by Ava Sinclair
“So, what did you do this weekend?” she asks.
“Nothing. Just went out for drinks.”
“Where?” she presses, and I inwardly cringe.
“Becky wanted to try that new place downtown, The Avenue? We didn’t stay long.”
I end the conversation before she can ask where we went next. Patty prides herself on knowing more about her coworkers’ personal lives than she probably should. And she likes to gossip, so I’m careful what I say around her. What can I say, anyway? Even if I wanted to tell her more, I don’t remember.
I retreat to the safety of my cubicle, where I finalize the details of my PowerPoint presentation. I’ve worked my ass off on this one, and I’m determined to be professional. I even maxed out the rest of my credit card buying a blue suit with a white silk blouse, navy heels, and sophisticated-looking pearl earrings. My hair is pulled back into a neat bun. I feel… adult.
A knock gets my attention. It’s Casey, our art director. “Ten minutes,” she says. “You ready?”
I give her a thumbs up.
“I swear, the hardest part of this is going to be not staring at Mr. Iver,” she says.
“You, too?” I accompany the question with an eye roll. “That man has put every woman in this office in heat. Remember, we must be professional, so stare at the wall if you have to.”
“He’s huge,” she says, ignoring me. “Have you seen his hands? You know what they say about big hands…”
“Down, girl,” I warn.
“Bossy,” she grumbles.
“Well, when it’s your ass on the line, you can lecture me,” I say with a grin.
I’m starting to get annoyed by my coworkers, not because they’re being so unprofessional, but because they’re right. Casey isn’t exaggerating. Max Iver is gorgeous. And at 6′4″, he’s big. Despite his pro football career ending due to an injury, he still works out daily according to one interview. I’m a big believer in research, and so far the most frustrating part of this project is finding out much about the man I’m about to make my pitch to. Max Iver may believe in the power of advertising, but when it comes to his personal life, he keeps it quiet.
It’s time. I shut my laptop and head to the conference room, nervous but confident. I’m the last one in, and Mr. Brinkman and Max Iver both stand when I enter.
“Ah, she’s here.” Mr. Brinkman turns to the man I’m here to impress. “Max, you remember Jill Stafford.”
He extends his hand and smiles, his teeth straight and pearly white in his tanned face. He has dimples, and hazel eyes that are a shade darker than his thick, wavy hair. “How could I forget?” He offers his hand and I take it. His grip is strong, but careful. “She made quite an impression on me when we last saw each other.”
The comment gives me some hope. If he still remembers me from our cursory ‘hello’ in the hallway a week ago, then that bodes well.
Casey helps me set up the computer so we can project the presentation on the large flat screen at the front of the room. The butterflies I felt when I walked in are gone. Now I’m just excited.
I start with the PowerPoint. This is the setup for the ad I’ve designed. The Iver Group is a financial management firm. I recap what we know, that the company wants to target young professionals looking to invest. That’s a hard sell, and we’ve been hired to make investment seem hip and desirable. I throw in abysmal statistics about millennial investing, and market research on what appeals to our target customers. I point out that investing is often associated with old people, and millennials don’t want to think about being old. I explain that the ad will appeal to the younger set’s desire for independence while making aging something they can look forward to with the right planning.
All the while, Mr. Iver is leaning back in his chair, but each time I glance at him, he’s studying me, not the presentation, and I look away, unnerved. His bold gaze is rattling me. I don’t want to get unnerved, so I focus on the screen as the real pitch begins.
I start the ad. A young man in a wetsuit is polishing his surfboard when someone puts a larger, more expensive board in the sand next to him. It’s an older man, fit, with a white beard. He nods to the young man. A moment later, they are heading to the surf and catch the same wave, but the old man out-surfs the younger man, who falls before he reaches the shore.
Afterwards, the young man runs up to the older man and asks, “Just one question. How?”
“Planning,” the old man says. “I had to have something to do after early retirement.”
The old man walks off. The young man looks down at his cheaper board, picks it up, and runs after him. “Hey, hey,” he says. “Tell me how you did it!”
This is where the Iver Group logo fades over the scene. The lights, which had been turned down, come back on. Max Iver is still sitting back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, a long forefinger pressed against his cheek. I hold my breath, ready to exhale in relief. He sits up, leans forward, and puts his forearms on the desk.
“I hate it,” he says.
The room is silent, save for Casey’s soft gasp. I make no sound. My breath is still caught in my throat.
“Excuse me?” I finally find my voice and look back at the frozen screen, at the older and younger man walking off into the sunset. “Mr. Iver… it… it’s based on market research. The appeal is targeted…”
“I said I hated it,” he repeats quietly, and points at the screen. “That’s not going to appeal to the people I want to reach.”
I’m hurt and offended, but I try to keep my cool. “With all due respect,” I say. “What do you know of what young people think?”
“Jill…” There’s a warning to Mr. Brinkman’s voice, but I ignore it as I stare at Max Iver. At that moment, we could be the only two people in the room.
