by Wright,Lulu
Crystal shoves out of her chair to pace across the bathroom to the door. By the entrance, she pauses and turns around to glare at me directly. “That’s the exact same shade Jack had all over his mouth the other day.”
I freeze.
Fuck.
And of course, my deer-in-headlights expression isn’t fooling anyone. Still, I have to try. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She taps her plastic nails on the sink basin. For several seconds all I hear is the tap, tap, tap of her gel tips. “Stay away from Jack or else.”
I catch her eye in the mirror. “Or else what?”
“You don’t want to find out, whore. I can ruin your life in a single email.” She storms out of the bathroom.
A chill crawls up my spine. One email could sure as hell ruin my life, if it’s an email to Brenda saying I’m messing around with the management.
But I’m being paranoid. It’s not my drama. I need to just keep my mouth shut and she’ll calm down. This is how break ups go sometimes. You get dumped, you lash out, then you calm down. In Crystal’s eyes, I’m the cowgirl slut. She has every right to hate me, to bitch about me to her friends, whatever.
She might be a bitch, but she wouldn’t ruin someone’s life over one kiss.
“You ok, Lily?” Mona asks.
I realize I’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for the last five minutes. I startle back to life. “Yeah, good.” I try to muscle a smile. It ain’t coming. My head’s too preoccupied with stress. What if Crystal does email Brenda?
Worse, what if I deserve it for making out with her man? I mean, not that it was making out. More like, an accidental collision. Of mouths. And hands. Oh god, his hands, all over my body. They felt so fucking good …
I squeeze my eyes shut as guilt seizes up inside me again.
“Well, I bet I can cheer you up,” Mona says. She hands me a copy of a receipt.
My eyes pop. “A $1500 underwear sale? Amazing. How did you manage that?”
Shifting her weight from foot to foot, Mona’s jaunty like a colt. She’s excited by her success and smiling with pride. “I did just like you said. I made sure I understood what the customer wanted and then I showed him the things that he would like. It was easy.”
I force a smile for her sake—and my own sanity.
The drama that is Crystal and Jack’s implosion is out of my control. There’s only one thing I can do to make up for my part in it now, and that is to focus on selling every piece of merch I can.
With my fire reignited and Mona at my side, we prove a dream team for Flash Fit. By the end of the day, I even sell the pink briefs off the mannequins, leaving one naked man in the middle of the aisle for the rest of the night. I’ll take care of him in the morning.
As Mona closes out the register, I head back to the stockroom. I toss the two pieces of Jack’s Flash Fit in a Hamilton bag along with a pithy little note in lieu of the public shaming I yearned for. Sigh. It will have to do. I staple the bag shut and toss it on Jack’s desk.
I find Tim, the outerwear manager, to pull numbers, since Jack is still MIA.
Boom. $15k plus. Sales goal surpassed!
My AMEX card is going to get a workout, I think as I invite Tim and a few other employees to tag along with Mona and I for the celebratory meal. As promised, dinner and drinks are on me.
8
Jack
With every interaction Mr. Beckman finds a way to show me how little he thinks of me. Out of all of the challenges I face in retail management, dealing with him is the most frustrating.
As the store manager, he knows I should be on my floor for the sales event, but he won’t let me leave. He’s been keeping me captive for hours; printing out sales sheet, deep diving into sales figures, analyzing trends.
“The new Flash Fit vendor, Miss Brook, is proving to be a valuable asset,” I’m saying, as he marvels at how high the numbers on Flash Fit are suddenly. He clicks his pen frantically through this sentence, like he’s trying on purpose to derail me. “You can see for yourself. I’m starting to think the brand has a place at Hamilton after all.”
Beckman stops playing with his pen. “Girl with the dark hair, right? Wears the activewear and sneakers?”
I resist shifting in my seat. “I’ve addressed her about proper dress code already. I’ll speak to her again.”
“Well …” He leans back in his chair. “Let’s not throw the baby out with the bath.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me and I can’t help it. I wince in disgust.
