The Hard Sell

by Wright,Lulu

  “Well, I guess I …”

  “I think it’s been far too long.” I am patting his back now. Good boy. “Trust me, your wife will thank you for getting these. She’ll appreciate the style.”

  His face brightens at the thought of his imaginary spouse. “Yeah, you are right. I suppose if I get all of these now, I won’t need to restock for another few years …”

  “Great!” Ewwwwwwww. I point him to the cash register where a sales woman older than God beckons him over with her bony hand and tight smile.

  He pushes his glasses up his greasy nose and tells my boobs “thanks.”

  “And thank you,” I say with the biggest fake smile I can stretch on my face. I just see a $375 sale. Cha-Ching.

  “I don’t think he knows what just hit him,” a man’s voice behind me says.

  I turn to see the prick Yuppie guy from the sidewalk. What is it with the guys in here today?

  He stands at the foot of my fixture smirking at me. He’s hotter than I remember when I was plotting his death. Dark eyebrows emphasize the bright hazel of his eyes, which under the fluorescent store lights appear more green than gray. His high and wide cheekbones balance a sturdy masculine jaw. His nose is straight and determined, but that mouth of his is just as unpredictable as it is pouty. Clearly, he recognizes me. His eyes are narrowed, and his smirk more on the challenging side than the flirty one.

  I smile back at the coffee stain that is spread across his shirt like a map of Europe.

  Then I see the gold name tag on the breast of his suit jacket.

  Jack Stewart

  Men’s Basics Manager.

  Oh, fuck.

  Well. Best to start out swinging, then.

  “Nice shirt.” I say. I don’t break eye contact even though his green eyes should be classified as Chick Killers.

  “Thanks. It’s a new color called Cafe Bitch.” His handsome face remains deadpan blank. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that wasn’t a joke at all.

  I thrust my hand at him like it’s a dagger. I wish it was. “I’m Lily—”

  “Brook, yes. I know. From Flash Fit.” He takes my hand and shakes it harder than is probably necessary or polite. “Miss Brook, the alleged underwear queen. You’re here to try and salvage the business. Well, your business anyway. The rest of my department is outselling our goals for the year by 15% already. Alas, Flash Fit has been dragging our overall numbers down with it, while it sinks.”

  He turns his green eyes to my department and I have to admit it looks like fresh hell. Even though it’s not my fault, I’m embarrassed. It’s like his eyes are looking at my naked body instead of the fixtures.

  “You’re going to repair this. Today, Miss Brook.” These aren’t questions.

  “Of course, Mr. Stewart,” I try to make his name sound as uptight as he is, but I just sound defensive so I attempt to lighten the mood. “That’s what I’m here for. It’s going to look better than new in a couple hours.”

  “It better.”

  He leans in, until only six inches remain between our faces. I can feel his heat. His eyes don’t move from my face and that haughty smirk of his must be his default expression. We are playing a game of body space chicken. I don’t budge and I don’t break his stare even though my heart is racing.

  Damn, he smells good. Like a man cookie.

  No.

  I square my shoulders and gaze into his eyes. I won’t be the first to flinch.

  He clearly refuses to either.

  Suddenly, his fingertips brush my bare shoulder, where I tugged my off-the-shoulder top down earlier in preparation for selling to Jenna Jameson’s fanboy back there. My skin sparks at his touch, electrified. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and I can hardly think through the thundering explosion of pheromones in my brain.

  Traitor vajayjay, I think at myself.

  Because, of course, he’s not touching my shoulder out of lust. His fingers slip under the strap of my backpack, and next thing I know, he’s pushing it off my shoulder and catching my bag in one deft hand,

  “You can’t have this on my selling floor, Miss Brook,” he says. Given the way he leaned in to take it, his lips have wound up mere inches from mine. “It’s a security violation. Let’s lock it in the stockroom. Follow me.”

  Then he’s gone, turning away, and I can finally struggle to catch my breath. Shit. What the hell was that reaction? “I knew that. I just got here,” I mumble as I jog to catch up with his long strides, following him through the Men’s Suits Department to a back door.

