Unsettled

by Ellington, S. C.

  “I assure you Alex when he comes along, you’ll be the first to know. Let’s finish this enthralling chat later, I don’t want to be late again” I said, smiling wryly as I slid past her to head toward the kitchen.

  “Sure you will,” Alex retorted playfully, turning to head back toward her bedroom. She knew me well.

  When I reached the kitchen, I walked over to the pantry door swinging it open wildly in search of a specific item. Ah, there you are. I plucked a Donut Shop K-Cup from the coffee canister in the pantry. Ingesting coffee every morning helped me shake the final cobwebs of sleep from my system. Thank God Alex thought it was necessary to own a Keurig.

  I placed my travel mug on the drip tray and executed the one-minute brew cycle. I haphazardly glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen while reaching into the refrigerator for creamer.

  “Shoot! I’m going to be late again!” I stammered to nobody in particular.

  Apart from my shower, my little talk with Alex had assisted in delaying my getting out the front door. In the back of my mind, I knew my obnoxious co-worker, Anna Barnett, would make it her business to send my boss a hateful email mentioning my late arrival.

  I grabbed my mug off the tray and splashed a dab of creamer into my cup. I shoved the creamer back into the slot of the refrigerator door and yanked the lunch that I packed the night before out of the cold box.

  I flipped the light switch off in the kitchen and took a seat on the couch to tighten my Nikes to my feet. I clipped my photo ID to my tote bag. I hated scrounging around for it when I got to the front door.

  I was walking toward the door when I saw the heels I was supposed to wear with my work outfit lying on their sides near the dining room table.

  “Can’t forget these,” I murmured out loud. I scooped up my red pumps and dropped them into the recycle tote that held my lunch.

  I snaked my head around the kitchen wall and yelled down the hall toward Alex’s open bedroom.

  “I gotta go, see ya later! You can fill me in more about your sexcapades later tonight over cocktails at Legends. Heaven knows I’ll need a drink to stomach these deets— don’t forget it is your turn to pick up the tab! I’m sure after my treacherous day with Trent I’ll need more than one Appleberry martini!”

  “Can’t wait—got you covered. See ya!” Alex called back.

  I snatched the keys to Aspen, my ’98 green Camry, off the key rack that hung near the front door, shoving my arms into my crème peacoat. I braced myself for the frigid weather outside.

  I rushed out onto our stoop and hurriedly closed the front door to our humble abode. I jogged down the front steps of our house and headed toward my car like a bat out of hell. It was going to take me seven minutes of driving like Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s long-lost sister to make my 8:15 Metrorail train.

  As much as I despised my dubious position being Trent Walker’s decrepit mule, I couldn’t afford to lose my job due to my persistent tardiness.

  2

  After ten minutes of speed walking and bobbing my head to the music wafting from my iPod, I made it to the front door of Copple with fifteen minutes to spare. Dragging the cool morning air into my lungs, I marveled at how refreshed I felt from my walk. Or maybe it was euphoria because I was slightly out of breath and my leg muscles were burning? I pulled my ear buds out in the middle of Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain and stored my iPhone in my purse. As I was about to enter the building I felt a hand lightly cup my shoulder blade.

  As my cerebral cortex processed the sensory touch, panic began to wash over me. Whoever placed their hand on my shoulder clearly had not read the literary piece Expectancy Violation. The fact that I could smell remnants of Colgate toothpaste from behind me meant the person was too close! As my body tensed into a protective stance, my mind reeled and I found myself wondering which compartment of my purse I had packed my pepper spray.

  “Excuse me?” he said nonchalantly. The masculine voice near my ear didn’t match the image of the greasy-haired convict from Leavenworth Correctional I envisioned…but still. I swiveled my head in the direction of the stranger, who clearly had differing views from my own regarding personal space.

  “Please let go of me,” I sneered defensively. I only said please to sound semi-courteous.

  “I believe this is yours. I saw it fall from your bag about a block back.”

