Layers
Authors: TL Alexander
Copyright © 2013 TL Alexander
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Cover Robin Ludwig Designs
Editing Kat’s Eye Editing
To Rick, my husband and best friend.
Thanks for never complaining about all the
nights and days of cereal
again
.
Life without you would truly suck.
TL
THE KING RETURNS TO HIS CASTLE
AND THEY ALL CAME TUMBLING DOWN
THE MAN KNOWS HOW TO CLEAR A DESK
FLASH BACK FOUR YEARS—LONDON GRANT HOUSE
PRESENT DAY LONDON STILL CALLING
Hello it’s me. Freakin’ Alexia. And this is my story.
I’m going to start my story in the middle. Why, you ask? Because If I start at the beginning, we’ll be here for a freakin’ decade, and if I start at the end, what’s the fun in that? So here’s my story, beginning in the middle.
“I can’t believe we’re still auditing this freakin’ Sims account” my assistant, Dale Adams says, and then slumps back into his chair. “We sent the freakin’ ass thing to Frankie five freakin’ times while you were basking in the freakin’ Tuscan sun.”
Dale says, “freakin’” a lot—don’t you think? It’s a testament of having worked with the slang-slinging master—me. Freakin’ just
happens to be one of my favorites. It’s freakin’ awesome.
“Tuscany’s in Italy, you idiot. I was in France.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Okay” I sigh. “Let’s just fix the damn audit and hand it over to legal on Friday. If the asswipe rejects it again, I’ll talk to Ryan when he gets back from Korea.”
“Boss-man returned last week.”
I look up from my laptop. “Why?”
“Don’t know, but I’ve heard tons of ridiculous rumors.” He rolls his eyes. “He contracted the Bird flu and was rushed out of the country. He ate contaminated oysters—acquiring mercury poisoning. And my personal favorite—his client kicked him out of the country for getting soused on sake then sleeping with his daughter, or was it his wife…or both? Shit, who knows? You know what it’s like around here; rumors spread faster than a flesh–eating bacteria.”
“You’re right about that––but I don’t think they drink sake in Korea?”
Dale rolls his eyes. He does that a lot.
“Whatever. Like I said, ridiculous rumors. However, I did run into his PA’s new assistant, Claire, and she said he was called back for an emergency partners’ meeting. “She also said,” he whispers and I haven’t a clue why, “that Ryan hasn’t left his office suite in four days.”
I frown. “I hope he’s okay. Hell, nobody wants the Bird Flu, or any other kind of flu. Remember when I got it last year? I was puking, sneezing, coughing and shitting all at the same time—totally sucked balls—big time.”
Dale cringes. “Never put ‘suck balls’ and puking or shitting in the same sentence. Ever!”
“Sorry, man I won’t.
Ever.
”
There’s a knock on my open office door.
Dale and I look up from our work (okay we weren’t really working) as Janie from Legal waddles into my office.
“Alexia, Dale, sorry to interrupt your meeting.”
I shut my laptop and lean back in my chair. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“How was your vacation?”
“Good.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Good? You spend three weeks at a villa in southern France and it was good? Come on.”
“Sorry. It is what it is.”
“Oh pleeease. Three weeks vacationing at a French villa, lounging in the French sun, eating French food and drinking French wine. And what about the French men?” She raises her brows three times.
I fold my arms over my chest—one of my “I’m not going there” moves.
Janie huffs, and taps her foot.
I groan. ”You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No. So you might as well spill it.
“You should work for the National Inquirer.”
She gives me a triumphant grin. Apparently, she thinks that’s a compliment.
“Okay.” I say and raise my arms in defeat. “The French villa––fucking ancient. French sun—hotter than watching a naked Ryan Gosling bake cookies in August.” I pause, savoring that visual for few seconds. Yeah, that’s hot.
“Where was I?”
“Food” Janie says, while gesturing—go on, go on.
“Okay, okay. French food.”
Janie pouts and I continue.
“French food—fucking fantastic. The chef Gram hired for our stay—incredibly talented. And it was obvious that he enjoys his own cooking. The man was…fat. The fattest man I’d ever met.”
“It’s not politically correct to say
fat.
” Janie adds.
“Do I look like I’m
politically correct
in any way?”
“What do
politically correct
people look like?” Dales asks.
“I have no freakin’ idea. You two drive me crazy. Do you want me to finish, or can we just skip this inquest and go back to work?”
“No!” They answer simultaneously.
I sigh loudly. Do you hear it? “Okay, the French wine was like having—synchronized multiple orgasms igniting on the tip of your tongue, then exploding in the back of your throat.
“Wow!” Dale says. “I’m for sure stopping by the wine store on my way home.”
“What about the men?” Janie whines.
“French men—let’s just say
mature
.”
“Mature?”
She huffs.
“Yeah, AARP
mature.
” I scoot my chair back and plop my feet up on my desk.
She raises a brow. “You’re so lying.”
I roll my eyes. I do this a lot—got the idea from Dale. “Do I need to recap our pre-vacation conversations?”
She pouts. ”No. Okay, maybe?”
“Recap.
” Dale mocks, never looking up from his laptop.
I flip him off.
“I saw that.” He mutters.
So you don’t like my recaps buddy, well too freakin’ bad!
I give him the evil eye before my
recap.
“My eccentric and possibly psychotic grandmother has a villa in Southern France. She asked that her belle petite-fille join her and her
mature
friends. I begged off numerous times, but Gram is very persistent.”
“What’s belle pe…whatever you said?” Dale asks.
“Oh sorry my linguistatardic friend, it means ‘beautiful granddaughter.’”
“I knew that,” Janie adds.
I lift a brow. “Really?”
“You so didn’t.” Dale smirks.
“Okay I didn’t.” She pouts. “And FYI girlfriend,
tard
isn’t politically correct.”
“Well, FYI girlfriend—eat me.”
“It’s true though. I am a linguistatard. Lex has been trying to teach me Spanish for two years. And the only thing I can come up with is—‘sí jefe’.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I thought you were feeding me bullshit. You really did go with your psycho grandmother and her AARP friends?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“That’s just fucking sad.” She pouts.
I chuckle. “You haven’t meet Gram’s friends
.
When I said
mature
, I wasn’t referring to age. They’re batshit crazy. They party like the Rolling Stones, drink like the Irish before Lent, and…they...well, you know...they fuck like rabbits.”