The Plan

by Qwen Salsbury

  “Emma,” he says, jaw clenched. “You may very well not be intoxicated but neither I, nor any reasonably observant human for that matter, would be able to conclude differently from your antics. Also, for some unfathomable reason, you did not see fit to clue me in,” he spits and lets go of my wrists with a shove, as if he suddenly realized he was holding an oven fresh Idaho spud. “Emma, you can hardly fault me for being rational.”

  “Antics? Fault you! You do the social equivalent of dragging me out by my pigtails and you think I shouldn’t ‘fault’ you?” I step closer, heels stomping the carpet. “What I think is that there is an apology in order.”

  “See? And you thought we were at an impasse,” he says and moves enough tower over me. “Proceed. I’m ready to hear it.”

  I bump my shoulder into his chest, curse myself for reveling in the treacherous warmth, and stand firm, pressing against him enough that his stature sways. “You enjoying pushing people, don’t you? It’s different when someone else is doing the pushing, isn’t it?”

  “Good night, Ms. Baker.” He turns to leave.

  “You think you’re so superior to me.” I’m hot on his tail.

  “Ms. Baker, I’m not insulting you. It’s simple biology: your body mass can’t handle the amount of alcohol which you appeared to ingest.”

  This is it. This is the final straw—a drinking straw, no less—for my tolerance of Alaric Canon. These may be my final moments with this man, and I can’t even see him properly in this damned dim light. Sometimes he seems to connect with me, but now he is so condescending. Who does he think he is? “Any reasonably observant human.” Pfft. He won’t hold me “responsible for my actions.” He thinks I would embarrass him, that I would embarrass myself, by drinking too much at a business function, that I “can’t handle that much liquor.”

  Drunk, huh? He thinks I’m drunk? Ha! If I was drunk with Alaric Canon in my room…well, let’s just say this would go down differently.

  An idea: it hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. Hell, what have I got to lose at this point?

  He’s such an ass. Underestimating me. Doesn’t think I can handle things. I’ll show him what I can handle. I’ll show him I can handle an ass.

  I reach out and grab hold of that glorious ass and squeeze for all I’m worth.

  Air whooshes from him, and he wheels around.

  If I’m going down, I’m going down in a blaze of glory.

  I don’t give him a chance to say anything, and I stretch around him with both hands and knead the ever-loving fuck out of his butt. It is motherfucking glorious, and I think the memory will keep me satisfied when I’m living off ramen for the next few months.

  Off-balance and stumbling, he falls against me. Hard.

  Actually, he falls against me gently. He is what’s hard…part of him anyway.

  Blip.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we have blip.

  “Mr. Canon,” I whisper up to him, “explain yourself.” My left hand runs smoothly along his hip, drawing ever closer to his…revelation.

  I’m not sure where this boldness is coming from. My index finger traces his length. The fabric is rough under my touch.

  He hisses. He hesitates. I feel his palms smooth over my arms.

  “Some might say this constitutes an offer,” I breathe. Warmth from his hands sears my skin. I’m calm; I don’t let it show.

  “One should not make offers one is not prepared to complete.” I turn his words back on him and grasp him firmly.

  His head rolls back. I watch his throat as he swallows repeatedly.

  He’s losing it. I want more. The power intoxicates me.

  Watching him for a reaction, I pull his zipper. He doesn’t disappoint; his breath ceases.

  “Stop me,” I say.

  He doesn’t. I slip inside and hold him. Grip. Fist.

  Claim.

  It is silk and heat and pulsing want. His body jerks, surges forward, and I can barely contain my shit because I know, I just know, this is a pure reaction. This is a human moment, and it is everything I wanted and more.

  So much more.

  My body sings. Oh, my—I am controlling him…I have him in the palm of my hand. Literally. Figuratively.

  Fingers curling around, thumb in tight circling circuits, pressing his flesh. He rocks and pants into my hair, down my face. Power. Intoxicating power. This, this I could get drunk on. My free hand follows along the path of his shirt buttons. I release him, and he makes a noise that sounds like a pained whimper, but it dies on his lips when I grab his shirt and tear it open, broken buttons flying across the room.

  “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” I say as I press my lips to his chest.

  “Em…you…you don’t really want this…”

  I shove him against the wall. The thud sounds through the room.

  “Don’t tell me what I want.” I speak against his skin as I tongue and bend and descend…lower, lower.

  “I’m sure I know what you want.” My knees hit the floor. “I’m excellent with non-verbal communication.”

  A rhythmic beat resounds in the room. I think it’s the blood rushing through my system, but then I realize he’s banging his head against the wall again and again. He is losing it. I want more.

  He’s still nearly fully dressed; I watch his chest rise and fall between partially untucked shirt scraps and draw him out through his open zipper.

  My mouth closes around him. He clamps down on my shoulders as if to steady himself, as though the wall is not enough to support his weight. He’s leaning on me. Needs me.

  Tapping on his belt buckle, I pull back and say, “Off.”

  He nods mutely and complies.

