Julian & Lia

by Maria Monroe

  "I'm Darren. We're being assholes. I'm sorry." He gestures at Michelle, who's still not smiling. "We were actually just talking about you. Or not you specifically, since we didn't know anything about you. But we were discussing who the new person would be, the wonder kid, and whether she'd be a total bitch or not."

  "I voted yes." It's the first thing Michelle's said, and her voice is throaty and low. She sounds as sexy as she looks.

  "But she's not. Clearly." Darren gives Michelle a pointed look as he shakes my hand and gestures at the desk next to Michelle's. "You're over there."

  "Thanks." I set my laptop bag on the chair and rub my shoulder idly. I'm not sure why he's suddenly certain that I'm a nice person, but I'm glad they're not ignoring me or, worse, shooting me critical glances. It was starting to feel like my first week of freshman year at college all over again.

  "Nice to meet you." Now Michelle approaches me, and I shake her hand too. "Sorry. For thinking you were a bitch."

  "You think everyone's a bitch," says Darren.

  "I do not."

  "Yes. You do."

  Michelle cocks her head as if considering what Darren said. Then she nods. "I guess you're right. I do." She stares at me then, looking me up and down. "Your suit's nice. A little frumpy but nice classic lines. Your shoes are great, but kind of two-seasons ago."

  “Oh, my roommate…They’re not really…,” I stammer and blush, unable to form an actual sentence.

  "Seriously, Michelle?" Darren frowns at her. "Do you have to be so critical? Can't you let her get settled in before you unleash your true self?"

  "Is that like unleashing my inner demons? And why wait? Life's too short." She turns to me. "Sorry again. God, I hate apologizing." She mutters that last part, then sits dramatically in her desk chair and starts typing furiously at the keyboard.

  "Then stop being an asshole and it won't be a problem." Darren grins at me. "She's really nice once you get to know her," he says, as though Michelle's not even here anymore.

  "No I'm not," Michelle grumbles without turning around.

  "Anyway," says Darren, making a point to ignore her, "welcome. I'm sure Connor will be around soon to greet you."

  "As soon as he deigns to show up," mutters Michelle, and I swear she utters the word asshole under her breath. I met Connor Beck during my interview. He's my supervisor, and he's smooth as oil, in that polished-but-just-a-touch-slimy sort of way. He seemed nice, but he kind of has that vibe of someone trying really hard to be something he's not. I may be naive, but even I can see through the shiny veneer of someone like that. I’m just not sure yet if it’s creepy or merely pathetic. Not that I’m so far beyond pathetic myself that I could judge, of course.

  "Is he usually late?" I ask.

  "No. He's always late." Michelle spins her chair around so she's facing us once more, obviously delighted to be having this conversation. "He is so full of himself, and when he does come in, he makes a point of alluding to why, exactly he was so late. I had a . . . friend . . . stay the night," she utters in a deep voice, winking one eye in an exaggerated fashion. "Usually? We refer to him as Connor the Cock. Or just The Cock." Her voice is matter-of-fact and not quiet at all.

  I glance around, afraid that he'll be walking up to us right this second.

  "I told you, he is never here this early," says Michelle.

  I sit in my seat, turning my chair so I'm facing Darren and Michelle. "So, I take it you don't like him."

  "Understatement. We despise him." Michelle takes the green stick out of her hair, twists those long shiny black locks back up into a bun, and jabs the chopstick in once more to hold her hair in place

  "So." Darren grins, his handsome face lighting up in a huge smile. "I hope we haven't ruined your first day."

  I smile. "At least it won't be boring around here. Anyway, what did you mean earlier by wonder kid?" I hate to ask. I don't want to sound like I'm fishing for compliments, but I do really want to know what Darren was talking about.

  "Oh, that’s how Connor refers to you. Except he tries to pronounce it in German. You know. Wunderkind? Except he pronounces it woonder-kind-aye, and it’s just… Anyway, because you graduated half a year early? Youngest reporter to work on feature stories? Articles in Salon and Slate before even graduating from college?" Darren lifts an eyebrow at me.