  He extended his hand in my direction and my ID badge dangled lifelessly in his grasp, revealing the very expensive stainless steel watch that was wrapped around his wrist. To my surprise I was thrown by how attractive he was. I faced the man who had graciously taken time out of his morning to return an item that would have cost me a twenty-dollar payroll deduction.

  His clean-shaven face made him look very young—probably in his mid twenties. His green eyes reminded me of the sequoia trees that lined the California coast. His short, dark chestnut hair was swept to the side. The way his muscles lined the arms of his suit coat, and the fabric laid perfectly flat—I was absolutely positive he had no more than ten percent body fat underneath. What are you doing? I shook my head to clear my mind of the marvel in front of me.

  “I couldn’t exactly chase you down,” he said, waving his hand down the length of his body to bring attention to the dark gray suit that was wrapped around his impeccably lean frame, which he paired with a pastel blue shirt and Derby shoes.

  He had to be around six-one since he had no problem towering over my elongated frame. “I assume you didn’t hear me calling to you,” he said in a refined low-pitched voice.

  It dawned on me that I must not have heard him since my ear buds were glued in. I made a mental note to turn down the volume while walking alone.

  “Thank you, I had no idea…” I said, relinquishing the badge from his grasp. He didn’t look like a menace, so I allowed my anxiety to reduce a few notches.

  We were close enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne. Whatever scent he was wearing meshed perfectly with his manly aroma. His cologne was one of those fragrances that evoked energy and masculine power—and damn had it been a long time since I had been close enough to a man to enjoy a scent like that. I’d always been a sucker for a man who knew how to apply cologne properly… unlike Trent, who bathed in his musky fragrance and left a bergamot-scented cloud in his wake.

  “You’re welcome. Glad I could help,” he said, a slight grin forming on his lips. I gave him one last nod of appreciation and headed toward the tinted front doors, leaving him standing on the busy sidewalk to the background music of slamming taxi doors and automated pedestrians weaving their way to destinations unknown.

  I pulled the familiar glass doors that donned Copple’s wave-shaped emblem, fighting aggravation as I crossed over into the precipice of purgatory, also known as the lobby. I checked the time on my phone and cheered silently. Time had stood still for me again—it was exactly eight thirty. At least I hadn’t given Anna any more reason to stick her nose any farther up Trent’s ass by relaying my potential tardy. Anna had never done anything foul to me per se, but something about her rubbed me the wrong way.

  “Good morning, Ms. Caldwell,” Marci said from behind the mahogany wraparound reception desk. Marci Burton was an older woman who had been working for Copple for twenty years. She wanted to retire at some point but the Great Recession and her husband being on workers’ comp had halted her plans for now. Marci was also one of the only employees at Copple who treated me with a modicum of respect, so I was always cordial toward her.

  “Same to you, Marci—I know I’ve told you plenty of times to call me Brooklyn. Ms. Caldwell reminds me of my grandmother, too matronly,” I remarked, shaking my head teasingly, a warm smile plastered on my face. I headed up the glass-enclosed staircase and swiped my photo ID badge in front of the executive floor card reader.

  I walked to the back corner of the fourth floor, where my cubicle was located.

  “Good morning Ed,” I called over my cubicle wall to Ed Stein, one of the senior account executives.

 
“Morning Brooklyn, how goes it?” he asked.

  “Good, thanks,” I replied, tossing my purse into the bottom drawer of my metal desk. “I’m headed to the kitchen, so I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I was pretty sure we both knew that was a lie. The short exchange we had just shared would most likely be the most we’d say to one another all day. Pointless pleasantries came with the territory of my job.

  “Cool,” he responded, sounding preoccupied.

  Ed was nice enough but I was fairly sure he was stuck in the seventies. He insisted on dying his long dark brown hair; remnant dye marks were usually visible around his scalp about twice a month. He was also resolute when it came to donning his prized wallet chain Before I was introduced to him on my first week at Copple, I didn’t even know wallet chains were still in circulation.

  I headed toward the kitchen to make coffee for Trent and the owners of the company who usually arrived by nine o’clock. Playing the role of barista was one of my more noble duties as Trent’s grunt.

