After Hours (2 page)

He sent her a look that could have withered a rose, but she only blinked back bored. She was not afraid of him.

“Did you get a chance to look at the proposal from the Peale House?” she asked, hoping to use a moment of weakness to catch his interest. Every year his company scrambled to find a charity to throw money at to use for a tax break.

“Shred it,” he said in a nasal voice as he held his nose.

Amera gripped her hands then flexed them, keeping her voice calm. “I’m sorry?”

“Or recycle it, if you prefer. That’s the tree hugging way to go, right?”

“That’s not funny.”

“When have I ever tried to be funny?”

“Did you even read it?” she asked fighting to keep her tone neutral. He didn’t know that she was the one behind it. “I--I mean--they--spent days creating that and--”

“I don’t give a damn how long they spent, they’re not saying anything new and--”

“The bleeding has stopped,” she cut in, staring at the ceiling and counting to ten.

“What?”

“The bleeding. It’s stopped,” she repeated, glancing at him then out the window.

Curtis looked down and grabbed another tissue just to make sure. Satisfied that she was correct, he threw the rest of the tissues away and sat back against the plush, black seats. “You’re a smart woman, I’m surprised they got to you.”

She turned to him. “Got to me?”

“Yes, the sob stories. Those people lay it on thicker during the holidays.”

“
Those
people?”

He nodded, indifferent to the icy chill of her tone. “But the song is the same. Show your weakness and people will take advantage of you. They come to me every year with the same lame project.”

“It’s not lame. They focus on children and housing and-- .”

“You’re missing the big picture. People think that just by putting an orphan in the picture makes something worthwhile. We’ve got free schools, free lunches, service programs all aimed at that population. Where has it gotten us? A lot of kids who feel the world now owes them a job and a good living. Hard work is the way to instill discipline and character. Not spoon feeding. They can use their adversity to make them strong.”

“That sounds great in theory, but in reality those free meals aren't always filled with balanced nutrition, those free schools don't always offer the best education, and the service programs get cut and kids then have to fend for themselves. They can end up in prison or on the streets.”

“Because they choose to.”

“No, because they're forced to.”

“Life always offers a choice.”

“Some people need an environment where they feel safe. Look at this.” Amera pulled out her tablet and showed him a video created by Peale House so that he could see some of the interior and exterior issues the money requested in the proposal would fix. The home consisted of a residential facility, where families and unattached individuals, including children, lived temporarily, until they found permanent housing. In the case of the children, either foster care or adoption. The remainder of the grounds was dedicated to providing services to newly arrived immigrants, especially those who had been granted asylum, where they were given training and skills to help them adjust to their new country. Peale House had become extremely popular with this population but was having a difficult time keeping up with the demand.

After watching two minutes of the video, he yawned then pointed to something. “Why isn’t she dancing?”

“Who?” Amera asked surprised by the question. The scene showed her friend, Florence Dean, discussing the good Peale House did and showed her standing in the main living area of the residential facility that desperately needed repairs.

Curtis paused the video then pointed to a little girl of about seven, sitting in the corner making circles with her finger on the floor. “She’s dressed in a tutu. Get her to dance next time and maybe I’ll be interested.”

Amera stopped the video and turned it off. “There’s hardly any place for her to move. They don’t have a designated play area and sometimes the kids play in the streets, which is very dangerous.”

“Kids play in the streets all the time. The smart ones get out of the way when they see a car coming.”

“It’s still not--.”

He sent her a hard look. “Have you gone deaf, Em?” he said using the nickname he’d given her years ago. “I said no.” His shifted his gaze to the cars whizzing past on the freeway. “Don’t put it on my desk again. I don’t like their numbers.”

“Their numbers?”

He tapped the back of his fingers against the window. “Are you a parrot now? Yes, the numbers.”

Amera resisted the urge to smash her tablet against the back of his head. She shifted her gaze to the window. This was her baby and for the past three years she’d tried to get him to consider it. She knew the amount they were asking for was pocket change to him, but he didn’t care. She glanced at the car trash bin filled with blood stained tissues. The color should be black instead of red, she thought. No, he wasn’t human. He was cold and callous, just like his father. She hated when she forgot that, but she wouldn’t next time.

“Do you know how many charities I donate to? If I funded everyone who asked, I’d have nothing left.”

Amera glanced at him, surprised he even felt the need to defend himself. The charities he donated to weren’t philanthropic decisions but business ones. The problem with Curtis was that he was smart. If he’d been charming, with no substance or ruthless without empathy, he wouldn't get under her skin. But there was something there. She hadn’t been able to identify it yet. She wasn't sure if it was his brilliance, his dedication to maintain what his father and grandfather had built or just her dogged determination that kept her. She knew he hadn’t made it to the top in his industry based on superficial flair or nepotism, the man was a wolverine with a brain of ferocious intellect.

He’d won the argument. He didn’t have to convince her of anything. He was the boss. He was the one with the money and the power. She couldn’t afford to forget that. He didn't have moments of weakness. His nosebleeds were just a nuisance, not a sign for compassion. She had to remember that also. She wondered why they always made her forget who he was. Especially because it was one of his nose bleeds that had gotten her the job in the first place.

“It's not going to be easy,” the head of Human Resources, Miranda Layton, had told Amera, her voice trembling a little, as she led her to Curtis’ office. Miranda was a brunette with tight lips who walked like a woman surrounded by a cloud of gnats. Her eyes darting from side to side in a distracted way, her hands moving with agitation to her neck and face at the oddest moments.

“I know,” Amera said, as she had the previous ten times Miranda had warned her.

Ms. Layton vaguely pointed to a small room off to the side. “You'll work there,” she said, then stopped in front of two large wooden doors, quickly tapped on one door then opened it as if she were afraid she’d lose courage and shoved Amera in front of her.