  He punches the keypad lock like he’s mad at it. “Code is 123,” he says. “Maybe you should write that down.”

  Douche. “I think I got it.”

  He tosses my bag on a dusty shelf next to a pile of unboxed underwear. I know that pile. All underwear stock rooms have the pile. It’s a jumble of worn underwear that’s been returned, waiting to be damaged out. Yuck.

  “Seriously?” I grab my bag off the stack of nastiness.

  “Keep it anywhere you like in here, but not my desk.” He takes off his suit jacket and neatly folds it on his chair.

  Usually, a manager’s desk looks like the aftermath of a tornado with loose paper everywhere and merchandise all over it, but not his. His sales printouts are stacked in neat piles and all his Zone-a-Gram books are arranged in seasonal order. His pricing gun is perched on the side, aligned with the edge of the desk; its batteries stand in a tidy row like soldiers at attention.

  I take my merchandiser fanny pack out of my backpack and wrap it around my waist. I feel his eyes on me again, and his smirk has gone full-blown judgmental this time. “You look like a tourist from Ohio.”

  “It’s not fashionable, but it’s practical.”

  “It’s an abomination.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt. “Aren’t you supposed to be in fitness?”

  I roll my eyes and force my gaze to his face as he starts to unbutton his next button. I will not stare at his chest if he takes that shirt off, I will not …

  “What about it?”

  “Well, if you’re going to be trying to rebuild Flash Fit from the ground-up, I’d like to be sure that you know what you’re doing. The fanny pack isn’t exactly inspiring confidence in your fashion know-how. What are your plans, Miss Brook?”

  “My plans?”

  “To improve the business. Your business.” He removes his cuff links and sets them on his desk. “That is why you are here, correct?”

  “That’s why I am here. To fix your problems.”

  “My problems?” He takes off his shirt one shoulder at a time. What the …

  Oh, fuck it. I stare.

  Lean and tight like a swimmer, his muscles ripple under his smooth skin. I spy a tattoo on his right bicep, but can’t make it out from this angle. He doesn’t seem like the type to get ink. It’s kind of like his blond tousled hair, a hint at something wild.

  Oh, shit. He’s talking. What did he say? “Huh?”

  “I said your plans, Miss Brook. For the floor. Do you have one?”

  What the hell, Lily? Get a grip. He’s a prick. I fold my arms across my chest to shield myself from his unbearable hotness. “Great plans for Hamilton, I have.”

  He shoots me a look of disgust. “Are you Yoda?” The muscles in his arms expand and contract as he balls up the shirt in his large hands. “Thank you for ruining this, by the way,” he sneers and he stuffs the coffee-colored shirt in the garbage bin.

  Half naked in front of me, his red power tie dangles from his neck. Part of me wants to wrap his tie around my fist and pull him to me. Part of me wants to strangle him with it. He sits on his desk and manspreads. I try not to look down, but fail. His huge bulge is impressive, photogenic and it could be on an underwear box. “You have to make up for a lot of slack in volume, Miss Brook.”

  “I need to bring the floor to brand standard and push the high price point goods.” His eyes are just too damn green, they make me nervous “And
I am going to need visual support. Maybe we could do an event with a DJ and models. Models always get social media buzzing.”

  “Male models?” The tiny note of fear in his voice makes me smile.

  “Of course male models. It’s men’s underwear, after all.” Now I look at him and feel a surge of confidence. I love how guys, all guys, this gorgeous one included, are intimidated by male models. Too bad he didn’t go into a modeling career. Male models are perfect. Male models don’t talk.

  “I don’t know how corporate will feel about that, Miss Brook.” The scowl is back. “We are a traditional store.”

  I zip my bookbag and put it on a shelf that houses multipack socks. “Well, Jack, if you want to build the biz, maybe you should get with the times.”

  We have another stare down which I win. He looks away and fiddles with the cufflinks on his desk, but I see another smirk curve on his lips. “Get back to work. I want all my people on the floor.”

