by Kayt Miller
“There are six of us, actually. Two of those are women.”
“I’m not into women, but I wouldn’t be shy if there were four of you there. A couple could watch.”
“Uh, um… well, why don’t you take off for the night? I’m about to head out to meet up with my brother.”
“Awesome! See you Monday!”
“Yep,” I say distractedly. I pull out a small spiral notebook that’s been sitting in my desk drawer for at least a year. I open to page one and jot down today’s date. I write down my conversation with Jamie, paying particular attention to note the time. I also write, as close to verbatim as I can, what she just said about a ‘Flynn brother sandwich’ and the rest. I shiver thinking about it. “What a creepy fucking woman.”
Hank’s back before I’ve finished making notes. He’s got a black bag that looks like a medical case and a silver metal briefcase that looks like something James Bond would carry. He sets down the cases and looks about the room. “These things are tiny, so I can set these up in all corners. I’ll pick up audio but it’s not super sensitive. So, speak loudly. You can review the footage on your phone. Actually, you’ll get a ping if anyone steps in here when you’re gone. It’s a cool set up.”
“Can I put one in my bathroom? Not pointing to the shower but at the door?”
“Probably not a good idea. I can put a bug in there that’s hooked up to a digital recorder, so you’ll be able to record audio. You can download the files onto your computer if there are any that are pertinent. That’s the best way to go there. Saves explaining why you’re monitoring your bathroom.”
“Good point. You should be a cop.” I chuckle. My brother Hank is a cop. He’s a detective with Chicago P.D. in the homicide division.
“Ha ha. So, anything happen when I left?”
“She said she wanted to be in the middle of a Flynn brother sandwich.”
“Jesus, what a crazy bitch.”
“Yeah, when I told her there were four boys, she said she’d let two watch.”
“Document that shit, dude. Make sure you write down exactly what she said along with the date and time.”
“Already way ahead of you.”
“You need to continue to do that even though you’ve got these going. It’s supporting documentation.”
“I will.”
I watch him work, and in less than an hour, I’ve got visuals on my entire office and audio in my bathroom. “Awesome. Now, let’s eat. What’re you hungry for?”
“Emmit’s?” he suggests.
If we go to Emmit’s, I’ll think about Cassie and our evening there. “Nah, Let’s hit Fado’s Pub. Happy hour’s still going on, and we can get the Pub Burger.”
“Perfect. Let’s ride.” Hank slaps me on the back as we exit my office.
I turn and lock the door knowing damn well it makes no fucking difference. “Think I could change my lock without anyone knowing?”
“Doubt it. Maintenance and housekeeping need to get in there. Plus there’d be too many questions. Let the devices do their work. Trust me.” Hank says pushing the down button on the elevator. “When we get to Fado’s, we’re having a long talk about Cassie.”
“Fine.” I need a long talk about Cassie and Hank’s probably the right man to do it. I can tell him everything. Everything.
Chapter 14: David
“So, what the fuck’s going on with Cassie?” We’ve just literally been seated in the booth when Hank starts in.
“Can we please order food and drinks before you start interrogating me? I’m starving, dude.”
“Fine.” When the waitress arrives, we order our beers and burgers. She takes our menus, and before I can start he asks again, “What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath and tell him everything. From the shit I said at the party, to our celebration at Emmit’s. I even told him about the alley.
“That’s why we couldn’t go to Emmit’s? Bad memories?”
“Not bad memories. Just memories.”
“Please continue.”
See? He’s questioning me like a suspect. I swear officer I didn’t kill her. I chuckle to myself since he didn’t hear the joke in my head. I look up, and he’s staring daggers at me. “Fine. It was amazing.”
“What was amazing?”
“She… Cassie. She was amazing. Once I had her in my arms on the dance floor, I nearly came in my pants.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Maybe but that wasn’t it. Her smell, her laugh, the fact she’s classy. Shit, even her body. She’s not my type…”
“Just stop right there. I think Mick and I have both proven that ‘type’ theory is bullshit. Love doesn't have a ‘type.'”
