“I’m going to have to beg to differ, Chels,” Ryan tosses back, clearly amused at her words.
Chels.
The shortened nickname annoys me for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.
I’m about to tell them both to get the fuck out of my office when I see it. Behind the glossy façade of a prissy girl is a viper. She’s in the right den. And her fangs are bigger than Ryan’s dick could ever be. Poor guy doesn’t realize she’s about to school him. Leaning back, I wait for her to strike.
She rises from her seat, taking a moment to smooth out the wrinkles of her skirt. I skim my gaze over her juicy ass and then to her fingernails that are flawlessly painted in what must be Tra-la-la.
“I know one guy who could talk about nail polish all day long,” she says, tapping one of those painted nails on her pouty pink bottom lip. “You might know him.”
Ryan, the idiot, just stares at her, fixated on her sexy mouth.
He does know him.
Schmoozed the hell out of him in March at the SAG Awards after party. If he’d listened for half a second rather than running his mouth, he’d have learned this too. Question is, how does she know?
“Evan Swanson.” She cocks her head at him. “You know him?”
Realization dawns on him, causing his brows to pinch together. “Of course I know him. He’s a great client of Dunbar Foster.”
“He’s the Harry Styles of this year,” I cut in so he doesn’t make an idiot of himself for not knowing such a small yet important detail of one of our clients. “Worldwide fashion icon as you know. Despite his blossoming acting career, he continues to be a spokesperson for Dior. Their makeup line exploded in popularity when he wore Tra-la-la to the Grammy’s and gave them a shoutout, saying—”
“‘Boys can love pink too,’” Chelsea finishes for me. “He’s been quoted to say Tra-la-la is such an unassuming color and is his favorite.”
She grins my way, proud as fuck at her victory. The girl knows her stuff. I’ll give her that. And because I’m not a total asshole, I reward her with a small smile.
“Right,” Ryan clips out. “It’s just been a helluva day.” He motions at his dick. “Ball burn and all. But, if you’re ready, I have a bunch of work to do.”
Her confidence flickers as she nods and starts to follow him toward the door.
“Ryan,” I call to him, making him stop before he makes it out of my office. “Don’t underutilize our intern. Anyone can make coffee. Not everyone can name all twenty-nine shades of the Dior Vernis polish line.”
“Loud and clear, boss man,” he grunts out, stalking out of my office.
Sea green eyes meet mine and she shoots me a sweet-as-sin smile. I wink at her because apparently I don’t know how to keep from fucking flirting with her. She leaves, but her fruity scent and the surprisingly good impression she made remain.
This girl is going to fuck up my world.
CHAPTER THREE
Chelsea
Turning to see more of my reflection in the full-length mirror, I scrutinize my appearance. My off-the-shoulder leopard print blouse is flowy and comfortable, but paired with this tight black pencil skirt and a classic pair of pumps, it’s what I’m going to call business sexy.
I know I shouldn’t be worried about sexy at work, but Foster oozes sexiness just by existing. As hard as it is to focus on anything else when he’s in the room, it’s only fair I tempt his gaze in my direction as well.
Satisfied that at the very least his gaze will be drawn to my ass in this skirt as I’m leaving the meeting today, I leave home super early so I’ll have time to wait in line for coffee on my way to work. I’m still working with Ryan and I’ve come to believe the man can’t function without equal parts blood and caffeine running through his veins.
Me, I don’t drink coffee. Don’t like the taste, and I don’t particularly want the teeth stains, either.
It’s a busy morning. Ryan has phone call after phone call, email after email, text after text. I can’t help noticing how much busier he is than the rest of the associates. They’re all working hard and keeping busy, but not one is as bombarded as Ryan.
I really wish he’d let me help more. Even Foster told him to. I don’t understand why he keeps giving me mindless busywork instead of letting me lighten his load. He might as well pat me on the head and tell me to spend the day popping bubblegum and painting my nails.