“That’s a young, lost person seeking out a daddy to help him,” he says, gesturing to the screen. He eyes me, and I get the strangest feeling, almost panicky, and I don’t know why. “I’m targeting young people who’ve gotten past that point.” He pauses. “At least on a professional level.”
So, you’re saying you want a daddy…
The words jump to the front of my mind from where they’re buried deep in my subconscious. I see the bright light again. The voice is deep, familiar. I look back at Mr. Iver. I feel sick and shaky. The rejection combined with another fragmented memory is just too much.
My hands are shaking as I rip the cords from the laptop, snatch it from the table, and bolt from the room. I don’t know why I’m running, or what I’m running from. All I know is that I’m a fuck-up who got blackout drunk on Saturday night and has now blown the best professional chance she’s ever had. And what’s worse? I’m starting to feel that whatever I did on Saturday night has somehow come back to haunt me.
I hear heavy footsteps. Mr. Brinkman is coming down the hall, calling my name. He’s angry. I’ve never heard him angry. I want to head for the exit, but instead I retreat to my cubicle. I feel another sense of déjà vu. Every time I’ve lost a job—and I’ve lost two since leaving college—it’s been because of some emotional outburst, either at a coworker or a boss. This had been my longest employment, but when I see my boss’ red face, I know it’s over.
“There was no excuse for your behavior in there, Miss Stafford,” says the usually easygoing boss who until this point called me Jill. “I’m sorry, but what you did was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his white hair. “Clean out your desk. Security will be here momentarily to escort you out.”
“You don’t have to fire her.” We both turn at the sound of Max Iver’s voice. “She made a mistake, but it can be corrected.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Iver, this is an internal matter,” Mr. Brinkman says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s not really your concern, is it?” He’s trying to help, but I’m still stung, still wounded over his rejection of my vision for his ad. It was a good ad, and this is his fucking fault. I pull a box from under my desk and
start throwing things into it. My hands are shaking so much that I drop my stapler, then I realize it belongs to the company and leave it on the floor. Mr. Brinkman is off to the side, talking to Max Iver, and whatever his client is saying has no effect, because my boss—my former boss—is shaking his head.
“You called?” Rex, our kindly security guard has reached us. He looks in, sees me collecting my things, and his expression is somewhere between shock and sadness.
“If you could kindly see Miss Stafford out of the building,” Mr. Brinkman says, and without so much of a goodbye to me, he turns away. I lower my eyes, not wanting to meet the gazes of my coworkers who have now solemnly appeared to gawk. As I start to head down the hall, however, I feel someone take my arm. It’s Max Iver.
“When you get outside,” he says, his voice low, “check your phone.”
I stare up at him for a moment, not comprehending what he means, and walk away without responding. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want his lame sympathy after the fact. I have other things to focus on, like breaking the news to Becky, and finding a way to talk her out of evicting me.
So this is what rock bottom feels like? I’m so numb, I can’t even cry as I walk to the parking deck. My car, a sporty little Subaru with a payment I can barely afford, sits waiting in my personal space, one of the perks I’ll no longer enjoy. I open the back door and am tossing the box in the seat when I hear my text tone. I’m not surprised to see a number I don’t recognize. It must be Mr. Iver. I start to click off, but then stop. The text he’s sent me has an attachment. A video.
“Call me after you watch this,” the words below it read, and I feel my heart begin to hammer, because I think I know now. I think I know what that light was. My fingers shake as I tap the download and watch the video.
Oh, my god… no…
Chapter Three
The light I saw in the snatches of the puzzle-piece recollections from Saturday night? It was the light of a cell phone camera held by the man videotaping the interview I’m watching—the interview that reveals secrets only a blacked-out drunk would confess.
You’re drunk.
You think? I giggle as I answer.
You’re past drunk. Why would you do this?
Because it makes it easier, I guess? More giggling. I slump in my chair and the giggle turns into a laugh.
Focus, Jill. That’s your name, right?
I’m forcing myself to look back at the camera. Yeah.
Do you know my name?
You’re Max Iver. And you’re hot…
Oh, no. Oh, fuck, no. I’m coquettish and silly, flirtatious and girlish. I recognize his voice, even if I can’t see the man who’s aiming the phone in my direction. Where are we? I squint, peering at the video. It’s a hotel room.
You said drinking makes it easier. He’s pressing me, but gently. Easier to do what?
Easier to tell someone what I need.
What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me?
To be taken care of.
Taken care of? Can you be more specific?
I need a daddy.
Oh, fuck, no. I did not tell him that. But I did, and he’s talking again.
Don’t you have a daddy? His deep voice is a hook attached to a line pulling the truth from me by degrees, the truth I’d not offer without the lubricant of too much alcohol. My voice, by contrast, is now high, a child’s voice.
My daddy left me. He didn’t want me. My next words are barely audible. Nobody wants me.
I’m sure that’s not true. He pauses. When did your daddy leave?
When I was four. Said he was sick of my mom’s shit, sick of her drinking. She said she drank because it was hard being a mom, because I got sick too often and cried too much. She begged him not to go, but I begged harder. I remember… I remember…
The camera zooms in on my face. I can see the pain in my eyes as he saw it, through the lens of his iPhone.
