She giggles, as I hoped. “I was actually hoping you’d spoil me like you usually do and give the charity their checkandgo make the dinner happen.”
“You can consider the check in the mail.”
She doesn’t bring up Thomas and dinner again, thankfully.
After filling me in on school, friends, and her dating life (at which I enjoy making fun of the millennial, tight-jeans-wearing hipsters she dates), Liz says good-bye, and we hang up.
Before I can even put my phone down, it lights up again, blaring the standard phone setting ringtone.Thomas.First the office and now my personal number. Which I don’t recall ever giving him.The fact that he doesn’t have his own ringtone shows how little I think of him. For a second, I think of Liz and her belief that one day, we’ll all get along. That maybe Thomas and I can one day look back on all the animosity of our childhood and laugh.
Then I get real and silence the call.
As if sensing my morose mood, Mike the Sphynx jumps onto my lap, his sharp claws making sure my dick is incapable of sprouting wood anytime soon.
“Fuck,” I gasp as he settles down, his wrinkly skin covered in one of the cat shirts I got him. Buffalo plaid flannel. Thought I’d try to butch him up a bit, the poor dude. I’d planned on getting him studded leather but decided that would scream more Village People than badass. Plus, flannel is warmer for the little bag of skin.
My head falls back on the top of the couch, and I close my eyes. The day started with such promise. And yet here I am, on my couch, alone, with an injured dick, petting my hairless pussy.
Awesome.
ELEVEN
Bell
If you dosomething as ill-advised as getting yourself off on your new client’s trousers, you’d think you’d have a hard time sleeping.
Not me.
I woke up refreshed and satisfied before embarrassment and shame brought me back to reality. The combined feelings brought on a sense of déjà vu.
I pushed those feelings down, ordered room service, and worked remotely from my hotel room like a coward. I also put the Do Not Disturb sign on my door and called the front desk to have them send all my calls to voicemail.
I was mad at myself. I knew better. A woman makes one misstep, opens herself up for any ridicule, and she loses all credibility in business. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. But it is what it is. My past is proof of that. A past that I thought I’d put behind me.
But here is the funny thing about the past—it doesn’t like to stay buried.
This is made clear two days after the elevator incident when I walk into the sixth-floor board room at Moore’s ready for the meeting between the current marketing firm and my team.
Chase warned me that he’d ousted some of the ‘old regime’ as he put it, when he took over operations from his father. He also mentioned that there are still some left who aren’t thrilled with the young Moore’s new way of running things. Like the marketing firm still under contract.
I was prepared for that. I’ve been through this before, with marketing companies that never expanded their knowledge toward new online forums and social media sites. Companies still stuck focusing on paper ads and television commercials alone.
I spent the last two days avoiding Chase while honing my team’s plan, designing ad mock-ups to entice age demographics Moore’s is currently failing, and planning social media feed image bursts with the help of Alice’s floor display ideas. I know the proposal inside and out, prepared for any questions thrown at me or my team.
What I’m not prepared for is my past to come crashing so thoroughly into my present and future.
“I know you,” a beautiful but severe-looking woman says when I step up to the long, oval table.
I know her too. I pause, taking in the familiar blond hair that probably costs hundreds of dollars a month in upkeep, the classic French-tipped fingers steepled in front of her, and the expensive mahogany leather attaché case embossed with her initials placed in the middle of the table, encroaching on everyone’s space.
I catch myself humming “Devil in Disguise,” disguising the noise by clearing my throat. “Yes, you do” is all I say, giving myself a moment to come to terms with this unwelcome surprise. I’ve researched Warren and Baron. Their clients, both past and present. Their outdated strategies. But I hadn’t thought to ask for a list of names on the team assigned to the Moore’s campaign. Because if I’d seen the name Denise Hampson anywhere, I would have prepared.
I take a seat next to Alice, who’s looking equal parts eager and nauseous. Kind of how I’m feeling after seeing Denise, though hopefully I’m doing a better job of hiding it.
Chris is on the other side of me going over our presentation on his laptop, with Ben leaning in on his other side.
I’m thankful I took care with my appearance today, wearing a suit I brought from Texas and not one of the newly acquired outfits from Moore’s. It’s more masculine in style—a hunter green fitted, double-breasted jacket and flat front slacks. The trousers have a shorter hem, showcasing my lone pair of Manolo Blahniks. The shoes I wear on big occasions to make me feel strong.
Men have power ties. Women? Power shoes.