Curtis sat on his desk with his shirt partially open and his head held back, holding a tissue to his nose, another man stood over him undoing his shirt.

Miranda took a hasty step back, stumbling over her words. “I--I knocked but no one answered.”

The man unbuttoning his shirt froze, the one with the tissue surged to his feet. “What the hell do you want?”

“Your new executive assistant is here.”

“So what? Get out and close the door.”

Miranda backed up, tugging on Amera's sleeve and said in a low, frightened voice, “Let's go.”

Amera folded her arms, studying the scene with interest, as she stood in front of the door. “No, I’m ready to get to work.” If it was going to be both her first and last day she was going to enjoy it. Miranda didn’t argue. She sent Amera a nervous glance as if to say ‘it’s your funeral’ before she hurried out, as if the cloud of gnats had turned into a swarm of bees.

“It’s not what you think,” the other man said.

“I’m Amera Thurston.”

The man with the nosebleed turned his back to her and grabbed more tissues. “And I’m a man who really doesn’t give a damn.” He pressed the tissues to his nose and held his head back.

“I’m Owen DeWall,” the other man said, stretching out his hand. He had silver and black hair and an apologetic smile. “You can probably guess who he is.”

Amera nodded and quickly assessed the situation based on the blood she’d seen on Curtis’ shirt and Owen’s state of undress. “It won’t work.”

“What?” Owen asked.

“He got blood on his shirt and you’re going to give him yours. But it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

She marched over to Curtis and pressed his head forward. “You're doing it wrong. If you want a nosebleed to stop, you hold your head forward and allow the blood to congeal. The other way can make you sick.”

“Do I look like I feel the need for a lecture?” he said, but he kept his head down.

Owen held out his shirt. She shook her head. “I told you it won’t work. Put it back on.”

“It will work,” Curtis said reaching for it.

She moved the shirt out of reach. “It won't fit. You’re bigger than he is.”

“We’re about the same height.”

“Except that he has the body of a runner and you have the body of a--.” Her gaze swept over him as her mind searched frantically for the right words. Finding nothing suitable she said, “Your shoulders are too broad and your arms are long.”

“I don’t drag my knuckles along the ground, despite what you may have heard,” he said.

“I’ll come to my own conclusions,” she said in a dry tone. “I haven’t seen you walk yet.”

Curtis’ cell phone buzzed, interrupting his reply. He glanced down at a text and swore again. “He’s in the building.” They were located on the 24
th
floor and he knew he had only a few minutes before his father would come bursting into his office.

“Who?” Amera asked, wondering who could cause such strange behavior.

“Bishop Senior,” Owen said.

His father was coming and that was a cause for concern. Amera noticed a closet off to the side and walked over and opened it. “And you don’t have another shirt?”

“He did,” Owen replied when Curtis didn’t. “Until the last assistant tore them up with scissors and--.”

“Do you think I’d be borrowing his, if I did?” Curtis cut in.

“You could order one and have someone stall him.”

“You can’t stall a Bishop and there’s not enough time,” Owen said. “Bishop Senior will be here in a minute.”

“Just tell him what happened.”

Owen shook his head. “He thinks the nosebleeds are a sign of weakness. Curtis will never live this down.”

Curtis tossed the tissue away, his nosebleed had stopped, but his annoyance had only just begun. He shoved Amera towards the door. “Get out. We’ll handle this.”

“Put your shirt back on,” Amera said, planting her feet firmly, making it difficult for him to budge her.

“What?”

“I know how to help you.”

Curtis glanced at Owen who just shrugged.

“Do it,” Amera said.

Curtis grabbed his soiled shirt and put it back on. “If this doesn't work, you’re fired.”

“I know. Come here,” she said pointing to a spot near the wall. “Don't move.”

Before he could ask why, Bishop Senior walked into the room. At the exact moment, Amera swung the closet door open wide and hit Curtis hard in the face. He stumbled back holding his nose.

“Oh, sir! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she said rushing over to him. She turned to Owen who stood stunned--his eyes wide and his mouth open. She pointed to the box of tissues. He blinked, coming out of his stupor then quickly handed them to her.

“Who the hell is this woman?” Bishop Senior demanded.

“The new executive assistant,” Owen said.

“Is she usually this careless?” Bishop Senior said standing in the doorway. “Get another one.”

“This is her first day.”

“Sir, I'm so sorry,” Amera said focusing on Curtis. “I didn't see you.” She grabbed a handful of tissues and held them out to him. He seized them and his eyes met hers--dark brown eyes shining with pain, surprise and, respect.

She’d been by his side ever since. But that moment of connection had been rare. Amera looked at him now. He was still doing his father’s dirty work and she was still cleaning up his nosebleeds.

“Where to now?” he said.

“The office. You have nothing else planned for today.”

***

Back at headquarters Amera thought of how she was going to tell the people at Peale House that they’d have to look for another way to find the funding they needed to keep going, and the sad news the workers at the factory would be telling their families. She walked over to her desk, ready to sink into her chair then paused when she spotted the pink slip.

Amera had expected a lot of things. But she hadn't expected a pink slip. She’d been hoping for a raise. When Curtis had made the announcement earlier at the factory, she hadn’t imagined her job was also on the line. The loss of her job wouldn’t just affect her, but she’d sent some money to Peale House and had hoped to secretly send Bill some money to help him care for his sons’ needs while he looked for another job. Now she wouldn’t have that option. She hadn’t even gotten a warning. It would have been better if he’d told her in person. But that wasn't his way. She found his action cowardly, which wasn't like him. He’d been able to tell hundreds of workers they’d no longer have a job. Firing her shouldn't have been a problem. He’d fired many assistants before, but maybe it was better this way. If he told her face-to-face, she’d probably say things she’d later regret.