As far as how the murder investigation is going… well, the police have officially charged Kylie Rutherford with the murder of her husband. A bail hearing has been postponed pending psychiatric assessment due to the way she behaved after the murder. The cops finished all their crime scene investigating late last week and advised us that the bungalow was no longer a restricted area. I’m still not letting anyone stay there yet, if ever. Link and I agreed that only senior staff are to have access to it, and we got a specialist cleaning team out from Jacksonville on Friday to scrub the place from top to bottom. This week I’m (reluctantly) allowing guests to use the bungalows on either side, although I insist that the guests be advised before they check in that their bungalow is next door to a murder scene and offered alternate accommodation if they prefer. I need to decide soon if I’m going to bulldoze it.
So things are pretty much back on track. This week should be normal—the monthly status meeting is this morning, and that’s going to be a bit of a trial, since last week hit the budget hard, but we’re enough into the black that we can handle it. Then I also have to meet with Toby and Elise from evarketing about next year’s plan for the park. They seem to have been hard at work for the last week, so fingers crossed they’ll have something exciting to show me.
And I need to sneak out and meet up with Trav as often as possible. Because I can.
I SETTLE into one of the comfy chairs around the conference table in the boardroom and reach for my coffee. These meetings are pretty dull. Anything that comes up that is out of the ordinary usually calls for a special meeting, so all we do at the monthly status meeting is review the budget and anything that might need to be tweaked in the operating plan—which most of us are aware of before the meeting. Not Ken, though, since he never reads any of the information we send him. Today should be no exception.
Grant sits beside me and leans over with a smirk on his face. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of interesting things about you,” he murmurs.
The stupid grin spreads across my face. I can’t help it; every time I even think about Trav, it blindsides me.
“What kind of things?” I stall for time. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Grant about Trav, but first I need to make sure he’s not just trying to get fodder for the betting pool. And before you can judge him based on that—that’s what I’d do.
I mean, he’s not to know that things between me and Trav are more than casual. Why shouldn’t he think it’s all lighthearted and fun, and a great way to make some extra cash?
“Things like you have a hot dancer keeping you company.”
Yeah. That’s true.
“And that every time someone talks about him, you look like a drooling moron.”
“Hey!” Damn it, someone needs to gag Gina. Across the room where the assistants are talking—likely exchanging gossip—Dimi looks up and casts me a guilty glance.
Maybe not Gina, then.
“How much are you paying Dimi to feed you information?” I ask tartly, and Grant laughs.
“Please, like Dimi would tell me anything that wasn’t already public knowledge. I offered him a hundred bucks to tell me when your next date is, and he refused.”
Possibly because he doesn’t know. Trav and I have already moved beyond the initial stage of dating formally, and now we’re just spending all our free time together.
Fast, right?
“So this guy is something special?” Grant presses, and damn it, the grin is back. I’ve really gotta work on that.
“Yeah.”
Ken strolls in then, five minutes late as usual. He takes his seat at the head of the conference table as the assistants scurry to take their seats at the other end. Yeah, that’s right, Ken won’t let our assistants sit with us, even though that’s obviously where they’d be of most use. Just another douchey thing he does.
The meeting is as boring as I expected—until Ken turns to me and says, “Report on the events of last week, Derek.”
Lucky for me, I was prepared for him to ask, and luckier still, I’ve been thinking about this shit so much that I could talk about it in my sleep. I run down exactly what happened, what actions we took, how much it cost, and what the situation is at the moment. He’s actually got all of this information—remember, I was supposed to report to him until it was all resolved? I have been, of course, or rather Dimi’s been preparing the reports and I’ve been signing off on them. But I told you he never reads them.
It’s probably a good thing to let the other ADs know how I handled the situation, though, in the event that it comes up again and they find themselves in the same position. It’s always better to reuse a tried-and-true process than forge a new one by the seat of your pants. God knows I would have loved to be able to use someone else’s expertise when it all went down. I actually see Margo and Grant taking notes, which I appreciate.
“And what effect has this had on profit?” Ken asks sternly, as if I’ve done something wrong.
I grimace, making sure I look downcast even though I want to smirk. It’s not good news, but it kind of is. “I met with accounting late last week, and we are definitely going to take a substantial hit. The forecast we did in December indicated a 5 percent increase on profit for April over this time last year. We had, of course, hoped to substantially beat that, and all indications year to date were pointing in that direction, but accounting thinks, and I agree, that the month will likely only show a 2-3 percent increase in profit over last year.” I keep my face absolutely neutral as my words fall into the silence. That’s right, people; that’s how it’s done in my district. Casting a glance down the table, I see that Dimi is also resolutely straight-faced, while the other assistants look like someone just smacked them.