  As I waited for the broken-down coffeemaker to finish percolating I pulled Trent’s ostentatious mug from the cabinet. His was the only one in the collection that read Trent Walker, EVP in faux gold lettering. I found it hard to believe that any person could be so self-absorbed until I started working for him.

  Just as I finished rinsing his mug the coffee stopped brewing. To Trent’s exact specifications, I poured a quarter of organic half and half, three quarters of coffee and emptied three Splenda packets into his mug.

  “Just the way you like it…” I whispered, stirring his coffee with a swizzle stick. On the mornings after a crappy day where Trent had succeeded in pissing me off more than usual, I would pretend the sweet crystals I poured into his coffee were really Anthrax. A girl could dream, right? I promised myself I would quit working at Copple if I ever thought I was on the brink of becoming a homicidal maniac.

  After discarding the torn sweetener packets in the trash, I headed toward Trent’s office to deliver his morning demitasse, stopping by the mail room to pick up any priority items on the way.

  Trent was sitting behind his walnut desk looking out the window, taking special care to murmur into his headset. The light from his desk lamp illuminated the café walls and the inspirational quote–Dream a bigger dream to reach unchartered success—he’d hung near his window in wood frames. The warm color scheme provided a false sense of invitation. Trent’s dark, beady eyes spotted my reflection and summoned me into his den.

  “Hold on a minute Marcus, my assistant finally arrived with my coffee,” he said, exhaling loudly.

  Trent pressed the mute button on his headset and swiveled in his leather mad hatter chair to face me. I stepped forward to hand him his mug and mail. He quickly laced his fingers around his steaming cup and took a sip, blatantly disregarding the envelopes in my hand.

  “It’s about f’ing time, Brooklyn. I’ve been in my office for seven minutes. I spent two weeks showing you how to prepare my coffee so it would be on my desk when I arrive in the morning, not after,” he said, aggressively passing a finger over his eyebrow.

  Trent was the only person I knew who sadistically obsessed over his coffee. I mean I liked caffeine but I didn’t walk around like an arrogant ass.

  “My apologies Trent. I let the time get away from me,” I responded hurriedly, sliding his mail on the corner of his desk. I held back my burning desire to call him some type of epithet since I needed my job to pay off my student loan debt.

  “Don’t apologize, just get it together. I’m far too busy to deal with your incompetence. Don’t forget to schedule my dinner meeting with Navera Products for seven thirty tonight. Also, send Morris Kaufman at Money Digital a pair of those new Parrot Zik headphones from Neiman’s. He should enjoy the latest commercial that we created for his company with one of the best sound products on the market. His address is on the company share drive. Do you think you can handle that without screwing up?” he asked, sneering.

  “I’ll get right on it Trent,” I said, backing away from his desk and out of his office. Prick! I hated how Trent acted like I was some type of incompetent buffoon.

  “Close the door behind you,” he barked while re-engaging his headset.

  I begrudgingly obeyed his order and marched back to my desk, wondering why I left the confines of my warm bed and continued to work for the likes of Trent—a supreme douche bag.

  I hadn’t really anticipated struggling to find employment after college since I graduated at the top of my class. When some of my college mates who utilized daddy’s connections to land mid-level positions became gainfully employed, I came to the harsh realization that the old adage “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” seemed to ring true.

  Long after the ink on my diploma was dry, I had the constant reminder of twenty-five thousand dollars in student loan debt tattooed to my memory like images of the sinking Titanic under moonlight. Since my employment prospects in California were becoming bleaker by the second, I opted to broaden my job search to the East Coast; the D.C. area had always intrigued me. After a phone interview and a red eye flight, I was offered the position and jumped at the opportunity. Unfortunately, after what happened with Damon, moving across country didn’t seem far enough sometimes. I was so eager to escape him that I jumped at the first opportunity that had come along.

  Luckily I was able to talk Alex into moving cross country with me. At the time I accepted the position at Copple, Alex was nearly finished with law school, and was applying for positions while studying for the bar exam. I was so relieved when she agreed to move away with me. Her being near meant we’d get to experience D.C. together and I wouldn’t be forced to brave the new world of nine to five hell alone.