“Love doesn’t have a type? Jesus, you should print t-shirts with that shit on it. You’d make a mint on the Lifetime Channel.” Hank chuckles but then slams his fist down on my left hand that was resting on the tabletop. “Fuck! Asshole! That hurt.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t do that to your right hand. Sounds like you need that one quite a bit now. You’re welcome. Now, keep going.”
So, I do as I’m told, I guess. I tell him about going up to the new office and about Lester and Gretchen. “She just quit that day. She walked out without notice.”
“Why would she stay on? That’d be humiliating to be pushed back down to the bottom after she’d worked so hard to get to the top.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? I know for a damn fact she’s been key to your success. I’ve hung out there and watched her work.”
“I know!” I shout. “I know,” I repeat more calmly. “I fucked up with her, though.”
“You mean more than you’ve just told me?”
“Yeah. I asked her to dinner.”
“Finally!” Hank shouts.
Finally what? “I asked her to dinner to see if she had any good leads on possible investments.” Hank looks at me blankly. He searches the table for my right hand, but I quickly put it in my lap. I feel it the shock of pain running up my leg. He’s jammed his boot into my calf. “Fuck!”
“You lured her to dinner like it was a date and asked her to save your ass?”
“Yes, but I tried to make it up to her,” I say quickly. “I went to her place and, um…”
“Um, what?”
“Got her off,” I rush through the words.
“Got her off? Made her come?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what happened?”
“She kicked me out and told me to leave her alone.”
Hank throws his head back and laughs so loud the other patrons stare at our table. “Jesus, you’re fucked, dude.”
“I know,” I say lowering my head.
“It’s not a complete lost cause though. Do you want another chance with her? Do you want her?”
“She’s not my…” I stop as soon as I see his face turn from jovial to angry. “I’m just getting through a divorce. Oh, by the way, Jen thinks she’s going to get half my proceeds from the last deal.”
Hank rolls his eyes, “Get your attorney on that and focus on the prize.”
“The prize?”
“Cassie, asshole. She’s the prize. If you play it right, you could win.”
“Why would I want to win?”
Hank leans forward in the booth and motions for me to get closer to him. I’m a little fearful he’s going to punch me in the face. My brother, Hank, is big––bigger than me by several inches up and across. He’s got muscles that I only dream of getting. The guy is a tank. “You want to win her, little brother…” he pauses for emphasis, “Because you’re in love with her.”
I sputter and cough, “Bullshit. I’m not in love with Cassie. I’m not in love with anyone.” Only myself.
“Fine. Be that way. But, mark my words, you love her maybe more than she loves you. If that’s the case, you’ll need to do a shitload of groveling to get her back. Just think about it.”
Do I want her back? Yes, I want her as my assi
stant. Sure, I’d love to fuck her six ways to Sunday. Sundays… I can see us waking up together on Sunday morning her snuggled up to me all warm and soft. We’d mess around in bed for a while then we’d read the paper and go over the financial section together. We’d get hungry and walk down to Candy’s Bakery with our dog to get a Danish… What the fuck am I saying? Fuck! There’s no way I’m in love. No way!
Hank sits back in his seat and throws his arm over the back of the booth. “It’s obvious you’re not ready yet. That’s okay. The second you realize it, call me,” he smirks, “You’re gonna need a shoulder, man.”
I ignore him and say defiantly, “I’m not in love, Henry. Cass and me, we’re friends––maybe best friends. Love is supposed to be work. My relationship with her is, or was, effortless. At least it was until I fucked it up.”
“Yeah, man. It’s supposed to feel right. Effortless. Not that dealing with a woman is easy. It isn’t, but the connection you feel is effortless. At least that’s how it feels when you’ve got a real woman. A real woman cares more for her man and her kids than she does about herself. The best thing you can give her is the same back, man. Love her like she’s the world to you. If you do that, your reward will be priceless.”
