Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

menstrual needs, and I saunter to the bathroom to reapply

  my favorite red lipstick and make kissy faces at myself

  in the mirror. When I emerge, I head straight for the

  nearly empty bar.

  “One white wine spritzer, please. And a double of

  High West Bourye on the rocks.”

  The bartender looks gray and tired despite the fact

  that he’s only about forty. If I had to guess, I’d say he

  has a little pill problem and he’d rather be anywhere but

  here on a Thursday afternoon. He doesn’t even raise an

  eyebrow at my twenty-five-dollar order of whiskey; he

  just pours it out and slides it over, along with my spritzer.

  “Put a couple of cherries in the spritzer,” I suggest, which finally prompts a reaction, a disgusted wince as he drops

  two cherries into my glass. He throws in an orange slice

  too, so I add an extra dollar to the tip. My drink is practically health food now.

  “Cheers!” I exclaim as I slide into the booth Rob has

  chosen at the front window.

  6

  Problem Child

  “Whoa.” His mouth crooks down a little when he

  sees the drinks in my hands, but I slide his toward him

  and pretend not to notice.

  “The High West,” I drawl, and the downturn of his

  mouth turns up.

  “Wow, that’s quite a treat!”

  “I remembered that you like it.”

  Rob has never looked at me as a sexual conquest be-

  fore. I’m assertive and nearly plain, and as far as I can tell, he likes his girls superhot and pliable. But my admission

  that I’ve paid attention to his wants and needs softens his face a little. His eyelids dip in a lazy blink. “Thank you

  very much, Jane. I didn’t expect this.”

  I clink my ostentatiously girly drink against his glass

  and we each take a sip. I hum with pleasure as the bubbles

  touch my tongue. Wine spritzers are fucking delicious,

  and I have no idea why they ever fell out of fashion. I

  fish a cherry out of the glass and beam. “Let’s order. I’m

  starving!”

  We place our orders with a cheerful young man with

  an Ethiopian accent, and when the bread arrives, I’m ec-

  static. “Another round!” I insist, gesturing at our drinks.

  “That’s a terrible idea,” Rob protests, but when his

  twenty-five-dollar drink arrives, he can’t just let it sit

  there, can he? Eyes slightly wide, he gamely finishes the

  last sip from his first tumbler and slides it toward the edge of the table.

  “This is really nice,” I say.

  He cocks his head as if he’s trying to puzzle something

  out. “Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it?” Do I want to get in his pants? Have I wanted that all along and that’s why I’ve

  been so prickly and difficult? I can see him reasoning it

  7

  Victoria Helen Stone

  out and relaxing into the explanation. It’s really the only thing that makes sense, after all. He’s Rob. Everyone loves Rob, and a plain Jane like me must be more susceptible

  to his charms than most would be.

  Cheeks flushed, he lounges back into the high cush-

  ions of the leather booth, a knowing smile on his face as

  the waiter delivers our meals. Rob has ordered a sensible

  lunch of baked sole and steamed veggies. I ordered the

  dinner portion of lobster ravioli, and it’s even bigger than I remember.

  “Oh God,” I sigh as I take my first bite. “That’s so

  good.” I groan as the taste sinks in.

  Rob chuckles. “Looks like it’s very exciting.”

  “Oh, it is. Have you ever had this?”

  He shakes his head, and I lean into the table in ex-

  citement. “You have to taste it. It’s better than sex.” I

  cut a ravioli in half—no way am I losing a whole ravioli

  to Rob—and spear it. As I hold it toward his mouth,

  I imitate what I’ve seen other people do, parting my

  lips and darting out my tongue as if I’m reaching for a

  bite too.

  He doesn’t really care about sex with me. I’m not his

  type. But he understands this interaction. I can see his

  confidence grow as he chews, his eyes warming with the

  knowledge that he can finally get me in line. He grins

  and nods. He is in his element and he’s no longer think-

  ing that he really shouldn’t have this much whiskey at a

  pre-meeting lunch.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” I whisper.

  “It’s very, very nice,” he concedes, smiling indulgently

  as he chews. “I like it.”

  “Me too.” I leave the rest of my spritzer until half my

  dish is gone, but Rob is tipsy enough that he’s forgetting

  8

  Problem Child

  how to pace himself, and the man hasn’t ordered nearly

  enough fat and calories.

  By the time I order one last round of drinks for dessert,

  he’s drunk and he’s lost all sight of vulnerability and any hint of wisdom. Why shouldn’t he have another drink?

  He’s a goddamn successful lawyer on his way to making

  partner, and he’s a man, damn it. A big man with a wife

  at home and a piece on the side, and one more ballbuster

  making eyes at him over lunch too. He’s a king among

  men, and he’s never lost at anything.

  He accepts the final drink and raises it high. “To

  another great deal.”

  “Thank you,” I respond, taking full credit. I deserve it.