Grant clears his throat beside me. “Can I clarify, please… you had two major crises within a few hours, which led to a large amount of unplanned additional expenditure, blowing out your weekly budget by”—he glances at the notepad in front of him—“nearly 15 percent, but the result is that you’re not only still posting a profit, but an increase on last year’s profit?” He says it as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if I haven’t just pulled off the feat of the fucking century, but when I look at him there’s laughter in his eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
This is why Grant and I get along so well. It would look really dickish for me to make a big deal about this, so he’s going to rub it in everyone’s faces for me.
“That’s right,” I say simply, restraining myself from jumping up on the table and doing a victory dance. However, I can’t help adding, “It’s not an ideal result, but it’s better than some of the alternatives.” I keep my smile under wraps. Not an ideal result, my ass. I know for a fact that at least one of the other districts will be barely posting a profit this month, much less an improvement on last year’s, and things have been all smooth sailing for them.
“It’s an outstanding result,” Ken says, and I turn my head so fast that my neck cracks and I swear I give myself whiplash. If everyone was surprised before, there’s no word to describe the level of stunned they are now. Ken doesn’t give compliments. Not ever. If he says “good job,” it’s the equivalent of any other boss getting down on their knees and worshipping you. My “not ideal, but better than alternatives” comment was taken from something he said in a past meeting where the situation was a hell of a lot better than what happened last week.
I literally do not know what to think. Is he drunk? Or maybe he’s having a stroke? That causes unusual behavior, right? Should I do one of those FAST tests?
I suddenly realize he’s looking at me expectantly. Right, I haven’t said anything. I should say something. Humble and appreciative, Derek. You can do it. Then maybe ask medical to check on him.
“Thank you, Ken. The team worked hard to make it happen. This is a real credit to them.” I mentally pat myself on the back. Perfect.
“And to you,” he says, and really, is he a doppelganger? Did aliens land
over the weekend and do something to him? “As you know, one of our primary focuses here at Joy Universe is the guest experience. We spend a lot of money on things that bring no direct revenue”—he’s right about that, the nightly fireworks display being a great example—“purely because they add to the overall guest experience. Derek’s expenditure last week was so large it frankly would have sent some of the other districts well into the red for the month, but PR sent me the customer satisfaction index, and in Derek’s district, it dropped only one point. That is so unexpected as to be shocking.”
While I’m sitting there with my mouth hanging open—although the small inner part of me that’s still able to function is doing a jig, because I was scared to look at the CSI this morning, just in case all my effort was for nothing—he picks up his tablet and taps the screen.
“One of the guests who checked out of Tiki over the weekend left this comment on their feedback survey: ‘My sister called and told me there had been a murder in my hotel. I didn’t know. The staff obviously did a brilliant job of making sure it didn’t affect us. Good job, Tiki Island Resort and Joy Universe—we came here to get away from the real world, and you made sure that happened.’” He taps the screen again while I make a mental note to find that survey and ensure it gets to Link and his team. “PR also got an email from a woman who visited Planet Joy last Monday. ‘We were disappointed when we found out the Joy versus the Asteroid Monster show had been canceled for the morning. Our day had been planned very carefully, and that ruined it. Linnie at Information helped us rearrange our schedule so we still did everything we wanted to. It was also really nice to get free refreshments as an apology without even having to make a complaint—it shows that Planet Joy actually does care whether we have a good time, and not just that we paid for our tickets.’”
I actually know who Linnie is—Don has her earmarked for a managerial position as soon as she gets a bit more experience under her belt. It’s great to have our confidence in her reinforced.
I’m pretty sure I need to say something again, but I’m kind of at a loss. Ken’s never done this—not just the compliment, but passing on positive feedback. Normally if customer feedback is shared in this meeting, it’s of the “how do we keep this person from suing” type.
“I’ll pass that on,” I say finally. “The staff worked really hard to keep things operating smoothly, and they’ll be thrilled to know how successful they were.” There. That sounded reasonably intelligent.
“I spoke with corporate this morning,” Ken went on, because he’s still not done. What the hell is going on? “They’re very pleased that things have turned out so well. Of course, it’s not good that JU has been linked to a murder, but I suppose you can’t be blamed for that.”
And he’s back. That’s right, Ken, I can’t be blamed for the murder. Around the table, there’s a slight shift, a sense of relief and relaxation. I don’t think I was the only one completely thrown by Ken’s weird personality shift.
“They also said”—oh, he’s not done. Really? When will this end?—“that they’d like a full analysis report submitted to them. They’re keen to see how your process can be applied to future crises across the business.”
I wait for a few seconds, but he finally seems to be finished. “Not a problem,” I tell him. It isn’t, since Dimi and I have been diligently documenting and reporting on everything for the past week—which Ken would know if he ever read the reports we send him. By the way, when he says “corporate,” he means Malcolm Joy and Seth Holder, the nephews of our late founder, Edwin Joy, and Joy Inc.’s CEO and CFO, respectively. Ken reports directly to Malcolm, although I’m pretty sure if Seth ever gave him an order, he wouldn’t say no. “I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the day.” It will mean rearranging some things and working through lunch—since there’s no way in hell I’m going to work late tonight—but since we have the bones of the analysis and all the information ready, it’s doable.