He doesn’t take me seriously.
I shake it off, refusing to let it get me down.
Another call comes in for him, but I glance in his direction and see he’s still on the last call I sent him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilkes is on another call right now, but if you’d like I can take a message and catch him up before he calls you back?”
The woman on the other end is not pleased. “You know, this is not what I expected when I hired Dunbar Foster to handle my PR shit show. It’s not what I was pitched, it’s not what I was promised—I’m seriously considering firing you guys and taking my business elsewhere.”
Dread pools in my gut. I freeze for a split second, then I cut a look in Ryan’s direction, considering whether or not I should interrupt his call. He told me never, ever to do that, not even if the building caught fire, but this… well, it’s a fire of another sort.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Winston, you’re absolutely right. Your problems are very important to us and I’m going to personally see to it that you get the help you need right now. Tell me what we can do for you.”
Her tone relaxing slightly, the client continues. “Ryan told me I needed to write up a note of apology, that way when I deliver it, I already know what I’m going to say and I don’t say anything I shouldn’t.”
“Right,” I offer supportively.
“He wanted me to send it back once I finished so he could go over it himself.”
I cradle the corded phone between my ear and shoulder, reaching for a pen and grabbing a piece of paper so I can write down any pertinent details. “Perfect. Did you want to go ahead and email that over to him right now? I’ll have Mr. Wilkes review it right away and email you back. If you have any questions, call back and I’ll make sure to put you straight through.”
“Okay, that will work. Thank you.”
“Of course. We know what a stressful time this is for you, we’re so glad we can help you through it.”
Once I get off the phone with the temporarily mollified client, I glance back at Ryan. He’s still on the phone, his face seeming to get older by the moment from the stress of the conversation.
Definitely can’t interrupt that one.
That’s all right. I may not be a fully trained associate like he is, but I do know apologies. I know bad ones—like Brad from junior year trying to foist off the blame on me after he was caught getting a blowjob from another girl—and good ones. All I have to do is read over the email myself and make sure the client’s apology falls into the latter category. In fact, since she said he sent her a sample to follow, if I pull that from his sent emails, I might be able to handle this entirely by myself and get one thing off Ryan’s plate.
Satisfied with that plan, I log myself out of my temporary employee email and type in [email protected] instead. His password is on a slip of paper his old assistant wrote down and slipped into her desk. He didn’t tell me about it—I found it myself—but it stands to reason if she was allowed to access his work email, I should be, too.
The password works and a split second later I’m in. I go to the sent folder first to find Ryan’s emails to and from the client so I can catch myself up.
By the time I’ve finished and printed off the sample email he sent for reference, there’s a new email in the inbox. I mouse over to it, expecting to find an email from the client I just spoke to, but it’s something else. From an Aaron Elman—not a name I recognize from the client list. The subject line reads “Swanson” and the content simply reads, “Is he onboard?”
Evan Swanson? Has to be. I frown,
wondering what they could be talking about. I shake off my curiosity—I’m not in here to snoop—and back out of the message.
Luckily, the apology email comes through a moment later. I read through it, but it’s bad. Rambling and mildly ranty, underhanded attempts to shirk responsibility, trying to avoid even mentioning what she’s apologizing for—all kinds of bad.
I don’t even bother consulting Ryan since it’s such a mess. I print out her email, grab a red pen, and brutalize the text. I leave helpful, upbeat comments about the structure and content, explaining that she needs to stop shying away from what happened and own it. An effective apology can only happen once you’ve acknowledged the mistake. I tell her what she needs to do step-by-step instead of sending her a lame template like Ryan did to take all the personalization out of her speech. She could be a president who got a blow job or “oops! There was a typo in that coupon we sent out” and the language would barely differ with what he sent her to model her long-winded apology after.
