by Lola StVil
I called the company and got put through to the owner, who introduced himself as Franklin Ludlow. We chatted for a bit, and he invited me to come in for an interview. My interview is this morning.
I spent the rest of the day excited; not about the interview, but about Falcon and what we would do when he got home that evening. I pictured him walking through the door, throwing his briefcase down with one hand and ripping his tie away with the other hand like the old days. I imagined him kissing me deeply, throwing me down on the living room floor because he couldn’t bear to wait another minute.
I imagined him licking my pussy, making me climax, and then fucking me hard and fast, making me his all over again. The thoughts kept me dripping wet, and I debated going to lie down and touch myself, but I decided to hold off. I wanted to spend the day teasing myself, waiting for Falcon.
I got a text message from him at ten thirty apologizing and saying I should eat when I was ready because he would be a good few hours. I don’t know what time he got in, but I was already asleep when he came home, having lost the battle with my eyes around 2 a.m.
To say the atmosphere over breakfast was tense this morning would be an understatement. I tried to let it go, to be a good wife, but I was starting to get sick of coming in second place to his damn job. We didn’t fight; we didn’t talk enough to fight, but the easy chatter, the laughter that usually existed between us, wasn’t there.
It felt like I was losing him, and the thought made my heart ache. I didn’t tell him about the interview. It would have only made the situation worse. Part of me thinks I should have called it off. I already feel like he’s slipping away from me, but I have to do this. I don’t want to lose Falcon, but I don’t want to lose myself either, and right now, I’m on a precipice, in danger of plunging over and losing myself for good.
It surprises me when I feel tears coming to my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I didn’t spend two hours getting ready for my interview to go in there a crying mess with mascara stains down my face. I tell myself to get a grip. Falcon is my soul mate, and I am his. I’m not losing him—we’re just in a strange place, but we’ll get through it. We can get through anything together. He told me that the first time we had sex.
He told me that once it happened, there was no going back. That I would be his forever, and that there was nothing we couldn’t face together. I cling to that thought and take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. So Falcon is busy. That’s nothing new. Once he figures out whatever drama is going down, he’ll be focused on our marriage again, and by then, I might just have a job, and I’ll have something to bring to the conversation, something to talk to him about, a way to connect with him on some common ground.
Or maybe there will be another drama. There’s always another drama, another reason for him to go to the office instead of to our bed.
I step into the lobby of Magnet. It’s a modern building, all minimalist with expensive art hanging on the walls. The lobby is relatively busy, with people coming and going to the various businesses within the structure. I look around and spot a restroom, and I slip inside.
I have a little bit of time to kill, and I want to make sure I look my best for the interview. I am wearing a black, high-waisted pencil skirt with a white blouse, a simple yet elegant look that can’t let me down in an office environment. My black stilettos nip my littlest toes slightly, but I can ignore that. They finish the outfit off well enough that the nipping pain is worth it.
I look at myself in the mirror. I run a comb through my hair and check my teeth for lipstick. They are clear. I put my comb back in my purse and look myself in the eye in the mirror.
“You’ve got this, Elle. Knock ’em dead,” I say to myself.
It’s what Falcon used to tell me before he got all paranoid about me leaving the house. I mean, I understand why he worries. Who wouldn’t after what happened to his mom? But he never used to let it affect our relationship. He used to be able to rein it in. But I think now I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for so long, the thought of him letting go a little bit scares him a lot more than it used to. I’ll just have to show him I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.
I leave the bathroom and head to the large desk that dominates the lobby.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks, beaming.
“I have an interview with Franklin Ludlow. Elle Morris,” I say.
“Third floor, Ms. Morris,” she says, her smile not slipping for even a second.
Is this really my world? Can I fit in here?
I thank her and head for the elevators. I ride up to the third floor and step out into a plushly carpeted reception area. Behind the reception desk, an open-plan office sprawls. It’s loud, and everyone here seems young. Younger than me. The generation that embraces technology, embraces change. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m entirely out of my depth. I don’t even fucking know what multimedia solutions are or what problems they solve.
I turn to leave, but I’m too late. The woman sitting behind the reception desk noticed me, and I made accidental eye contact with her. If I go now, I’ll have to explain why.
“Elle?” she says.
Dammit. Now there’s no escape. Okay, I’ll go in there, make myself look like a fucking dinosaur, and leave. No harm, no foul.
I nod. “Yes,” I say.
She stands up.
“Right this way. Franklin will see you now,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“He’s seeing me himself? I thought HR would be conducting the interview,” I say.
She shakes her head as we walk along a snaking corridor, past offices with glass doors. The people within sit at desks, talking on phones or typing furiously.
“No. Franklin conducts all of his interviews himself. He’s pretty hands on.”
There is something strange about the way she says it, but I tell myself I’m being stupid. Of course there isn’t. She looks around and lowers her voice.
“Between you and me, HR is practically nonexistent here.”