  Now, there is an element to oral sex that might be called worshipful, and I’m a fan of it—and even in the pale light it’s clear his cock is worthy of worship, praise, maybe some hymns—but that is not what I’m here for today. I suck him in, swallow around him, press my tongue flat and create enough suction to rival a Hoover.

  His knees give a bit, and since his legs are so long, it actually puts him at a better angle.

  One hand returns to his ass, securing him where I want him, and I stroke him with the other. He’s moaning and writhing, and I know this is going to be fast.

  Embarrassingly fast.

  I want nothing more.

  I pull out all the stops. Tongue his slit. Tight in my mouth. Hint of teeth. In unison, my hand moves from his ass to massage his perineum while I pull him to the back of my throat, hum, and swallow.

  Whoo-hoo. Mind over matter. Deep throat. I have never been able to do that before.

  I hum—sorta, it’s not the easiest thing when your airway is obstructed—and only I know it is the opening bars of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  “I…I’m…Christ.” His back is bowed out, arcing, as he twitches and swells. I pull back, and he spills onto my tongue and struggles to stop rocking.

  He’s gasping for air, and his hands are running through my hair, then along my face with…reverence?

  That is unexpected.

  I stand and spit.

  “I will add pineapple juice to your breakfasts,” I say and pat his tie twice, his chest heaving underneath. “Drink it if you ever want that to happen again.”

  10:10 p.m.

  * Emma Baker: I don’t give head. I claim it.

  ROWE WAS ON THE MONEY about one thing tonight: I did get new stains on my bedspread.

  Oh, my God. I sucked off Alaric Canon.

  This is something we need to talk about. Discuss. Hash out. Cover.

  What have I done?

  I wonder if going to his room now is a good idea.

  Oh, sure—now I worry about crossing a line. Knocking on a door now is not too invasive; I have tasted the man’s semen, pinged his radar so hard I pretty much sank his battleship.

  He would let me know if he wanted to talk, surely.

  I’m definitely the sort of person who would want to talk about this…si
tuation. Explain myself, if there is any explanation. Defend if it is defensible. Hear these same things from him. I want to understand him, this. He wanted it, even in a war with himself, he wanted…me?

  Maybe this isn’t such a mystery. What guy is gonna turn down a blow job?

  I need answers. It’s only natural. It’s in my nature.

  But…

  I’m not me right now. Nothing I’m doing is natural. Today, the role of Docile will be played by Emma Baker.

  And a docile Emma wouldn’t go seeking answers.

  She would make sure Mr. Canon’s coffee was ready at 7:00 a.m.

  She would turn the lights out and go to sleep so she had her head on straight and could facilitate her boss’s schedule, and she would not not not fellate her boss’s tool.

  Since I am only acting like a docile Emma, the lights go out but sleep doesn’t happen.

  Day of Employment:

  381

  6:47 a.m.

  * Bags: Packed. In case of hasty retreat.

  * Hair: Straight. Clipped back.

  * Coffee: Ready.

  * Me: Not.

  I HAVE BEEN STANDING in the hallway for a while. Mustering. Muttering.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think—

  My hand rises to his door to knock. Before I can, he opens it.

  Make or break. If I make eye contact, it’s going to break me.

  “Good morning, Mr. Canon,” I say, breezing past him and setting his coffee down with a flourish.

  I begin gathering up his things, focusing on them. “Rebecca sent over the reports you asked for; Peters’ assistant finally emailed me the correct documents this time; they’re catering lunch in from a pizza place, so I requested thin crust for you; I have forwarded an email from Mr. Dowry about some tickets to an event later this week; and I will need time in my schedule this afternoon to relocate everything to the new hotel.” And…breathe!

  I have packed up during this spiel and now have nothing to do but look up at him.

  He’s standing across the room, ready except for the suit jacket still draped across the bed. He seems to have been motionless during my act, to have simply watched me.

  I finally meet his eyes. He blinks away.

  For over a minute, he says nothing while he fastens his cuffs.

  “Is that everything, Ms. Baker?” Monotone.

  “I believe so, Mr. Canon.”

  “Very well.” He grabs his things and sidesteps the incoming breakfast cart as he exits.

  A pineapple has died a needless death.

  9:15 a.m.

  * Location: Office of Diana Fralin, Wearer of Actual Wonder-Performing Wonder Bra.

  “THESE CLOSING COSTS seem exorbitant.” I shake my head, looking at the expense records for the deals Fralin has touted as the most profitable.

  “You have to grease the wheels overseas for everything from getting your phone lines hooked up to filing government permits,” she says. She looks at Canon and shakes her head. “I thought everyone knew that.”

  I do my best to ignore her and also make darn sure I do not see the look she probably throws Canon at my expense. He excuses himself to take a call.

  “And these promo items?” I sift through voluminous printouts. “That’s a huge line item expense. Do you have records for where these product samples went?”

  “Our paperwork is in order.” She waves her hand. “Listen, honey, maybe this is all new territory to you, but let me explain how things work in the real world.” She sits on the corner of her desk. I feel my eyebrows disappear into my hair. “Sales reps do just that: sell. If they have to account for where every single individual magnet or trial-size cleanser goes, what nurse gets a pen with our logo, who might end up with a free T-shirt…well, you can see where they’d spend all their time meticulously documenting to please the bean counters rather than selling.”

