dimmed.
“Welcome, good people,” said the evening’s emcee. “We are pleased tonight to present the first in our Distinguished Speaker Series. Dr. Sarah Lott is a nationally renowned author and speaker on self-esteem and healthy relationships. In this tumultuous day and age, with rapid changes in technology that have us spending more time in front of screens than with real people, Dr. Lott is focused on helping both genders address the things that separate us. Please give a warm welcome to our hometown girl, Dr. Lott!”
As Dr. Lott stepped up to the lectern, basking for a second in the roar of the crowd, she glanced around the room. With the skill of a politician, she pointed and waved at numerous familiar faces before landing on mine. When I bowed playfully from my seat, she winked before raising her hands to qu
iet everyone.
A tall, caramel brown-skinned woman with braids and the cheekbones of a former model, she exuded a charisma that charged the crowd. “It is really a pleasure to see so many clean, good-looking, ambitious young folk in one place. Give yourselves a hand, people!” She stood still and smiled warmly as we applauded. “I must admit I am most impressed with the turnout of men I see in the room. Would all you handsome guys please stand?” Her eyes shone luminously as she applauded the men, even though I did see her do a double take at Bobby, who was sporting his favorite T-shirt with its “Hard Out Here for a Pimp” slogan. “Now I’d like my beautiful sisters to stand.”
After holding this little pep rally for a few more minutes, Sarah got down to business. She broke down her assessment of the divide between singles of today–across sexual orientation–in terms everyone could understand. Years of appearing on “Oprah” and “Dr. Phil” had clearly helped her perfect the art of cutting her academic theories into chunks that we laymen could handle. She was so good, when she wound down her formal lecture thirty minutes later, everyone was still on the edge of their seats.
“So you understand, my research has shown that the pillars of our relationship struggles are unrealistic expectations, displaced rage, and confusion over the roles we’re meant to play.” She stepped back and took a seat on her stool. “There’s only one problem with my academic analysis, people. It won’t hit home as long as it sounds like theories coming from some ‘expert.’ I want you to see how these issues resurface again and again in your own lives. And that is the purpose of the rest of this evening.”
Dr. Lott laid out her plans to base the evening around direct commentary from the audience. She called for courage and honesty from everyone in the room, needling us about the fact that we all knew multiple people in the room, had probably slept with one or more as well. “Whether you admit it to yourself or not,” she said, “you’re here because you’re seriously interested in getting into a meaningful relationship despite past failures and unhealthy patterns that have stood in the way.” After exhorting everyone to be candid but respectful of others, Sarah pointed out microphones stationed throughout the room. “Let’s get going, ladies first. Who would like to share what you think women need from their significant others?”