There it is again. That strange tone. She seems to catch herself saying too much, and she laughs. A laugh that sounds forced.
“It’s a good job. We all get along and don’t really have grievances,” she says.
I relax. She’s just making a joke. I need to get a fucking grip. Technology might not be my jam, but people are, and I don’t like to think I might be losing my touch of reading them.
We reach the end of the corridor, coming to a stop in front of a door with a sign that reads Franklin Ludlow, CEO. His office is the only one that’s not glass fronted, and I don’t get a chance to size him up like I hoped I would when I saw the other offices.
The secretary taps on the door. I hear a muffled “come in,” and she pushes the door open.
“I have Elle Morris for you,” she says.
“Send her in,” Franklin replies.
The secretary stands back and smiles at me. She pushes the door open wider and makes a gesture at me to enter. I nod my thanks to her and step in. Franklin Ludlow’s office is very different from the rest of the space. The space has clean, crisp lines—it’s monochrome, modern. This office has dark oak paneling and a thick red carpet. It screams old school, and it screams money.
Like Franklin himself. He looks to be in his mid-forties, and he is immaculately groomed. His suit shouts money.
He stands up as I go in. The door closes behind me, and I jump a little. Franklin extends his hand, and I shake it. His palm is a bit sweaty, but he has a good grip. Not too firm but certainly not limp.
“Thank you for coming. Please take a seat,” he says.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Ludlow,” I say as I sit down.
“Franklin,” he says. “We don’t have all those formalities here.”
I nod. Franklin walks around to my side of his desk and sits down on the edge of it. He looks me up and down, not even trying to be subtle. I clear my t
hroat, uncomfortable under his gaze. He smiles warmly.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I like to have a proper look at a candidate before I interview them. You can tell a lot about a person based on their choice of an interview outfit. Don’t you agree?”
He goes back to his chair behind the desk, and I relax a little. I remind myself he’s old school, and I nod mutely. His eyes mostly seemed to focus on my legs, and I want to tell him they won’t tell him whether or not I can do this job, but I bite my tongue.
“So you said on the telephone that this will be your first job. Excuse the bluntness, but I expected you to be straight out of college.”
I was expecting this question, although a less blunt version, but I can deal with blunt.
“I didn’t go to college,” I say. “I chose to stay home and raise my children.”
“So why now?” he asks. “Divorced?”
“No,” I say, shocked at the personal question. “My girls are old enough to fend for themselves a little now, and I want to do something for my own personal development.”
His eyes linger on my breasts a moment too long before he looks at my face and smiles warmly. I really don’t know how to take him at all. On the one hand, his questions are probing, personal, and his eyes are most definitely wandering. But on the other hand, he seems warm and friendly. I did a bit of research yesterday on interview techniques, and I came across a rather gross method where the interviewer purposely tries to make the interviewee feel uncomfortable to see how they will react. Maybe he’s trying that. If he is, it’s certainly working.
“So what you’re telling me is that you have zero experience?” he says.
Again I was expecting this, but I was expecting it wrapped in some sort of disguise. I decided to follow his lead and be blunt.
“No. What I’m telling you is I’ve spent the last fourteen years bringing up two children and running a house. I’ve learned time management skills. I’ve learned people skills, and I have learned how to stay calm in a crisis. I’ve learned to negotiate with people. I’ve learned to put my foot down when it needs to be done, and quite honestly, I’ve learned not to take any shit from anyone.”
I wonder if I said too much, but he grins and nods.
“I like that,” he says. “I have three myself, so I get it. Negotiating with those tiny terrorists is much harder than negotiating business deals.”
I feel myself relax a little and I laugh.
“Yes. I just can’t imagine which way a banana is sliced being a huge issue in the business world.”
He laughs with me, and then he gets serious again.
“So here’s my problem, Elle. I like you, and I think you have a fire in your belly. I want to give you a chance. But as you can imagine, the receptionist at my company isn’t the moneymaker, and you’re completely new to this whole world. I can’t afford to waste my time training a receptionist. You understand that, right?”
I nod and start to stand up.
“I do. Thank you for your time,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re giving up that quickly?” he says.
“I’m not going to beg for a job,” I say, but I let myself fall back into the seat.
“I wouldn’t expect you to. You look like the sort of woman who knows what she wants. And exactly how to get it, and I can’t imagine you ever have to beg for it.” He smiles.
I get the feeling we’re talking about something else now. His words give me the creeps, but his smile isn’t, and I tell myself to stop reading too much into this. Falcon’s paranoia must be starting to rub off on me.
“What I’m thinking is a solution that might be beneficial to both of us,” he says.
“I’m listening,” I say.
“I do need a receptionist, but I can find one of those who is experienced and can walk into the job tomorrow. I also need a salesperson, and that’s not something you can teach. A salesperson has to have an air of confidence and a look about them that makes people like them. I think you have those things. And the sales team is where my focus is. I would be happy to give you a trial in sales.”