  His eyes are back on me, but I feel too fired up for them to have an effect on me now. “I don’t work for Hamilton’s. I work for Flash Fit. I’m not your people.”

  “Oh, yes you are. Don’t get any ideas about being bigger or more important than anyone else in this store. While you’re in here, you work for me. When you work for me, you need to perform. You need to get your numbers up, or I will get rid of you like I did the last fail of a merchandiser Flash Fit sent me. Understand?”

  In response, I storm out of the office. I let the door slam harder than strictly necessary behind me. What a shitlord.

  But what can I do? I need to ace this gig if I want the promotion. Which means, until Christmas Eve rolls around, I need to play by his rules.

  For now.

  2

  Jack

  I am slave to my routine. That’s how success is achieved.

  I get up early and workout hard. After a shower jerk off, I groom myself with precision. I put on one of my designer black suits and noose a tie around my neck in a Windsor knot. To find the weak links in the chain, I pour over yesterday’s sales numbers and map out a plan to improve them. With my goals set for the day, I head to Max’s to get a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Then I hit the store and get my sales team in line in time for the first wave of customers around 10am (when the local office desk jockeys are on their first morning coffee break and remember they need a tie for that afternoon meeting, and also about the same time the local SAHMs head in to beat the noon rush shopping for hubby’s anniversary presents).

  My team is a constant challenge. There’s an old battle axe who has been at Hamilton’s since the 60s. There’s our tie specialist who, because he has a PhD in physics, thinks selling menswear is beneath him. I also have a born again Christian in loungewear who keeps trying to pray with customers.

  And those are my best employees.

  I have to stay on top of them every second or they get lazy. I set them goals and follow up, then increase those goals and follow up again. They do their jobs, because I make sure of it. It’s part of the routine.

  But today I am thrown off my game.

  Last night I was up late arguing with Crystal again because she won’t accept that we’ve broken up. She still thinks she’s going to move into my condo and buy throw pillows and pick out furniture at Pottery Barn. She tries to plan couples’ dinner parties and book weekend getaways at sleepy Bed and Breakfasts all over Pennsylvania.

  I want her out of my life. I tell her I’m busy and I try to avoid her, but it’s awkward. She got her cosmetics company to transfer her to my store. No longer tucked away at King of Prussia, she now works at Hamilton’s in Center City at the Blush counter. She’s extorting a relationship from me.

  Crystal knows too much about me and reminds me of it every chance she gets. She dangles her knowledge in front of me like a poisonous carrot. She has the power to ruin the life I have struggled to rebuild the last five years. She could destroy my reputation and hurt my family on a whim.

  I resent her threats, but carry on and I do my job at the best of my abilities. There is no rest from the grind of hard work. I leave no detail unexamined, no opportunity unexplored. My diligence has been noticed. The proof is in the numbers, in our glowing customer comment cards and my pristine shop floor. In another couple of months, if I keep on track, I will get promoted off the sales floor and into the Golden Tower where the buying office is.

  There I will be impervious to any attack Crystal can dream of, because there I can be judged by my success alone and not my past or my family.

  Right now, I’m vulnerable. She could ruin everything and she knows it. So I have to wait her out.

  Respect the routine. Stick to the routine. The routine will deliver my future.

  But today I wake up late and have trouble getting started. I start a sweaty workout in my building’s gym, but I don’t hit that anticipated wall of euphoria. I can’t even get myself off in the shower because the hot water isn’t working and when I sit down to breakfast, the numbers from last week are disappointing.

  Even the waitress at Max’s sees I’m off.

  I leave my change on the counter for her tip and grab the rest of my breakfast and coffee to go.

  Then I ran into her.

  Actually, she ran into me.

  This gorgeous girl slammed into me outside the employee entrance. She spilled coffee all over my shirt and didn’t apologize. Beautiful girls never apologize. They will, however, curse you out like a sailor and blame you for breaking their ancient iPhone 4.