  "The only reason we're not jealous is because we work on different things." Apparently Michelle doesn't hold back. At all. I'm not sure yet if it's refreshing or terrifying.

  "I'm on daily news. She's sports," says Darren.

  "Oh." I try to keep the surprise out of my voice, and I’m instantly embarrassed for judging based on appearances.

  "You thought I was fashion or gossip or something, didn't you?" Michelle gazes at me with her smoky eyes.

  "You did give her unsolicited fashion advice." Darren smirks.

  "I give everyone unsolicited fashion advice."

  "Anyway, Connor hasn't stopped talking about you for weeks." Darren rolls his eyes.

  "Cocksucker," adds Michelle under her breath.

  Suddenly we hear loud low talking, a fake laugh, the cadence of a man clearly in the throes of pretentious small talk.

  "Speak of the devil." Michelle spins back to her desk and starts typing again. Darren winks at me and turns to his desk too. Unsure what to do and still trying to absorb these new people—my new coworkers—and their unexpected and strong personalities, I sit down gingerly, getting my laptop out of my bag and setting it on the desk. It's booting up, the screen flashing, when I feel a presence behind me and a hand on my shoulder.

  "Welcome, Lia. Welcome!"

  I turn and look up at Connor Beck. He's wearing a suit that looks crisp and clean, yet somehow cheap. His dark blond hair is short and stylish, though it looks stiff from too much product. His blue eyes are constantly darting around like he's scared he's missing something, and he’s sporting a tan that's either from a stint on a beach somewhere or possibly from a bottle. Probably a bottle if the slightly orange tint is any clue. He lifts his hand from my shoulder and holds it out towards me. Awkwardly I shake it. He holds my hand for a few seconds too long, smiling at me the whole time.

  "I take it you've met Michelle and Darren? Are they, ah, showing you the ropes? Welcoming you aboard?"

  "Definitely," I respond, trying not to laugh when I see Darren roll his eyes, probably at the canned ship references.

  "Good, good. Listen, I have a meeting all morning, but I sent you an email about a story I want you to follow. Today. No time to lose. I think it's going to be big."

  Me? Already? Suddenly, the giddy feeling I had is replaced by sheer terror. I want to tell him that trusting a story he thinks is important would be better left to someone with more experience, not someone on her very first freaking day! But I don't want him to think I can't handle it, especially when I'm trying to make a good first impression.

  "Got it. Thanks." I nod, forcing confidence into the gesture.

  "Super. Super." He turns and strides down the hall.

  "Super. Super," whispers Michelle in imitation.

  And even though I know it’s immature, I grin. Anything to detract from the impending doom I feel about going on my first interview today.

  #

  Darren gracefully hails a cab, and I take note so I can do it as successfully next time. The relief I feel that he volunteered to come with me for my first interview is so high it can't be quantified.

  "Tell him where we're going," Darren whispers, nudging me.

  "Oh. Perry's Deli?" I say, loud enough so the cabbie can hear me. I'm not actually sure he does, but he takes off into traffic, cutting off a limo that honks at us, so I sit back.

  "You nervous?" asks Darren.

  "Just a little," I say sarcastically. "Some first day. I imagined coffee in the break room and my new coworkers taking me out to lunch after a leisurely tour of the office."

  "Connor likes to do this. Throw someone brand new into the center of things right awa
y to see how they perform."

  "Sink or swim?"

  "Exactly."

  "I think I need a life vest."

  "You'll be great." Darren sounds way more confident than I feel, but I muster up as much inner strength as possible.

  The story I'm assigned to focuses on multi-billionaire Randolph Meyer, who's recently taken an interest in properties in downtown Chicago. He's a well-known philanthropist, but Connor said he's got a hunch that Randolph's got a dirty side. He didn't have specifics, but he thinks there's a story here, and he sent me to Perry's Deli, where Mr. Meyer supposedly eats lunch every Monday, to see if I can ask him a few neutral questions and feel him out.

  The good news is that Connor sent me a list of things he wants me to ask, so I didn't have to come up with my own questions. But that's the only good news. Everything else has put me in a state of near panic, and my palms are sweating so much I'm sure I'll gross out Randolph Meyer the second we shake hands, before I even have a chance to ask him a single question.