“Pardon me, sir?” My jaw is clenched so hard, my teeth might crack.
“I like looking at her ass.”
Of course, I do too, but the way he speaks about her is different and I don’t like it. “Still, I don’t know if it’s proper …”
“Mr. Stewart,” he interrupts. “We’ve seen her type before. She’s a community college nothing from a small town, I’m sure, who likes to flaunt her only advantage in the world. A nice ass. Big tits. So let the white trash prostitute herself to sell underwear. The store benefits, and so do I.”
I can only gape at him in response. I knew Beckman was bad—I’ve reported him to corporate for harassment before, but all they’ve done is issue vague warnings with no follow-through. But this is insane even for him.
Apparently he takes my speechlessness for agreement, because he pulls out his phone. “I took this little gem yesterday,” he explains as he plays a video of Miss Brook bending over her fixture.
I grab the phone away from him and swipe at the screen. There are more pictures. Snapshots of Miss Brook squatting or crouching on her knees. I feel ill. I swipe again and see he’s got a video of one of our other salesgirls eating a banana. Another shows a different sales girl leaning over her counter. Still another is an upskirt shot of one of our employees climbing the stairs. There is an endless stream of images, an entire album dedicated to his perversion.
Even Mona features in here, licking a yogurt spoon clean in the break room.
I want to delete all of it. Every image. Every video.
“It’s just innocent fun,” he says. He’s not at all ashamed. In fact, he’s beaming. “Are you telling me you never indulge from time-to-time?”
I clench my fist so hard his phone trembles in my fist. “No, sir. I can’t say that I have.”
He shrugs. “You’re missing out, kid.”
I open my mouth to speak.
Click. Click. Click. He keeps clicking that goddamn pen.
Before I realize what I’m doing, blind with rage, I yank it from his fist and snap it in half. I consider smashing the phone too. But luckily the sensible half of my brain takes over. I slide the phone into my pocket.
This is evidence now. I’m going to get this old bastard fired if it’s the last thing I do.
He smiles at me, unconcerned. “Are you going to hit me, Mr. Stewart? Or should I say, Mr. Hammer?”
That stupid nickname. He’s goading me because he wants me to hit him. That’s why he showed me his perverted collection. My fist breaking his jaw will earn him a rich lawsuit and he knows it. “I’m not going to hit you. I’m going to get you out of my store.”
“Your word against mine, Jacky boy,” he says, I slam his office door in response.
By the time I get to my floor, the Fab Fall sale is over. Thanks, Beckman. The store lights are off and the registers are closed. My staff is gone for the night and Miss Brook is gone too. Thank god for small favors. Yet I can’t help feeling deprived of the opportunity to goad her one more time.
I head to my stockroom to look at numbers and find a package on my desk wrapped in a Hamilton’s bag. It’s stapled to death and bowed with markdown sticker tape. There is also a note, or actually poetry, attached to the bag. Miss Brook’s handwriting is as sloppy as her hair.
Jack,
Hamilton’s Dress Code you have sent twice
But I can’t take your outfit advice
Pantsuits and heels aren’t so nice!
>
Comfort, style and fabric for wick
This is the dress code you should pick
And find Flash Fit is perfect for your … fit!
Miss Brook is no danger of becoming this nation’s next Poet Laureate, but I smile. There’s a charm to it.
Inside the bag are two pieces of Flash Fit, each one … shall we say, daring.
I get samples from vendors all the time and I have a nice collection of designer ties and dress shirts. The Armani vendor even comped me a suit last year. I’ve received a fair amount of underwear too, but always boxer shorts and tighty-whities. Flash Fit makes conservative styles, but Miss Brook gave me a pair of electric blue briefs and a pink jockstrap. She can’t imagine I would wear these.
Or can she? Is she picturing me in sexy underwear? Is this some kind of message?
Or just a professional courtesy?
I’ve never tried Flash Fit, but now I’m curious. The customers rave about them. I hold up the blue briefs and can tell they are well made; the fabric is a top quality and the seams perfectly sewn.
I wonder if they are as comfortable as Miss Brook claims.