  Rob is a showboat, and he reflects the light of better

  lawyers off his shiny facade, recycling their knowledge

  and taking all the praise. The first few times we worked

  together, I kept my mouth shut, because I was still learning the delicate intricacies that make up the web of politics

  in this office. But I know them now. It will take me a

  couple of years to even be considered for partner, but

  they won’t notice me at all with Rob glinting into their

  eyes all the damn time.

  “I’ve got this,” I say when the bill comes. I’ve spent

  almost eighty bucks on whiskey this afternoon and I don’t

  regret one penny. “I owe you for everything you’ve taught

  me this year, Robert. What a ride it’s been.”

  “Anything you need, Jane,” he drawls with a wink.

  “Your work is really coming along.”

  I worked on the legal team of an international con-

  glomerate in Kuala Lumpur for five years. Rob worked

  for a furniture manufacturing group in St. Paul before

  he started here. He can kiss my ass and thank me for the

  privilege as far as I’m concerned.

  9

  Victoria Helen Stone

  “I’ve got those notes you asked for on the North

  Unlimited proposal,” I say, reminding him of the meet-

  ing we’re heading into.

  “Good. Good job. I’ll stop by and grab them when

  we get back.”

  “Yeah. That’ll give you half an hour to learn what I

  know so you can steal the show.”

  His flushed face crumples for a brief moment. “What?”

  I giggle as if I’ve just made a silly joke. “I get so ner-

  vous before these big client meetings.”

  His lizard brain prompts a slow blink, sensing the

  danger of what I said a moment ago, but his
ego wins

  out and he grins at my tipsy giggling. I dare to reach

  out and touch his hand as if I’m feeling naughty after

  the spritzers.

  I am feeling naughty, but it’s not the spritzers. It’s the power. His defenses are down and his confidence is up,

  and I could make anything happen right now. I could tell

  him my condo is right around the corner, confess that

  I’ve thought about him while I touch myself in bed at

  night. That idea is practically lesbian porn for this future business leader of America. I could get him back to my

  place and compromised within a few minutes.

  Or I could hit record on my phone as we walk and

  ask him whether the mournful receptionist is a good lay

  and whether her breasts are as nice as they look under

  sweaters. He’s drunk enough to brag about it, and then

  I’d have him under my thumb, his job andhis marriage

  in danger.

  Really, I don’t understand why people don’t record

  more conversations in life. Is there any downside?

  But I don’t need to work that hard this time around,

  risking animosity and accusation. And I don’t need to

  10

  Problem Child

  risk my current long-term relationship by letting this boy

  wonder touch me. He deserves a much lazier approach.

  Rob doesn’t sway or stumble as we walk back toward

  the office, but he looks confused whenever he stops talk-

  ing. Not that he stops talking much. He carries on loudly,

  talking about his wife, of all things. How great she is. How beautiful. The trip she took to India to learn advanced

  yoga and meditation. How much she loves cooking. He

  brags about the blog she hosts on positivity.

  She sounds like a goddamn nightmare, but she does

  have a great ass, I’ll give her that. I’ve been to her positivity blog, and she’s definitely positive about how she looks in pink Lululemon pants.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Rob practically shouts.

  “Oh, please do,” I prompt.

  “Savannah might be pregnant. She’s taking a test to-

  night. She’s been taking the vitamins for months, laying

  off wine. Just in case.”

  “Wow. That’s cool. But you have to get sperm involved

  too. The vitamins alone won’t do it.”

  “Yeah,” he answers, his eyes bright with some far-off

  vision. Then he shakes off his joy and frowns. “What?”

  “Nothing. Congrats. Sounds like everything is really

  lining up for you. And you definitely deserve it all.”

  “Thanks, Jane.”

  “My pleasure, Robert.”

  “It’s Rob,” he corrects absentmindedly for about the

  fiftieth time this year.

  “I know.”

  When we reach our building, he pushes the glass

  doors open with way too much force, and one of them

  clangs against the discreet rubber stopper with a gong that echoes through the atrium. Faces turn. He doesn’t notice.

  11

  Victoria Helen Stone

  “I’m going to run to the bathroom,” I say as he moves

  toward the elevators. “I need to piss like crazy.”

  He wrinkles his nose at the crude words. Savannah

  would never say anything that gross. She’ll make such a

  great mom.

  I give Rob a little wave and head toward the lobby

  bathrooms. “See you in a few!”

  I take my time. I pee and wash my hands. Check my

  teeth for lunch remnants. Reapply the crimson lipstick.

  Smooth down my dark brown bob. Then I dab a little

  moisturizer on my hands and slowly rub it in. The meet-

  ing starts in thirty minutes, but I’ve already prepared, so there’s no rush. In fact, I pop back outside to grab a coffee.

  I’ve worn my power suit today, not that Rob noticed.