Go on, honey. You can tell me. You’re safe.
I grabbed his leg. He had to kick me away to get out the door.
Tears track down my cheeks. I’m struck by how young I look. How forlorn. I did this. I said these things, but I don’t remember. I’m watching myself as if I were a stranger. I’m watching the fucked-up girl I’ve struggled to bury, the one who only emerges when alcohol dissolves the shell around her.
You never saw him again, Jill?
No.
I’m sorry.
Me, too. I shift in my seat, nearly fall, right myself. I’m staring into the camera now. My words are sad and slurred. You’re nice. Will you be my daddy?
This is where I’d have shut off the video if it had not ended abruptly. I toss my phone on the seat beside me, put my forehead on the steering wheel, and begin to cry. I thought I’d wanted to know what I’d done on Saturday night. I was wrong, because nothing I could have imagined compares to the humiliation I’m feeling at this moment. I’m gutted, but also puzzled and angry. How the hell did I end up with Max Iver? Why would he tape me? Why would he send it to me, especially now? What the fuck am I going to do? He’s one of the most prominent men in the community, a larger than life figure in both social and business circles.
“I’m going to have to move,” I sob to myself, because with this video in the hands of such an influential man, I can forget getting a job anywhere in this city.
I am so fucked.
My phone rings. At first I ignore it, and it goes to voicemail after three rings. But the caller is persistent, and calls back. I wipe my sleeve across my eyes and pick it up, intending to turn it off. It rings again. Max Iver’s number flashes on the screen. I freeze. Do I ignore him? Can I ignore him, with what he knows? I push the button and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” My tone is hollow.
“You watched the video?”
“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Do you know where Ingram Tower is?”
Of course, I know. It’s only the most prized piece of real estate in the city—one hundred eight gleaming floors of glass and steel housing fancy restaurants, high-end shops, and at the top—luxury penthouses.
“Yes, I know where it is.”
“There’s a residents-only parking deck off Bleaker Street. Give your name to the attendant. He’s expecting you. Take the private elevator up to the 108th floor and go to 1A.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t ask questions,” he says.
“Why not?” I say, my tone angry and petulant now. “Are you the only one who gets to ask questions?”
“For the time being, young lady, yes.”
The way he says young lady sends a jolt through my body, but I still feel violated by what he’s done.
“No,” I say. “And for the record, I’m done with questions.”
For a moment, I think he’s hung up. When he speaks again, his words ring dark. “You don’t want to turn me down, Jill. That was just the first part of the tape. There’s more. We need to talk.”
The hand holding the phone to my ear is shaking.
I think of the moment I woke up on Saturday morning, tucked into my own bed.
“Did you fuck me?” I blurt out. “On Saturday night? Did you fuck me when I was blacked out?”
“No,” he says. “Not even when you begged me to.” Another pause. “Ingram Tower. 1A. I expect you there within thirty minutes.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
But he doesn’t answer. He’s hung up, and now I have to decide what to do.
If I hadn’t just lost my job, I’d go home. But I can’t face Becky. And my other option, which is crawling back to Mr. Brinkman and begging him to take me back, isn’t really an option, either. It’s one thing to be fired. It’s another thing to get the professional walk of shame that comes with a security escort.
And it gets worse. The video has triggered another memory. I’m in Serrano’s. Someone has bought me a drink. I hear an older man’s voice as
king me if I’m working tonight. I giggle. He thinks I’m a prostitute, but should it have surprised me? Compared to the sophisticated socialites frequenting that club, I must have looked out of place. At some point, though, I ran into Max Iver.
Remember me? I can barely stand, teetering on my heels at the edge of the table he’s sharing with three other men whose faces are mercifully murky in my recollection. I snuck in here just to see you. What do you think of that?
How long was I there before I ended up in a hotel room, the subject of a personal, impromptu interview? What did I say? What did I do? The tears are threatening to come again. I long for escape from the trauma pressing down on me. I swallow, and imagine the warm heat of whiskey blazing a path to my stomach, the bliss of oblivion. It’s tempting, but I think of my mother, passed out drunk on the floor. I think of the hateful things she did and said when she was wasted. I promised myself I wouldn’t be that person, but it’s getting harder with each binge.
Before, I’ve been fine not knowing what happened, but now I feel desperate to put the pieces of Saturday night together, and Max Iver can tell me what happened. Maybe, if I apologize, if I beg, he’ll go back and talk to Brinkman.
I half expect it to all be a prank as I head toward Ingram Tower. But when I pull into the parking garage and sheepishly identify myself as a guest of Max Iver, one attendant offers to park my car as another shows me to the private elevator.
You don’t have to do this, I tell myself. You could leave. You could leave and go across town to Antonio’s, where the flirty bartender will slip you free drinks and not even question why you’re there before five.
It’s tempting. I’ve never been so torn between wanting to do something, and wanting to escape doing it. The elevator is on the corner of the building. One panel is glass, and I step in before I can change my mind. It ascends quickly and I watch as the city recedes. I’ve never been in a building this tall, or this nice. Under any other circumstances, I’d be excited. But I’m just scared.