Only one way to find out.
I kick off my shoes and slip out of my dress pants. I peel off my trunks, toss them on my desk and pull on the blue briefs. I pause for a second. I have to admit, they are comfortable. But no way in hell I’d actually wear them. Miss Brook is not going to win this one. I stick my thumb under the waistband to slip them off, when I’m interrupted by a banging on the stockroom door.
“Jack?”
Fuck. It’s Tim.
I scramble to throw on my pants. The electric beeps chime as I scoot up to the desk and toss the pink jockstraps into the bag.
“Hey, bro, are we good for drinks tonight?” Tim peeks into the room.
“Uh, no.” I shake my head. “I can’t deal with a crowd tonight. I’m spent.”
“How bad was it with Beckman?”
My anger from earlier resurges. I want to destroy something. I grab the nearest report on my desk and rip it in half. “Take a wild guess,” I mutter.
Tim exhales hard. “God, I hate him.”
I say nothing because I don’t have to. Tim knows how I feel. We’ve discussed Beckman’s disgusting behavior many times. His incompetence—not to mention his lecherous ways—makes our jobs a million times harder.
“Between Beckman and the upcoming visit from Hamilton, it’s been a killer of a week, huh, Jack?”
My stomach churns. I don’t need the reminder. Our district manager Mr. Hamilton will be visiting each of our departments. If there is one piece of underwear out of place, he will find it. If there is a speck of dust on the fixture, he will see it. Nothing escapes his scrutiny. I will be working at least one overnight shift to prepare for it. “Proper preparation prevents poor performance,” I drone.
“Ah.” Tim smirks sarcastically. “The man does make his orders sound poetic, doesn’t he?”
“What can I say? It’s been drilled into my head.”
“Well, your numbers were sick today.” Tim drops a printout on my desk.
I spin my chair around to face him, then remember my fly is still undone and lean back into my desk. “Uh, why did you print them out?”
“I pulled them for Lily at closing. She batted her eyelashes at me and well, you
know …”
Was she flirting with him? I fire me a hotter look than I mean to. “Batted her eyelashes?”
Tim pulls back and grins. “Ok, maybe she just asked politely. But I knew she worked her butt off all day. She deserved to see her numbers. So I battled the busted printer for her.”
I glance at the numbers on the page and fight to keep my jaw from dropping “Fairly impressive,” I say, though I know Tim sees right through me. This is the best Fab Fall opening day we’ve ever had.
Tim whistles. “Fairly impressive? You kidding? That’s stellar and you know it. Lily’s sweet. She took the entire Men’s Basics Department out for drinks to celebrate.”
Is that a power move on her part? To take my people out? “She did?” is all I manage to ask.
Tim smirks. “So … I’m thinking you want to go have a drink after all?”
9
Lily
The team troops to El Vez, a cool Mexican restaurant on 13th. Mona is too young to drink, but she tags along anyway, for which I’m glad. I want to buy her something to show my appreciation, even if it’s just an XL order of nachos.
Pious George turned up and although he has a big list of things Jesus doesn’t want him to do, drinking beer is not one of them. The old lady, Betty, also showed. Now, that’s a drinker. She props herself onto a barstool, orders a neat whiskey and gulps it like water. Betty is my kinda gal.
After talking about the ins and outs of Flash Fit for 40 minutes, the conversation turns to everyone’s favorite subject—store gossip. I get an earful.
“Mr. Beckman is married!” George shakes his head. He’s maybe 35, but his demeanor and prudish ways make me think of him as 60. “Yet he still hits on every young lady in the store.”
“I got something,” Mona says. “I heard Mr. Stewart broke up with that girl. One of the cosmetic managers told me. He dumped her on the dock.” Mona shoots me a look I can’t interpret. Before I can decide if it’s sympathy or judgement, Betty raises her empty glass to get the bartender’s attention.
“Good riddance. I never liked that tramp.”
“Whoa!” Mona’s eyes go wide. “Miss Betty, that’s mean.”