  The cab pulls up in front of Perry's, and I pay the cab driver, then exit the car with Darren close behind.

  "Do you know what he looks like?" asks Darren as he peers into the front window.

  "Yeah. I looked him up online. It may be my first day, but I'm not a total newb!"

  "Defensive much?” jokes Darren. “I was just checking. You can do this, Lia." His tone has turned warm, and he puts a hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes as he says it. I see real compassion in his hazel eyes, the kind that stare right into yours like he's completely invested in the conversation. And his smile? Any girl would kill for it. Or die for it. Or drop her panties for it. Except he's not the guy for me. First, he's a coworker. Second, Julian.

  Dammit! I was almost over him. Almost completely past the point where kissing other guys was always ruined by the lack-luster comparison to Julian I couldn't help making. But seeing Julian this morning has set me back by months. I sigh and push thoughts about him out of my head. I need to focus.

  "Thanks," I say to Darren, and I'm truly grateful. Even imagining how awful this would be if I were alone makes my heart thud harder. It feels good to have someone on my side.

  "I'll wait out here for you."

  "OK." I head into the deli to ruin the lunch of one of the richest people in the city with stupid questions he probably won't want to answer.

  Right away I see Randolph Meyer sitting alone at a table in the corner. He's stuffing a sandwich that's seriously at least seven inches tall into his mouth, and there's what looks like a glob of coleslaw clinging to the corner of his lips, which immediately detracts from his otherwise flawlessly professional appearance. His suit, even from across the room, looks crisp and expensive. He's maybe about fifty years old and, at least sitting, looks fairly fit. So despite eating sandwiches as big as his head, he must take care of himself. He has a full head of silver hair, and his clean shaven face is tan and ruddy, like he just got back from a tropical vacation. It doesn't have that fake look that Connor’s skin does.

  Crap. Maybe I'm not cut out for this, because the thought of just interrupting his lunch, approaching him to ask questions he probably won't want to answer, makes my stomach churn. I want to run outside and ask Darren to please do the interview for me while I watch and take notes, and I actually turn to the window to gesture for him to come in. There he is, giving me an idiotic and obvious thumbs up, trying to look ridiculous, I can tell, to put me at ease. I smile back and take a deep breath before approaching Randolph Meyer's table.

  "Mr. Meyer?" I force confidence into my voice as I stand in front of him, trying to keep my hands from shaking.

  He looks up, setting his sandwich down on his plate and swiping at his mouth with a napkin. Thankfully he gets rid of that coleslaw, although it did make him seem more human and less God-like. His eyes thin as he checks me out, probably trying to decide if he knows me or not and whether I'm worth his time.

  "Hi," I continue. "I'm Lia Hudson? I'd like a few minutes of your time." Instead of waiting for an invitation, I slip into the seat across from him, placing my notebook on the table in front of me. I give myself a half-second congratulations for such a bold move, then pick up my pen, willing my hand to stop freaking shaking already.

  "Lia Hudson. I don't believe I've made your acquaintance previously?" His words have a hint of a drawl.

  "No. We haven't met. I haven't had the pleasure," I add, feeling another surge of confidence when he raises an eyebrow and smiles.

  "Well now, I have an appointment in about five minutes," he says, glancing at his diamond-studded Rolex, "but how can I help you till then? Ms. Hudson." He's good, adding my name on at the end like that, a technique I learned in an interviewing workshop in college. But somehow the way he says “Ms. Hudson” instead of “Lia” makes it seem almost like he’s making fun of me, pretending to treat me with more respect than I deserve.

  "I'm a reporter for Triton Media, and I'm writing a story on the philanthropy you're involved in, especially here in Chicago." That's sort of true, though there's a bit more to it than that. But I want him to think the story will be all positive so he's more willing to talk to me.

  He raises an eyebrow at me, then sits back in his chair. "Are you, now? If you can assure me your story will be solely about my philanthropic efforts, I'd be more than happy to oblige."

  Crap. Of course he knows I’m looking to dig deeper. If he's smart enough to be a billionaire, then he's smart enough to be able to read people, especially ones like me who aren't good at disguising themselves.

