Tiago

by Shayne Ford

  He considers me his friend.

  But friends we cannot be.

  He was my first big account. By big, I mean a contract to the tune of 1.5 million. The campaign has been a success so far, and the man who happens to be the owner of the firm seems to be quite taken with me.

  Born four decades before me, at sixty-five the man is dashing, however, I’m not the woman for him.

  I swivel around rather abruptly, taking Lilian by surprise.

  Her smile expresses different nuances of surprise before it stabilizes on her lips.

  Closer to his age with about a decade or so, she must think that he’s a catch.

  “He’s not what you think,” I mutter. “Now, go fetch a card and a gift for him.”

  “Any suggestions?” she asks.

  “No.”

  I shoot her a side glance.

  She reads my expression for a moment.

  “Whatever you think it’s best. You’re good at it,” I say.

  “All right.”

  Clamor draws our eyes to the corridor as Samantha Jackson saunters past my door, heading to her office.

  Instinctively, I straighten my back. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she gives me the shivers.

  The Head of the Creative Department, and my direct boss, she’s as smart as she is strict. Ice must be running through her blood, and her eyes are made of winter wind.

  A mane of dark hair frames her alabaster complexion, setting off her frosted eyes. The color of her clothes doesn’t help either–– beige, gray, navy, brown, and black, keeping her company most of the time.

  She has the elegance and composure of someone who is in mourning all the time and deals with disasters often.

  Perhaps, she does.

  Whatever it is, every time she glances in my direction, I feel like putting on a coat. I don’t know if she was born like that or life made her that way.

  I’ve heard stories that some women get jaded in time–– men too, by the way, and I’ve seen some of my mom’s friends. Once life took away from them more than it has given back, their eyes lost their sparkle.

  But with Samantha, there’s so much more.

  It’s hard to tell what it is because she is a very successful woman, after all.

  Despite all that, there’s pent-up frustration in her and overt impatience for things and people. It often surfaces in her words and gestures and also the way she runs her business.

  Whether she wants it or not, she scares people to no end. From her secretary to the accountant, and the creative team, we all know how easily she gets stirred up.

  That’s not to say that she picks on people. She doesn’t. She’s fair and always makes good points, and that’s another reason why we walk on eggshells when she’s around.

  She can make you feel like shit with only a few words.

  And that’s not all.

  The woman rarely smiles.

  Once in a while, she plasters a grin on her otherwise frozen lips, but her smile never reaches her eyes.

  Rumor has it that she’s gotten worse after her divorce. I don’t know how she was before she started to have marital problems, so to me, it’s all the same.

  Rumor also has it, that she started dating again, and the results were not great. I’m familiar with that, so no surprises there.

  Seemingly, Samantha Jackson and I have something in common, not that I expect her to dish out on it over a cup of coffee anytime soon.

  After all this time, I can’t tell whether she likes me or not. Or anyone else for that matter.

  We all strive to meet her expectations, but even when we do, her lack of praise leaves us frustrated.

  The only time she cares to put on a mask and act as if she’s thrilled about life is when she meets our clients, and that brings me to my next point.

  The woman is invaluable to the company, and no matter how many quirks she has, she is here to stay.

  That’s why people are intimidated by her, myself included.

  “She doesn’t seem to be in a good mood,” Lilian mutters as if she reads my mind.

  “As if she ever was...” I murmur.

  Quietly, I take in the woman.

  A business suit comprised of a tailored jacket with eye-popping front buttons and a pencil skirt that hits just above her knees hugs her silhouette.

  The color–– a dark shade of cognac pairs well with her golden tone jewelry.

  The only dash of bright color–– her deep red lipstick, makes her eyes pop and her brushed back hair look darker.

  The receptionist hurries behind her, carrying a bouquet just like mine.

  “And I thought he only loves me,” I say under my breath jokingly, bringing a small chuckle to Lilian’s lips.

  “Everybody knows that he’s a flirt,” she says.

  “Aren’t they all?” I say cynically, glancing at Lillian.

  Her lips curve into a smile.

  “I wouldn’t know, Miss Malone,” she says.

  My gaze dips to her wedding band, a reminder that she left the dating scene a while ago. Now she lives with her husband, their two kids, two dogs and a cat in a lovely house in the suburbs.

  For a moment, I imagine being her.

  That kind of life would never happen to me.

  “Anyway...” I murmur, checking the time on my wristwatch. “Is everything ready for the meeting?”

  “Yes, it is. The client should arrive any moment now,” she says, swiveling her head toward the corridor. “She’s already heading that way,” Lillian mutters, tilting her chin and motioning in the direction of Samantha’s office.

  Holding her phone in her hand, Samantha Jackson paces down the corridor, her secretary right behind her.

  “Where is Curt?”

  “He’s in a conference call.”

  Curt Clemens, the Marketing Director, is an extremely driven forty-something-year-old and very good at what he does. He could’ve delegated this task to Samantha Jackson or even me, but he wanted to make the presentation himself.