“Why?” Betty says. Her South Philly accent is really coming out now. “Crystal’s an awful gal. I heard she got fired from the cosmetic company she worked at before Blush for stealing cash out of the register. Should have prosecuted her, for crying out loud …”
I bite my tongue so hard it might bleed. Then I subtly refill Betty’s drink.
“Speak of the devil,” George says, nodding towards the door.
Jack strolls into the restaurant and I feel a tinge of excitement all the way down to my core. What is he doing here?
He’s with a bunch of guys; a couple I recognize from the store, like Tim, but the other guys look like they don’t work retail. They look like lawyers or accountants.
“Oh god.” George rolls his eyes. “Lecture incoming. Bet you anything he’s here to call me out for not opening enough store cards today.”
“Don’t you guys like Jack?” I ask. Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks he’s a dick.
“Oh, stop it.” Betty takes a pull off her whiskey. “He’s a good boy. A good boss.”
“I like him OK,” Mona says. “He’s tough, but he’s fair.” Jack nods at our table, but politely keeps his distance. Maybe he guesses that nobody wants to see their boss while we’re out celebrating.
As he sits with his friends across the room, I work on my margarita and steal sideways glances at him while Betty talks about selling control top panty hose to Jackie O in 1974. “I thought she’d be taller,” Betty says with a note of disappointment in her voice. “But you know these celebrity types are always shorter than you think …”
I forgot how handsome Jack is. In the candlelit restaurant he looks almost romantic. I picture him as the lead in a cheesy rom-com and almost snort into my marg. Not to mention, he’s smiling. That may be the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. Looking relaxed and loose, his tie is off and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. He runs his hand through his hair and I feel a sudden stab of jealousy for those fingers. I want that to be my hand trailing through that soft hair. I think about the one and only time we kissed, when I clenched my fist in his soft, wavy hair …
The guys at his table burst into laughter. Does Jack have a sense of humor after all?
“Glamorous woman, I tell ya that Jackie O. Dressed real casual in pants when she came into the store, but she still looked rich somehow, you know?”
The waitress delivers a plate of fruit and cheese to Jack’s table. Whatever he says to the girl makes her
bite her lip and touch her hair. Is he flirting with her?
Bastard.
“And she smelled like Chanel #5, But I expected that. All the magazines said it was her favorite perfume … .”
I watch him pick up a grape and press it to his lips then roll it on his tongue with his finger. Yisssss. My eyes are completely trained on his mouth. So much so that it takes me a second to glance up and realize he’s staring right at me. He cocks his eyebrow at me and bites down on the grape in his mouth.
Panicked, I turn away and stare at Betty, who is circling the drain on her Jackie O story.
“And lo and behold.” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “The bitch returns the control top pantyhose after she wore them all day.”
“Ew.” Mona crinkles her nose. “That’s gross.”
“Lord have mercy.” George blushes as Betty lets loose a scratchy laugh.
At the end of the night I commandeer the check. Fearing how much it’s going to be, I start drafting the explanation to Brenda in my head. I may have to find a Ghandi quote or something. I dunno.
“No check,” the waitress says. “Bill’s been taking care of.”
“What?”
The waitress blushes and twirls her hair. “Jack says to tell you he wanted to treat his people.”
“I told you he was a good boy,” Betty says and clinks glasses with Mona.
“Yeah.” George shrugs. “He’s not that bad.”
Maybe he’s not. At least I won’t have to write an in-depth email to Brenda. I need to thank Jack. I glance around the restaurant, but he’s pulled another disappearing act. “Where is he?” I ask the waitress. She’s still standing at our table twirling her hair.
“Um, he left,” she says. “Oh, and one more thing. He’s wanted me to tell Lily …”
“That’s me.” I sit up in my seat. A message? I bet he wants to congratulate me on a great day.
“He says to be in the store early to restock the towers.”
I collapse back into my chair.
Prick.
10
Lily
When the alarm goes off, I am thankful I kept my drinking to a minimum last night. I congratulate myself on being able to adult in spite of those lip licking delicious margaritas.