Christ, when did Hank get all romantic and shit? It’s a little strange. I get what he’s saying, not that I’ve been in a relationship like that, but my folks have it. My mom would do anything for my dad and us. I should use them as my example. Hell, Hank and Mick found it, so I guess it’s possible. “I need more beer,” I mutter. I can’t think about this anymore. One thing I know for sure, though? I’m definitely not in love. No way.
Chapter 15: David
The weekend flew by too fast. By Monday morning, all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and stay there. I don’t want to do it. I can’t face another week of Gretchen and Lester––another week of failing to come up with any new ideas. For the first time in a decade, I want a different job.
I could call in sick. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a sick day. I’m due. I could use the day to meditate. Better yet, I could brainstorm new career options. Maybe Cassie has found something new and different. I could ask her…
No. That’s not going to happen. She hasn’t returned any of my calls. I called her Friday night after I got home from dinner with Hank. I called her the next morning to see if she wanted to go get a coffee. On Saturday night, I drank half a bottle of Scotch and left her a drunken message. I remember making the call I just don’t remember what I said. I suspect it wasn’t going to win favor with her, however.
On Sunday afternoon, I sent her a text apologizing for the drunken phone message. Like I said, I don’t know what I babbled on to her about; I’m just assuming I needed to apologize. She sent no reply to that text nor did she call me back. Maybe she’s out of town? Doubtful.
I’m doing it! I’m texting in sick. I send a text to Gretchen letting her know I won’t be in today and to reschedule my meetings for tomorrow. She writes back asking me the following series of questions: 1. Are you ill or are you in meetings somewhere? 2. If you are ill, do you need me to make you an appointment with your doctor? 3. Should I come to your place and nurse you back to health? And finally, she asks, 4. Is it okay if I leave for the day since you’re not here?
“Ugh! I should have gone to work. It would have been easier.” I reply 1. No. 2. No. 3. No. 4. No. There, that should take care of it, right? Wrong.
For the next two hours, I’m inundated with texts, emails, and voicemails from her asking about everything from buying more coffee for the office coffee maker to needing me to sign a purchase order for more printing ink. I finally resign myself to the fact that she’s worthless. “Just go home,” I say on one of the ten phone calls of the day. If I had actually been ill, she would have driven me to my grave.
She was quick to respond with, “Oh, okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. See you tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’re feeling better? I’m so glad. I hope I helped.”
I groan and hang up the phone. I throw my head back and look over at my clock. Three thirty and it was a wasted sick day. She even ruined my fucking sick day. When I hear my phone sound, I look over and see the app that Hank installed on my phone come to life. It automatically activates when someone is in my office. It happened twice on Friday night when the cleaning crew worked in the office, but it’s been quiet since. Not even Gretchen went in today.
When I press the app to view the feed, it’s not maintenance, and it’s not cleaning. It’s Lester Ingot. “What’s Lester doing in my office?”
I watch him as he walks over to my desk and sits in my ergonomic chair. “I fucking hate that thing,” I grumble. He presses on my keypad, but I’d shut down my computer on Friday, so it doesn’t wake up. Next, he starts to lift papers and opens folders on my desk careful not to move things around too much. He searches my middle desk drawer but all I’ve got in there are pens and office supplies. He opens up the drawer on the left side of my desk and sifts through. There’s nothing of interest in that drawer either. I’ve got some old thumb drives, brochures from various conferences I’ve attended. Junk really.
He slams that one shut and attempts to open the lower left drawer. I’ve got that one locked because that’s where I store some of my more high profile client folders. Much of that information is confidential, so I like to keep it close and locked up. He jiggles the drawer and picks up my letter opener. He’s doing his best to jimmy the lock, but he gives up and throws the opener back on my desk. His face looks furious––frustrated.