I debate it. I’ve never considered working in sales. Maybe I could be good at it, but I don’t know if it’s something I would enjoy. It’s a job though, and it would give me enough experience to make a sideways leap in a year’s time. There’s only one problem with it, and I again choose to level with Franklin.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But the thing is, well, I don’t actually know what a multimedia solution is.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
“Oh, Elle, who does?” he says. “It’s just jargon. And you have nothing to worry about. You wouldn’t have to do any of the setups or run any of the accounts. You’d have to memorize the sales scripts, of course, but the majority of sales isn’t about selling a product. It’s about selling yourself. Make the person like you, they buy from you. It’s really that simple. And you would be given training. So what do you say?”
It’s all moving so fast. I’m pretty sure he just offered me a job. This would have been the perfect outcome in my mind coming into this, but now I feel flustered, like I have no real idea what I would be agreeing to.
“I—” I start.
“Your starting salary would be seventy five thousand plus benefits, and you’d be working on five percent commission. Hit your sales target for the month, and anything above and beyond that gets you seven percent.”
I feel myself nodding. The job isn’t about the money or the benefits, but suddenly, I realize it kind of is. The salary is part of it. It’s knowing that I am making a decent living, that I can be financially independent if I want to be.
The salary is pocket change compared to what Falcon earns, but it’s enough of a salary to make him sit up and take notice. It’s a salary that says I am doing a real job, something worthwhile, not just make work. Not just a hobby job, but a real career.
“When do I start?” I grin.
Franklin grins back at me, a predatory look that makes me look away from him. I look back, and his smile is normal.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Elle? You have to stop seeing the world as a dangerous trap. You’re not Falcon.
“Give Sandra your details on the way out, and I’ll get the contract faxed over to you this afternoon. You can start on Monday.”
I raise an eyebrow. It’s Friday today, and it doesn’t give me much time to prepare myself.
“What?” Franklin says. “Is that too short of a notice? Because if you work here, Elle, I expect a certain level of commitment.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “I just thought I’d need some training first.”
It’s a lie, but suddenly, I want this job more than anything. It seems I have something to prove to both Falcon and Franklin.
“You’ll get your training on the job. You’ll shadow me for at least two weeks, and then we’ll assess whether you’re ready to go it alone.”
He stands up and extends his hand, making it clear the interview is over. I stand up and shake his hand. He holds my hand for a second too long.
“See you on Monday, Elle. Remember, you’ll be selling yourself, so make sure you look as good as you do right now.”
I nod, blushing as I head for the door. I have a bad feeling about this, but I can’t back out the second it gets tough. I can handle Franklin’s bad flirting for two weeks, and I’ll make damn sure I’m good enough at selling to be set free at the end of that time.
CHAPTER FOUR
FALCON
By seven o’clock on Friday night, I finally managed to put an end to the latest crisis at work. Now I have to go home and put an end to the crisis with my wife. I handled the situation about her wanting a job poorly, and then I topped that off by making her wet and running out on her.
It was fucking hard to concentrate when all I could think about was how wet her pussy was when I put my fingers in it. I was on the verge of an erection all day, my cock
doing my thinking for me, and by the time I got home, I was ready to go to town on Elle. Unfortunately, by the time I got back, it was just past 4 a.m., and she was already asleep. I debated waking her, but by then I was so tired I didn’t think I’d have it in me to do her body justice.
Then this morning at breakfast, I wanted to talk to her about what happened, to convince her that she was still my top priority, even if, at times, it didn’t feel that way to her. The whole talk of her getting a job threw me for a loop, and admittedly, I’m not handling it well at all. Instead of having the conversation I so badly wanted to have, I sat in brooding silence, unable to find the words to tell her I was sorry.
I’m going home now, and I’m gonna cook her dinner and try to make her see that this is killing me, that she has me all messed up. And hopefully, convince her not to do it. I can’t handle the thought of her out of the house, in danger every minute of every day. And I can’t help but wonder why she suddenly wants to do it now. She knows my feelings about her safety, and I can’t help but hear that nagging little voice in the back of my mind. The one that I try and fail to ignore because it’s telling me that Elle is doing this because she’s going to leave me. She wants some financial security before she goes.
The rational part of me knows that’s not true. She’s my wife, my one true love, and I know she feels the same about me, but the irrational part of my mind won’t leave me alone. It torments me. I think I will feel better once I talk to Elle, once I make her see this is a bad idea.
I pull into our driveway and go into the house. I am hit by the delicious smell of roasting meat. My stomach cramps and I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I hurry through to the kitchen. Elle stands with her back to me, stirring a large pot of potatoes. I go to her and wrap my arms around her waist. I kiss her neck, and she melts back against me with a contented sigh.
She turns her head, and I kiss her mouth, running my hands down her stomach. A hissing sound comes from the stove, and Elle shrieks as the potatoes boil over. I release her, and she stirs the pot, turning the gas down a little.