  "Of course." I keep my gaze steady, because I think I read somewhere that when people are lying, they look down to the right. Or is it the left? Regardless, I don't want to look away at all, so I meet his gaze.

  "Well what would you like to know, Lia?"

  "For starters," I say, bringing my pen up to the paper, "rumor has it you're in the process of buying the Hanley Corporation. Is there any truth to that?"

  "See now, I'm not sure how that relates to the good deeds I'm prepared to do here in the beautiful city of Chicago." That drawl again, that unfailing smile. He's unflappable, and my confidence falters once more.

  "Tell me about Hope International, your newest charity organization, please," I say, giving in. Maybe I won't get the answers Connor was hoping for, but at least I can get something.

  "Now that's more like it, Ms. Hudson." He flashes me a smile, and it flatters me while at the same time terrifying me for some weird, inexplicable reason.

  I force myself to smile back and get ready to take notes.

  Randolph opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly he looks past my shoulder, nodding acknowledgment to someone behind me. He stands, and I'm reminded that he didn't stand for me. "Well, now, you must be Mr. Barnes," he says.

  Barnes. That's Julian's last name. It must be a coincidence. Right? Slowly, like in a dream, I turn my head, and my eyes open wide.

  Julian. Oh my god. Again.

  My eyes meet his, and it's like everything is happening in slow motion. Voices around us become garbled and fade away, everything blurs into a mess of confused colors except for him, clear and stark and more real than anything else. Confusion on his face, then recognition, then the hard set of anger. Those deep green eyes stare into mine, and all I can see is bitterness in them.

  How is it possible that around us people are talking and eating like everything's normal? How is it possible that the world is still turning? If I ever thought I was over Julian, seeing him now sends a clear message—it couldn't be any clearer—that I was only fooling myself. I'm glad I'm already sitting because my entire body is definitely too weak to stand right now.

  He's got on the same coat he was wearing this morning, and again it's unbuttoned. Closer to him now I can see that his dark gray tie has slightly darker stripes on it, and that white crisp button-up shirt is doing nothing to hide his lean chest and stomach. The way his shirt tucks into his pants, his stomach flat and, I know from experience, rock
-hard, makes me shiver. His jaw is so chiseled and masculine. In this moment I want nothing more than to touch it, run my hand over it, feel how different it is when it's sleek rather than rough like it always was in college. Those lips, so firm yet soft. I remember them. How they feel. What they can do. His hair is a rich dark brown, shorter than in college but still just long enough to be slightly messy. And god help me his eyes. So green, unbelievably green, and in this instant filled with more emotions than I can count. More than that awful bitterness of a few seconds ago. Surprise. Anger. Confusion. And something horribly close to disgust.

  Julian tears his gaze from me and looks at Randolph Meyer, reaching out his hand and smiling broadly at him. I watch the two men shake, then Randolph sits again. He turns to me. "Ms. Hudson, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I have an appointment with your competition. You did say you're with Triton, didn't you?"

  I nod, unable to find words. I'm rendered totally and completely mute by seeing Julian.

  "Well, now, Mr. Barnes works for World News Media." He smiles like it's funny. "It's a pleasure to introduce you to your competition. Meet Julian Barnes. Julian, Ms. Lia Hudson."

  "I know Julian." I utter the words, or at least I think I do. My ears are buzzing and I'm light-headed; it feels like I could pass out at any second.

  "We went to the same college." Julian's voice is even. "We didn't really know each other well, though."

  Didn't know each other well? I've never known anyone better than I knew Julian. I raise my eyes back to his only to find them cold and hard, his jaw tight.

  "Well, it's a small world, isn't it?" I barely hear Randolph Meyer utter those clichéd words; my only focus is on Julian and his angry face. "Here, now, take my card." Randolph pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to me. "Maybe I can answer some of your questions later."

  I'm being dismissed. My legs barely hold my weight as I stand, thrusting my notebook and pen into my bag. Julian steps aside, giving me a wide berth as I pass him. His body language leaves no room for interpretation. As quickly as I can, I push my way past the customers waiting to order and out onto the sidewalk.