He sits back in my chair and runs his fingers through his hair. He stands and looks through the papers on my desk again. The camera isn’t powerful enough to show me what he’s looking at; I only see white papers strewn about.
I confess… I don’t keep a tidy desk. I like to have all of my papers and research at my fingertips. Sure, I’ve got to dig for things but it’s my system, and it has worked for me. Cassie knows how to find shit––or she did. I sigh and watch as Lester flips over a couple of folders and then stops. He leans down like he’s reading something. Lester pulls out his phone and places it over the papers. He’s taking a damn photo. “What the hell is he looking at?”
Nothing on my desk is good to anyone but me. I’ve got notes from meetings, old newspapers, printed research on clients and companies, and junk mail––lots and lots of junk mail. He pockets the phone and does a shitty job trying to move the papers back the way he found them. I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary, but now, when I go in tomorrow, I’ll look through that shit and try to figure out what he found so interesting.
Chapter 16: Cassie
Being out of work for almost month should probably bother me more than it has. I’ve actually accomplished a great deal. I’ve had a punch list, of sorts since I moved into my place that I’ve never had a chance to complete. Since quitting IIM, I’ve crossed off three major items from my list.
The first was repainting my bedroom. It was bright red. I shiver just thinking about it. Try sleeping in a room the color of blood. It’s not easy. Now it’s a soft blue. I’ve purchased new bedding and accessories to match. The new color and home goods make a world of difference. I swear I sleep better than I have in years.
The second item on my list relates to my home office. I tend to let papers like old receipts and bill stubs pile up. In this case, three years worth of papers are crammed into shoeboxes, grocery bags, and plastic tubs. I keep everything––even junk mail. It’s a bad habit.
So, week two of my permanent vacation from IIM was spent sorting through those papers, shredding the papers with confidential information on them, filing the things I actually needed to keep and tossing out the junk. Once that was done, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders I didn’t realize was there. I don’t know why I let it get that bad. I vow not to let it go that long. Once a month––I’ll sort through my papers once a month. “Yeah, right,” I snort. Like t
hat’s ever going to happen.
My third project is one I’m currently working on, and it relates to my career goals. I’m studying up to take my final test in the series of investment securities exams from the National Futures Association. Once this final test is complete, I can get back to work and not as someone else’s assistant this time. No. It’s time for me to take the plunge and make my own way. Something I’ve put on hold for seven years.
Just as I hit ‘save’ and ‘submit’ on the exam, I hear a knock at my door. I look down at my watch and note that it’s almost nine o’clock. I hear another knock then the doorbell chime. I walk down the steps to the door, “Just a second.” When I get to the door, I say, “Who is it?”
“David.”
Shit! I don’t need David Flynn tonight––or ever. “What do you want, David. I’m busy.”
“I need to talk to you.”
I sigh, “We’ve got nothing to talk about, David. I was about to go to bed.”
“At nine o’clock?”
I ignore that comment hoping he leaves.
“It’s about Beranger Aeronautics.”
Beranger Aeronautics? I unlock each of my locks and open the door and see David Flynn in a pair of workout pants that are hanging low on his narrow hips and a gray Chicago Bears t-shirt that’s so snug you can make out the lines on his ripped abdomen. I groan aloud when I see that sight. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he’s in need of a hair cut. I used to make his appointments when I saw his hair get a little too long. I’d add it to his schedule for the day, and he’d go without any argument. We were a good team. Were.
I pull the door open wide enough for him to enter. He steps past me giving me a once over from head to toe as he walks by. I picked the wrong time to wear my yoga pants that are a size too small and a tight white V-neck Loyola tee. Luckily, I’m still wearing a bra. I follow him up my steps into my living room. I motion for us to go into my little sitting room again. “Can I get you anything? Beer? Wine?”
“I’ll have a beer, thanks,” he says looking around my place. “Where are your roommates?”