  “Okay, then. Let's go now.”

  I grab my tablet and my phone, take a quick peek at my reflection in the wall mirror and exit my office.

  At least five or six other people walk in the same direction as us.

  It’s close to ten o’clock when Curt ends his presentation and invites the client and his people to ask questions. I answer a couple of inquiries before my colleagues take over, providing additional information.

  What happens next is not what I expected.

  It’s not like me to have a hard time focusing at work. I know how important the meeting is, and I’m fully aware that my recent promotion was a stroke of luck, considering that I am one of the newest additions to the company’s personnel.

  I worked hard to get this job, and I should know better than to let myself distracted by stupid stuff, and yet, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  I don’t know what makes me swing my eyes to the window and prompts me to let my mind drift away, losing myself in the scenery outside.

  Perhaps is the fact that the clouds have lifted and a clear sky vaults above Manhattan.

  Or maybe is the wind that spins polychromatic leaves in the air. Or perhaps is the sunlight sweeping the streets, and making the people shed their coats.

  Whatever it is, it makes no sense, but for a moment, my eyes get fooled into absorbing the autumn reigning on the streets.

  For a moment, I forget about the meeting, the firm, and my job.

  For a moment, I remember Rain telling me she felt alone when James was not with her.

  And then I remember the majestic fall in Colorado. The joy that the last few months of the year have always given me. The time I used to spend with Rain and my parents. The moments when we strolled downtown, went clothing shopping, or ate cookies, and had tea at the best bakery in town. The lively afternoons and quiet evenings and the late nights when we used to chat.

  And suddenly, I have this strange feeling that my home wi
ll never be here in this big city packed with lights, cold concrete, skyscrapers, and noisy crowds and honking cars.

  A soft hand touches mine.

  “Are you okay?” Lillian asks quietly.

  Startled, I swing my eyes to her, trying not to attract anyone’s attention to me.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  She searches my eyes for a moment before she moves her focus back to the people engaged in a lively dialogue.

  I’m nowhere near fine.

  I make an effort to pay attention and participate in the conversation as well–– providing my input whenever needed, but soon, I find myself doing the same thing as I did a moment ago.

  My eyes hover over the table, and the faces of the people before inherently find the window again.

  A few moments tick by.

  This time, it’s the heat of a stare that makes me swivel my head and shift my focus to the table. Samantha tasers me with a scrutinizing gaze that makes me jolt out of my reverie and slip back into my character.

  But the day is not meant to go well, it seems.

  A few minutes later, I get distracted by a silent alert on my phone screen. It’s a notification from an app I use sometimes.

  Usually, I don’t have an impulse control problem, but this time, something nudges me to do the craziest thing.

  I lower my phone and tip my gaze down, furtively checking the social media alert.

  I’m so tempted to tap it so that I can see it.

  The curiosity is what I blame it on for following this man and his posts in the first place and now for tapping on his story.

  I should know better than doing this at work, especially when his posts are clearly tagged NSFW.

  Oh, yes, I should, but something makes me do it.

  Thank God, the sound is off when a small black and white clip fills the screen and starts playing.

  If I’d be alone, I’d gasp.

  If I’d be alone, I’d have my hand clamped over my mouth.

  If I’d be alone, I’d work a couple of buttons open at my neckline and take a long breath or fan myself.

  Instead, I freeze in my seat, my phone tucked in my hand under the table while I watch the–– oh so hot, video.

  Tensed, I look up, checking the people’s faces around the table. Luckily, no one’s paying attention to me.

  If I’d be alone in the room, this would be the moment when I’d breathe out a sigh of relief.

  But I’m not.

  And since I’m not, I let my eyes dart back and forth as my attention splits between checking the clip and the people in the room.

  The man featured in the video is hot, but I knew that from the beginning. That’s why I followed him.

  He sure knows it and has no problem sharing his hotness with his followers.

  So here he is offering me a glimpse of his naked body–- his hand wrapped around his bulging erection, his fist sliding up and down, his chest heaving.

  His face is out of the frame to enhance the mystery and make him even more attractive and unattainable.

  One of the things that happen when people make stupid mistakes like me, is common sense gets thrown out of the window.

  For a moment, my brain freezes, and the outer world becomes blurred as I stare vacantly at the phone screen. It’s not even the clip––– as sexy as it is, what makes me pull away from the immediate reality.

  Something stops working in my head, and my co-workers' voices wither away as my mind wanders who knows where.

  “Miss Malone?”

  I hear my name called out by someone in the room, but my perception is somewhat fuzzy.

  I get called out for the second time. This time it’s a woman’s voice, and recognition flashes through my brain.

  I jolt out of my daydreaming state and flick a panicked gaze to the middle of the room.

  Samantha Jackson’s eyes sear my face while Curt Clemens looks at me puzzled.

  My jerk reaction makes me spring to my feet.

  As I straighten out of my seat, my hand hits the edge of the table, and my phone vaults through the air, landing on the floor between the two people who are my superiors.