  Turns out the mouthy girl is my new Flash Fit merchandiser. I got the last one fired for complete incompetence, and I’m going to get that saucy Miss Brook fired too. Her brand’s sluggish sales are driving the department down. I have been telling anyone who will listen that we need to pull Flash Fit from our stores and bring in a product that customers actually want to buy.

  If Miss Brook thinks she can turn an entire business around by shaking her spectacular tits at individual male customers, one at a time, then she’s got another thing coming.

  Well, okay, so it worked that one time today. But it’s not a long term plan. Her tits can’t be in every store every hour of the day.

  Unfortunately.

  Not to mention, I can’t believe what she wears. She looks like she just walked out of yoga class with her sneakers and leggings. Her sloppy bun may look like a careless mess, but I know better. That’s careful design. Dark wavy strands tumble to her shoulders and stick to her neck when she sweats. The red lipstick, the exposed shoulder and that bedroom gaze tell me everything she does is calculated to humble men.

  Well, not this man.

  But at least until I get rid of her, I can enjoy watching her sweat.

  I toyed with her a little. I couldn’t help myself. Brilliant move on my part that smacked of plausible deniability. She destroyed my shirt, I needed to change into a fresh one so I stripped in front of her. I was curious to test the waters and let me just say, I’m pretty sure the waters set her on fire. She completely lost her cool. But I almost went too far. I allowed myself to indulge in my physical attraction to her; I came dangerously close to smearing that red lipstick all over both our hot mouths, just to find out if she tastes as good as she smells.

  I can’t go there. Not now. She’s trouble and I have no use for her. Right now I am 100% focused on my business. I can’t be having relations with an underling. I already have a Crystal problem.

  But goddamn it, if Miss Brook teases me, I can tease her right back.

  She’s quite a busy worker bee that Miss Brook. With roguish pleasure, I have been watching her work on her fixtures for the past week. She bends over a lot. She squats. She sweats. Her closet must be packed with revealing black tee shirts. I notice her tops are either off the shoulder, low cut or short enough that when she raises her arms flesh shows. All of them are of the thinnest fabric, too. According to Miss Brook’s nipples, Hamilton’s AC is working just fine in the warm early fall.

  It’s been quite a
show.

  Not just a physical one, either. All week that she’s been here, every single customer who approaches Flash Fit buys something. She is flirting her way into increased volume. Her charm draws them in and her tits seal the deal. Even the women are not immune to her hard sell. She laughs and chats with them like she has known them for years, gossips about their boyfriends or husbands or whoever they’re buying for, and watches them leave the store with 10, 15, 20 units of her product.

  She’s already making an impact on sales and it hasn’t even been a week.

  This morning I pull Flash Fit’s Unit Per Transaction numbers just to see the extent of the impact. Before Miss Brook and her tits, Flash Fits hovered around 1.3 units per transaction and was trending down. Now it’s 3.2 and climbing.

  As the department manager, it’s my job to dole out accolades when applicable. This boosts morale and keeps my people working.

  But I give Miss Brook none of that because she is smug and has a poor attitude. When she addresses me, she speaks like I’m a five-year-old. She acts like this is her department.

  She needs to be kept in check.

  Sometimes I walk around her fixtures and frown while I pretend to take notes on my clipboard. I jot something with fury, which makes her huff and complain. “What now?” or “Oh, my god.” or “What are you writing?” She thinks it’s call outs, but really I’m just doodling Bart Simpson. Then I just lean on one of her fixtures and watch her hoist box after box of underwear. She hates that.

  But she needs to learn. This is my department.

  At the main register I am dealing with a customer that smells like feet. The old man is complaining about the coupons, the sale prices and everything else he can think of. But really he just wants someone, anyone, to listen to him. I can hear him out for a few minutes, if it will get him to leave my department feeling happy. I try to keep all my customers happy. Especially little old guys like this who remind me of my grandfather.

  So, I try to listen to his rambling story. But Miss Brook insists on distracting me. Again.