It’s probably not my place, but I want to talk to Ryan about this. If this is the template he’s sending out to other clients… I don’t want Dunbar Foster to look bad just because he’s overwrought and trying to half-ass his job with boilerplate templates instead of one-on-one attention. I know Dunbar Foster’s rates; we charge way too much for service like this.
I know Foster wouldn’t like it.
I don’t want to get Ryan in trouble just because he’s overwhelmed though, so I’ll talk to him instead of Foster.
At least, that’s my plan until I go back to the inbox and the “Swanson” message is gone. My gaze darts across the screen to the folders. There’s one for each of Ryan’s clients to keep everything organized, but when I click on Swanson, the email from that Aaron guy isn’t there.
Covertly, I glance over my shoulder into Ryan’s office. He’s still on the phone, but he’s moving the mouse, also focused on his computer monitor.
I refresh the inbox and one new email pops up, but not in the inbox. There’s a file folder labeled “fantasy football,” the only non work-related file folder. The new message is in that folder, so I click it.
None of these messages seem to be about fantasy football. Briefly skimming all the names and subject lines I see a lot from Aaron Elman, but there are others, too. Smaller clients of Dunbar Foster responding to a vague, “Have you thought more about what we talked about?” message Ryan sent them first.
That seems fishy. Why keep them in a dummy folder? The Swanson email is in this folder now so Ryan must have checked it and rerouted it after I read it. I click it again to see the new messages on the thread. Ryan answered back, “Not yet. I have to move carefully with him. It’s complicated. He likes Foster.”
Aaron wrote back, “So make him NOT like Foster.”
My eyes narrow on the screen. Ryan types back, “Working on it,” and Aaron responds one more time with, “Keep me posted.”
Working on it?
That feeling of dread settles in my gut again as I sit back in my computer chair and stare vacantly at the screen, trying to piece together what I read in a way that doesn’t sound like subterfuge. It can’t be. That would be crazy. For one thing, how could anyone be stupid enough to discuss something like that in their work email? Sure, he’s being vague, but not vague enough if my suspicions are aroused and I’ve only worked here for four days.
Feeling the need to dig a little deeper, I open the Swanson folder to see what he and Ryan have been talking about in their most recent emails.
Ryan’s last response is, “That’s too bad. You know Foster though, such a workaholic. Work smarter not harder, I say! When it comes to my favorite client, there’s always time. I’d love to catch a show with you this weekend if you’re still free.”
I narrow my eyes at the screen, scrolling up and reading the rest of the emails. Apparently, Evan asked Foster to see a Broadway show with him and his boyfriend this weekend, but Foster’s schedule didn’t allow for it. Now Ryan is trying to weasel his way in.
I bet this is part of his “I’m working on it” plan. Sour Evan on Foster and ingratiate himself… but why?
I don’t know exactly what to make of all this, but I know who will.
I guess it’s a good thing Ryan never gives me any real work to do, because it means I have all the time in the world to print off every last email in his “fantasy football” folder and slip each one into a pretty, color-coded file folder to present to Mr. Foster.
Once I have everything I need, I poke my head into Ryan’s office. Shooting him a hopeful smile, I ask, “Everything going okay?”
Nodding impatiently, he says, “Yep.”
“Can I get you anything?”
His gaze drifts lower to my cleavage—which makes him a bit nicer—and he offers back a tired smile. “Another cup of coffee would be amazing.”
With an indulgent giggle, I assure him I can take care of that for him, then I go grab him a cup of coffee to keep him from leaving his office while I’m away. When I come back, I poke my head in and ask if he’d mind if I take an early lunch. I start boring him to tears telling him about my friend Betsy and the terrible time she’s having with her boyfriend, how she needs a little girl time.
Ryan can’t bear to feign interest a moment longer and can’t get me out of there fast enough. I shoot him a grateful smile, tell him, “You’re the best!” and head back to my desk.
Then I gather up my files full of all the incriminating emails, slide my purse strap over my shoulder, and make my way toward Mr. Foster’s office.