  Not that far from me.

  “Yes,” I say, mostly to keep their focus on me and stop them from looking down.

  Something tells me that a major disaster is headed my way.

  “I need the advertising reach estimate on the Stern campaign.”

  “Yes, Sir. I have it right here,” I say, picking up my tablet.

  “Would you mind going over the numbers for all of us?” Curt Clemens asks, taking a step closer to the table and inevitably my cell phone.

  “Sure, no problem,” I say, getting busy with my gadget, using the opportunity to look down at the floor.

  Sheer horror floods my blood.

  Right at his feet, face up, with the screen in full display, my phone still plays that clip.

  Even from where I stand, I can see it.

  The man’s hand moving up and down, his erection front and center, his hips rocking against his fist.

  If either of them tips their gaze down, my life as I know it would come to an end. It would go down the drain.

  I would lose my job, and sure enough, I’d never get a recommendation for a position similar to this ever again.

  How could I be so stupid?

  Panicked, I work up a strategy to step away from my seat, walk by my phone and pick it up–– hopefully before anyone else gets a glimpse of it.

  And only after I retrieve my phone to walk to the front of the room and start my presentation.

  Hope blossoms meekly in my heart when I take the first step in that direction, talking and gesturing, hoping to keep everyone’s attention on me.

  Just as I get inches away from my phone, Curt Clemens notices the little gadget lying on the floor.

  It must have been the flickering light that caught his eye.

  “Isn’t that yours, Miss Malone?” he asks somewhat distracted as if he didn’t get a glimpse of what was playing on it.

  Before I have the chance to answer him–– or him to take a better look at it, Samantha Jackson steps in and scoops it off the floor.

  “I asked you all to turn off the phones during meetings,” she says, glowering at me as she plops my cell phone into my hand, face down.

  Her words come with a stern gaze that tells me everything I needed to know. I don’t think Curt got a glimpse of the clip, but she sure did.

  The blood draws from my face.

  “Sure,” I apologize with a shaky voice, my knees trembling.

  With that, I power off my phone, take a deep breath, and start my presentation.

  6

  EVE

  Despite the incident that almost gave me a heart attack, the meeting and presentation went well.

  After that brief moment of panic, no word about the phone incident was mentioned again.

  It’s late afternoon when people begin to leave. Lillian says goodbye to me before she walks out of her office while I decide to work overtime, catching up on some work.

  But this is not the only reason why I’m still at my desk.

  I’ve been watching the hallway since the end of the meeting, waiting for my bosses to walk into my office and reprimand me, or worse.

  I listened to every uttered word, phone ringing, and every sign, everything that could’ve signaled to me that my time in this firm has come to an end.

  As time flows by, I’m no longer sure that Samantha Jackson did, in fact, see what was playing on my cell phone.

  I truly hope she didn’t.

  My life would be so much easier if that stupid moment didn’t register with anyone.

  To prove myself that I learned my lesson, I promptly closed my account on that app so that I’d never be tempted to use it again.

  But that wasn’t enough to quench my fears, and that’s why I’m staying late hoping to receive a confirmation that my lack of judgment went unnoticed and therefore wouldn’t be puni
shed.

  The last employees walk out of the firm.

  It’s almost seven o’clock when the rain begins to rap against the windows and the cleaning crew shows up.

  Smoothly, I push out of my chair, run my hand down my skirt, and rake my fingers through my hair. Quietly, I tiptoe to the open door and take a peek down the hallway.

  From the other end, drifts the humming sound of the vacuum cleaner and the quiet dialogue of the people.

  Soft music plays in the speakers.

  I swing my gaze to Samantha’s office. The lights are on–– the reading lamp perhaps, and maybe her computer, but from where I stand, I can’t tell if she’s still in or not.

  I am not bold enough to take a few steps and verify.

  Quietly, I make the trip back and start to pack my things.

  It’s seven thirty when I throw on my coat, pick-up my briefcase and my purse, and quietly, I start walking down the hallway.

  My eyes go to the side as I stroll past her office.

  The blinders are up, and the lamps are on–– as I suspected, and sure enough, her computer is on. Her chair is empty, though.

  Just as I’m about to let out a sigh of relief, I spot her purse on her desk.

  But she’s not in.

  Perhaps, she’s in the restroom. With this thought in my head, I tear my eyes away from her cubicle and step away.

  A few seconds slip by before I hear my name called out.

  “Miss Malone?”

  My blood turns into ice, and my legs into clay.

  I turn to stone.

  “Can you step into my office for a moment?”

  Slowly, I shift my eyes to her.

  Leaning against her desk, she motions me to walk in and take a seat not far from her.

  “I need to speak to you,” she says as she pushes off the desk, rounds the furniture and slides into her chair.

  I take a few steps in her direction.

  “Close the door,” she says as I enter her office.

  With a trembling hand, I do that.

  This is it.

  I’m getting fired.

  She motions at me again as I walk hesitantly to the chair.