  It’s dark charcoal gray, nearly black, with a subtle red pin-stripe that matches my mouth. The skirt is knee length

  and tight, hugging my hips and pointing the eye down

  to my scarlet heels. I feel like the queen of the world as

  I ride the elevator back up with my mocha latte and all

  the notes I memorized last night so I wouldn’t need to

  write them down.

  The meeting starts in five minutes. I log into Google

  Docs using Rob’s name and password. All that teamwork

  we put in together means I know all of his passwords.

  Well. There’s only one. He uses the same one to access

  his laptop and unlock documents and log into Google.

  It’s Rob#1in2017.

  I’m not kidding. He could at least update the year

  every once in a while.

  “Jane.” Rob is leaning against the doorjamb of my

  office, a coffee cup in hand, his eyes bleary. “Did you get those last numbers on district budgets?”

  12

  Problem Child

  “Yeah, I’ll chime in when you get to that part, no

  problem.”

  “Great.”

  He dips back into his office to grab his laptop. I leave

  the first page of notes for the meeting intact so everything will look normal for Rob when he opens the document;

  then I handwrite a few critical details on my notepad

  before deleting pages two to four of the shared document.

  Rob is heading down the hall when I log him off Google

  and stand up to join the fun.

  Here we go!

  We met the client before, but this time there’s a whole

  team of people in attendance, faces open with possibil-

  ity. I shine as bright as I can, shaking hands all around

  as I’m introduced as one of the lawyers helping with this

  project. I glow with helpful friendliness.

  Rob, on the other hand, is glowing with whiskey

  fumes. It’s not a subtle alcohol, and I can see eyes dart

  toward him as he weaves in and out of the gathering.

  Jesus Christ, Rob, it’s 2:00 p.m. on a Thursday! Control

  yourself!

  He shakes every hand in the room before taking a

  seat near the two partners in attendance. I fade into the

  background at a far corner of the conference table. I’m

  dressed to impress, sure, but no one likes a woman who

  shows off. So I become modesty incarnate, zipping my lips

  and smiling benignly at everyone and no one. I fade the

  way I used to watch my best friend fade, making myself

  smaller and easier to swallow.

  But Rob’s glow intensifies, blooming from his pink,

  flushed cheeks. “I guess I’ll start things off,” he booms, his too-loud words shaking my eardrums as they settle over

  13

  Victoria Helen Stone

  the table. “It’s great to finally meet everyone in person

  after all those email exchanges.”

  The two partners glance at each other before turning

  to stare at Rob. Why is he taking control of the meeting?

  One of them clears his throat. “Yes, welcome, every-

  one,” he says, his words half the volume of Rob’s as he

  steps in. “Let’s get down to business. As you know, you

  asked us to put out some feelers about additional buyers

  for your imported supply of premium chicken products

  after your success with the state prison system. What

  we’ve found is that the contract possibilities are incred-

  ibly promising…”
>
  The partner continues his spiel, but I’m focused on

  Rob. He dabs a drop of sweat from his temple as he stares

  at his open laptop. Frowning, his eyes creased with con-

  centration, he keeps trying to scroll down on something

  on his screen, but it doesn’t seem to work.

  I watch him click a couple of things and then click

  and click again. Another sweat drop forms and a wave of

  shivery pleasure laps at my gut, easing higher until my

  nipples tighten.

  “Rob?” I hear someone say, and he and I both real-

  ize at the same moment that he’s been asked a question.

  “Uh,” he replies. “Yes?”

  “Rob, the numbers.” It’s no longer a question but a

  demand. The partner nearest Rob, Jeremy Browning,

  who’s distinguishable from the other silverbacks by his

  retro black-rimmed glasses, is turning nearly as pink

  as Rob now. He must be breathing in Rob’s whiskey

  fumes. A vein in his temple begins to throb, slowly but

  surely. Approachable glasses aside, Jeremy is known for

  his quick temper.

  14

  Problem Child

  “Right,” Rob finally says. “The numbers. As you

  know…” That’s all he says , As you know…, instinctively repeating a phrase used moments before by one of his

  bosses. That’s his whole shtick. Mirror the partners and

  make junior associates do the real work.

  It’s not hard for him to fit in with the senior guys.

  He’s so easy to get along with, and there’s none of the

  tiptoeing you have to do with the female or minority

  employees. God, they’re all so prickly. But not good old

  Rob. He’s just more … comfortable to be around.

  “As you know,” he repeats; then he clears his throat

  and tries to get it together with a fierce glance in my

  direction. I smile.

  “As you know, our calculations show there are a shit-

  ton of fantastic opportunities for you right now.”

  Jeremy Browning blinks. Several times.

  “Quite a few of the entities we approached were very

  interested in the high value and low cost that you’re of-

  fering.” He frowns again. “All three of the largest school

  systems in the state…”

  The client clears his throat.

  “Sorry,” Rob says, “I do have the numbers right here.”

  Others in the room are beginning to shift and squirm.

  The whole client team looks toward the partners. They

  look toward each other. I wait a few more seconds. Then