It’s my fourth day at Dunbar Foster and this is only the second time I’ve been to his office. The first time Foster brought me himself so there was no gatekeeper, but today when I go to see him, I have to wait for his assistant to let me in. She doesn’t socialize with the other assistants much. There seems to be a clear hierarchy that sets her above the rest of them even though they share the same job title. She’s older and more serious, the kind of woman who looks like she’s been passed over for promotion one time too many and now she’s permanently pissed off.
Personally, I think Foster should have a friendlier assistant. Someone more like me. But maybe on a subconscious level, I also just feel a little jealous that she gets to spend so much time with him each day while I have to settle with glimpses from my desk as he strides through the office with purpose, or meetings where I get to hear that incredible voice of his.
Shaking off my fruitless mooning, I look up as the assistant calls out, “Mr. Foster will see you now.”
Straightening my skirt and clutching the files against my chest, I thank her with a polite smile and make my way into his office. It’s all glass walls so there’s no real privacy, but I’m pretty sure everyone at this company has already written me off as a ditz—they won’t expect me to be in here stirring up any trouble. If anything, they’d expect to find me under his desk with his cock in my mouth—and I’m sure that despite the strictly enforced no-fraternization policy, they would all know better than to pay any attention to that.
Foster’s gaze travels down over my body in a quick perusal before landing back on my face. “Can I help you with something, Miss Parker?”
Stepping forward and closing the door behind me so no one overhears us, I tell him, “Actually, I think I may be able to help you.”
Curiosity flickers across his handsome features. He leans back in his chair, interlacing his fingers and resting them over his taut abdomen. “Really? How so?”
I approach his desk, dropping my file folders and opening the top one. “This is an email I intercepted today between Ryan Wilkes and someone named Aaron Elman. Any idea who that might be?”
Foster’s perfect lips curve up, an unmistakable glint of amusement in his gorgeous blue eyes. “Intercepted? Are we in a spy movie, Miss Parker?”
I shoot him a look to let him know I don’t appreciate being made fun of, but otherwise, I ignore his comment and pass him the printout. “It sounds like they’re d
iscussing something shady. Something disloyal.”
The amusement I saw a split second ago flickers, giving way to interest. He sits forward again, his posture no longer making it clear he regards my presence as playtime. “What do you mean?” he murmurs, sliding the paper closer and directing his gaze to the text.
I give him a moment to read it, then I go on. “I think Ryan Wilkes is up to something. I found a dummy folder in his email and it’s full of messages like these. I printed all of them off for you, just in case he catches on and deletes them. Some are from Dunbar Foster clients expressing interest in some vague…” I take a breath and let it out, looking him directly in the eye. “It sounds like he’s trying to poach clients. It sounds like he plans to leave and he’s hoping he can undermine you and take Evan Swanson with him.”
Foster doesn’t say anything right away. He spends a few minutes going through the emails I organized for him. With each message he skims and sets aside, the irritation on his face escalates.
Once he’s read all of them, he does what he did the other day when I was in his office—suddenly ignores me. It’s hard not to feel a little annoyed by his drifting attention, but I shake it off. He’s typing something on his computer, so maybe he’s not intentionally ignoring me, just checking into something or contacting someone from the emails I gave him.
Suddenly breaking the silence, he asks, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
My eyes widen and my stomach drops. “Uh… me? Nothing.”
He cocks an eyebrow and regards me as if unconvinced. “It’s Friday night and you have no plans?”
My cheeks warm under his scrutiny. I shrug my shoulders. “I wasn’t sure what my first work week would be like. I thought it would be busier and I would be exhausted so I wanted to give myself time to relax if I needed to.”
His amused gaze drifting back to my face, he asks dryly, “And are you exhausted, Miss Parker?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I can definitely come in this weekend and help you ferret out the extent of Ryan’s duplicity.”
Tales of Darkness & Sin: An Anthology Page 30