  When I’d accepted my marketing assistant position with “room for growth” at Copple, I didn’t know I would be working for the most pompous executive vice president in the history of marketing. I had now been stuck in the same lackluster position for three years with absolutely no prospect of a promotion.

  I finally made my way back to my desk on the other side of the floor and slid my cubicle partition closed. If I was lucky Trent wouldn’t need me anymore during the day. I hoped that if he did, he would decide to use e-mail rather than summon me to his dungeon of dread.

  AT ONE O’CLOCK I headed downstairs to Muffins to eat my lunch. I preferred the ambiance of the coffee shop compared to the sterile lunch room housed inside the Copple suite, hands down. Up until lunch I had been swamped trying to finish cost of sale analysis before my Monday deadline.

  It was still a little brisk outside, so I decided to search for seating inside. The smell of freshly baked goods and Arabica beans welcomed me as I entered the store. While I looked for a private table near the window, I found myself being tempted to purchase a container of their signature vegetable and grain country salad. My mouth watered as I toiled over whether or not to pony up the eight bucks for the dish. Ultimately I resisted the temptation and ate my ham sandwich and Caesar side salad I’d packed.

  I arrived back to my desk at two o’clock and didn’t hear any more from Trent. The next time I glanced at the clock on my computer screen it was already five in the afternoon. I hurried to shut down my computer and gather my belongings. Trent was notorious for beckoning me to complete last-minute projects that were due “no later than COB.” I quickly learned that his super lame acronym stood for “close of business” which meant that I’d end up working unpaid overtime.

  I quickly walked away from my desk and out of the building with one thought on my mind: Appleberry martinis.

  As I attempted to pull open the front door to head home, someone simultaneously pushed the door inward from the opposite side. My face collided with the glass door due to the swift push. I placed my hand on my nose, rubbing it in circles.

  “Ah! That hurt!” I grunted, underneath my breath. The nerve endings in my nose were on fire.

  “Are you all right?” a vaguely familiar voice asked
, stifling a laugh at my expense, I was sure.

  It only took a few seconds for my mind to register that I was in front of the guy from earlier that morning.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, exasperated. “What are you doing here? Are you some type of stalker?” All my years of watching murder mysteries made me hypersensitive to unfamiliar people and my surroundings.

  I shifted my eyes away from his face so that I could focus on my throbbing nose…and stop admiring his features. I couldn’t help myself though—I looked again. Regardless of his good looks, I attempted to give him my fiercest evil eye, while I awaited his response to my question.

  “Uh…I am not accustomed to laying out my daily agenda to strangers,” he responded, a cocky smile plastered on his face. “But I guess in this case I can make an exception. I’ve been locked up in meetings all day with Ron Evans in the Strategic Planning department.”

  The cogs in my head started turning as I processed his response. He was a client? Oh GAWD! I’m an idiot! I attempted to recover from his admission without revealing my complete and utter embarrassment at my previous comment. In the moment I was thankful that my skin tone didn’t reveal the expansive blush that had crept up my neck to my cheeks.

  “Oh…okay…” I said, flustered. His cologne and slightly cocky demeanor were affecting me and I wasn’t quite sure why.

  “I’m Logan Colton by the way,” Logan said, extending his hand.

  “Brooklyn Caldwell,” I answered, while taking his hand into mine, offering a cordial handshake.

  “Nice to meet you, Brooklyn” he said, with a smirk. “Well I’d better get going before I’m late to this evening’s meet and greet” he said, unenthusiastically.

  “Nice to meet you also, Mr. Colton,” I replied. I attempted to move past him and get out the door.

  “Please call me Logan,” he replied, chuckling slightly.

  “Logan it is then,” I responded curtly with a nod.

  I proceeded out the door of Copple into the evening air, allowing the strong winds to funnel my hair around my face—the same way my brain was wrapped around perplexing thoughts of who I now knew to be Logan Colton.