Ken nods curtly, and then gets up and strides out in his usual meeting dismissal. His assistant scurries after him, and the rest of us sit there for a moment trying to pull ourselves back together.
“Well,” Margo says finally. “That was the weirdest status meeting I’ve ever been to.” Since she’s been attending these meetings for about eight years, that’s really saying something. “Was he high, do you think?”
Grant, who was sipping from his water bottle, chokes while the rest of us laugh. I pound him on the back.
It’s a good day.
I MAKE it home about half an hour before Trav is due to come over. That’s a little later than I planned, but still gives me plenty of time to get dinner started. I thought about going out somewhere, but yesterday while we were having brunch, Trav said the food was almost as good as homemade, and then it came out that he misses home cooking. I’d never thought about it, but I guess the performers at the village do get the rough end of the stick in that regard—they have to live for months out of a hotel room with no kitchen. Sure, they get discounted meals at all the excellent JU restaurants and eateries, but eating out can become tiresome after a while.
So tonight I have plain, at-home food on the menu. Trav doesn’t eat heavy food except as the occasional treat, since he has to be in good shape for his job. Really good shape. Like, his abs are amazing. I tried to think of a meal that isn’t boring, but also isn’t complicated and fattening, and boy, it was hard. In the end I settled on lemon-pepper steak, roasted Mediterranean vegetables with brown rice, and salad. For dessert we’re having fresh fruit with Greek yogurt and honey. Simple and healthy, but pretty damn yum—well, I think so, anyway.
I hadn’t realized until now, but I’m actually nervous. How dumb is that? I just want everything to be perfect tonight. I want Trav to be delighted by the meal, even if it is nothing special. I want our first time together to be all moonlight and roses and that other romantic crap you see in Hollywood movies, many of which are made by Joy Inc. And I want this to be the beginning of something important.
Wow. That’s a bit intense. Sorry. I forget sometimes that people aren’t interested in hearing my innermost thoughts and feelings.
Anyway, I get started on dinner. The veg needs the longest to cook, while the steak doesn’t need to go on until Trav arrives. I open a bottle of wine too. Trav doesn’t drink a lot, but he mentioned the other night that he’s particularly partial to several reds. Maybe I went out and bought one of his favorites. It’s a special night, after all.
By the time the doorbell rings, I’m back in control of myself and my runaway emotions and fears. I’ll bet you’re glad—I know I am. I open the door, and that stupid smile pops out. I can’t help it—Trav looks edible. Normally when I see him, he’s in sweats and a T-shirt—after all, he spends a lot of time either rehearsing or in costume. Otherwise, his “uniform” seems to be jeans and—you guessed it—a T-shirt. Tonight, though, he must have dug into the bottom of his suitcase, because he’s wearing chinos and a collared shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. It’s a mint-green color that really flatters his eyes. I wonder if that’s why he chose it. Probably, right? I mean, that’s why I chose the shirt I’m wearing.
I hope he notices that the cornflower-blue cotton makes my eyes look awesome.
“Hey.” I lean forward and kiss him, partly because I’ve really missed him over the past thirtyish hours and partly just because his lips are right there, looking all soft and pink and inviting.
“Hi,” he says when we finally pull back from the kiss. I had intended for it to be just a light hello peck, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell. Trav’s face is slightly flushed now, just the way I like it. I smile at him—thankfully not that stupid goofball smile—and step back, gesturing for him to come in.
I close the door and turn around. He’s studying my house avidly—well, what he can see of it. He hasn’t been here yet, and I have to admit I feel a little thrill about getting to show it off. That’s why I spe
nt most of yesterday afternoon cleaning. Not that it was dirty to begin with—I have a weekly cleaning lady—but I’d let it get a bit untidy since I didn’t spend much time at home last week.
There’s a gift bag hanging from one of his hands.
“What’s that?” I point. He blushes.
“Nothing, really. Just… my mom always made a big deal about not going to someone’s place for dinner empty-handed.” He hands me the bag while I fight back the urge to say “awwww.” He looks vaguely embarrassed and a little flustered as I take it and peer inside.
There’s a bottle of wine and a small box of gourmet chocolates, and I smile and start to thank him—but my eye is caught by something else. It’s mostly under the chocolates, but it looks like…. I reach into the bag and push the chocolates aside as Trav groans and mutters something. Excitement coils low in my abdomen, and my dick goes partly hard.
Because it’s a brand-new tube of lube.
It’s not that it’s a surprise, exactly. We both knew what the plans were for tonight—hell, I checked that I had supplies before I left for work this morning. But him buying lube and giving it to me as a gift feels like a declaration. It makes me feel special, like I’m worth the effort he went to.
Here I go again, talking about feelings. Sigh, right?
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