  “I’m not suggesting the level of detail be anything that…stringent,” I say. “But there are concerns with sales in foreign markets. Your international distributors, their tactics, expose the whole organization to scrutiny. If anyone receiving discounts or free items is a state official—”

  “Maybe I was not clear, Emma. I am sure you are competent at what you do. This is what I do. Don’t get me wrong. What you do is important; one can’t undervalue the skill of making a good cup of coffee.” She smiles too sweetly and smooths her already immaculate updo. “I’m also very good at what I do.”

  I think this is not about work.

  “There are those who work for and those who work with.” She traces her finger along the top of Canon’s laptop.

  Yep. Not talking about work.

  “Listen, let’s cut to the chase,” she practically whispers. “I have an MBA and I earned my way to VP in less than two years. I will run this place when Lawrence Peters’s slow, worthless ass finally retires. I know where I belong, where I fit. And with whom.”

  This may be it.

  This may be my breaking point. Well, my daylight breaking point.

  I may snap and get on the intercom and yell to all who can hear me that I have an advanced degree in technical writing, a law school scholarship, and a recently acquired mastery of my gag reflex.

  I’m under attack. I want to tell her that I—courtesy of numerous hours of lectures from my professor who actually helped write NAFTA into law—have a tad more awareness than she does of the recent surge in Department of Justice and SEC prosecutions for things like giving free samples to anyone who works for a hospital in a nation with state run healthcare. Things are different. People are going to jail. Companies are paying hundreds of millions in fines.

  But I don’t. Because that is not my role.

  I do not flaunt my divided priorities.

  I do not assert myself.

  I do not embarrass my boss.

  And it hits me. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’ve been focused on awkward, morning-after hook-up tension.

  He may be embarrassed to have been with me.

  Diana Fralin knows her place. I never thought about mine.

  I have never before so thoroughly questioned something I have done or why I have done it.

  Question myself.

  I don’t like that. I’m allowed to celebrate my womanhood, experience what I choose with whom I choose. I am not easy. I’m discriminating.

  I have wanted him to notice me, hoped he might desire me. He might not always do so, he might do so and not show it, but there is no denying he desired me last night. I, literally, had proof in the palm of my hand.

  The door opens as Canon returns to the room.

  “Alaric,” she says, bolting from her desk and bumping my shoulder on her way to him, “your Ms. Baker is quite the go-getter. So very concerned about our foreign trade practices.”

  “She is quite thorough,” he says, sounding almost as confused by her comments as I feel.

  Fralin taps her chin as though she is just now forming an opinion. It’s for show; she’s plotting.

  “Well, she seems to have so much insight. Maybe it would be a good idea for her to spot-check some things.”

  Warning bells. They’re ringing.

  Canon turns to me. He must wonder what I have been saying. “What did you have in mind?”

  Fralin smiles broadly. “Well, I can give her access to a few market segments, let her explain her accusations to the sales people whose records she pulls—of course you’d want to find more passive phrasing, Emma,” she chirps. Canon’s eyes look like they may pop out of his head at the word “accusations.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat…or an opportunity, it seems. “I can lend you a temp while she’s working on things.”

  She wants me out of the way.

  Here is where I’m going to balk. I’m not playing this role under different circumstances.

  I’m here for him…for my company.

  “I really don’t thi—”

  “Mr. LaCygne would—”
<
br />   She and I talk over each other.

  “That will not be necessary.” Canon holds his hand up, effectively cutting us both off. “Give her unrestricted access to everything pertinent. We will go over it. Together.”

  “Surely that would be a burden for you, Alaric,” she backpedals.

  I, on the other hand, may do a wee jig. Even my plan didn’t fail this miserably.

  Walking away, he punches keys on his ever-present phone. “I am not enduring a temp. Ms. Baker is the best I have ever had.”

  Suddenly, I’m fine if we’re not talking about work anymore.

  1:15 p.m.

  * Location: Hotel front desk.

  * Luggage Trolley: Stacked like a Jenga tower.

  “BUT I SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED adjoining rooms or ones across from each other.” I’m livid. Distraught.

  My hands have taken to gesturing as if independent from my body.

  “Our sincerest apologies, Ms.…Baker,” the front desk clerk says after glancing to verify my name. “We can try to arrange for accommodations elsewhere.”

  “I have already checked. I gave up two sets of reservations in favor of here,” I say as my hand swings, smacks, and threatens to topple our bags.

  I’m both mad and scared. The rooms are in separate buildings at opposite ends of the hotel grounds. I will have to run back and forth. I will impact productivity. I will have to tell Canon. This is the first thing I have not delivered on.

  Still at the counter, I call him. The clerk seems like she’d like to leave. Oh, no you don’t. You are going through this with me.

  “Canon.” There are voices in the background.

  “Hello, Mr. Canon.” I swallow back my nerves and take a deep breath. “There is a problem.”

  “Such as?” The voices fade. He must be moving.

  “The rooms are several minutes apart.” I describe the grounds and room layout.

  He’s silent.

  Then he’s not.