Takeover (11 page)

“I’m fine,” he says. “Really, it’s not a problem.” He opens his hand to look and it’s bleeding. It’s not a gushing fountain of blood or anything, but the fact that I’ve made the man bleed at all is horrifying.

“Did my nails get you?” I ask, feeling like a five-year-old.

“No,” he says. “I think something’s in there.”

I take a closer look, but even though there’s not much blood, there’s just enough to cover the puncture itself. I don’t know how my nails would have done this; all I know is that he wasn’t bleeding
before
I shook his hand. We were going to make a difference together. I was actually excited to be at work.

I run out to my desk and pull my purse from underneath. It takes a minute, but I have a little first-aid kit for such occasions; not that I make a habit of hurting the people who sign my paychecks. I’m back in the room a second later, and Mr. Waite is chuckling. “It’s really not a big deal,” he says, that beautiful smile eclipsing all other features of his face.

“This is going to sting a little,” I say as I open my kit and tear open the package of an alcohol swab.

His eyes grow a little wide, and he asks, “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“You don’t want an infection,” I say.

“Okay,” he breathes in deeply, averting his eyes from his hand as I start to soak up the blood and sterilize the area.

I get the area clean enough to see the source of the bleed. It looks like he has a tiny shard of something in his hand, already causing a small infection in the area. “What happened? This doesn’t look like a wooden splinter.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Just hurry, I’m not good with blood.”

“I’m going to need to get my tweezers from my purse,” I say, hardly a response to his concern. Before he can answer, I’m out and back in the office. I open another alcohol swab and run it thoroughly over the tweezers.

“Oh god,” he says, still looking away.

“You’re going to be fine,” I say. “This will just take a second.”

I make sure to live up to my word as the tweezers grab the small object in his hand. I pull it out in one quick motion and set it on top of my first aid kit. I take another alcohol swab and wipe the area again as I make a mental note to pick up more on my way home. I don’t think I’m obsessive compulsive, but not having a full kit is more than enough to drive me up a wall.

After applying some antibacterial cream, I make a small square with gauze and press it onto the cut and wrap his hand with another strip. I affix the material by tying a knot at the back of his hand. “All fixed up,” I say.

“Thanks,” he answers. “You didn’t have to go through all of that trouble, though.”

I chuckle. “Well, it looks like if I were to leave it up to you, you’d let the hand fall off before you did anything about it.”

His face goes pale at the thought.

“What is this?” I ask, using the tweezers to lift the tiny shard of what almost looks like opaque glass from the top of the kit.

“It’s nothing,” he says again, this time snatching the shard from between my tweezers. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Could you give me a few minutes? I’m
really
not good with blood.”

“Sure,” I say as I stand. I almost go to shake his hand again, but think better of it. “It should be fine,” I say. “We can take the bandage off tomorrow, and I’ll just do a quick check to make sure that it’s healing up all right.”

“Okay,” he says, waving his hand for me to go. I’m pretty sure that he’s going to vomit whether I’m in the room or not, so I quickly make my way behind his desk and pour a glass of water and set it on his desk. I make my way out of the room and, sure enough, before I can even get the door closed, I can hear my new boss hurling into his trash can.

I chuckle a little when the door is closed, but the silly charm of the moment is short-lived as I see everyone on the floor staring at me. I hadn’t realized that I had been in the office long enough for everyone to file onto the floor, but there they are. I’m not sure if I should say anything; I mean, Mr. Waite’s vomiting is certainly loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear, but I don’t know if an explanation would really be a good thing here.

I just shrug. Either they already believe that the sounds they’re hearing from the office are a result of me trying to kill him or not. At least this time, the man on the other side of the door is going to be alive to let everyone know that I’m not a killer.

After a few seconds of surprised stares, everyone goes back to work. On the bright side, it appears that nobody’s going to have the courage to come and talk to me about McDaniel. That’s a positive thing, right?

Breathing in Elysium

––––––––

B
y the time my lunch hour comes, I’ve already rearranged Mr. Waite’s schedule. It took a little bit of doing, but I’ve managed to free up almost six hours’ worth of time for the coming week. I know it’s lunch, but I just really want to be around this man. He’s an inspiration, and I’ve only really known him for a few hours.

I’ve known who he is for quite a while, as he’s been with the company for well over a decade, but he never really seemed like the executive type to me. Granted, yesterday’s phone calls were the first full conversations that I’ve ever had with him, but he never seemed to have that edge that I had come to expect from anyone of significant rank within a company.

I print out the revised schedule and timidly knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

I open the door and pretend like I’m now accustomed to his niceness. “I finished up the schedule for the coming week,” I say. “It took a bit of doing, but I think that this may free you up so you don’t burn yourself out too quickly.”

“You are a life saver, Rose,” he says, taking the papers from my hand. He looks them over. “Oh my god,” he says, and I’m trying not to feel insecure. He looks up at me. “This is better than I could have hoped,” he says, smiling. “You are worth every penny of that raise. In fact, keep bringing me work like this, and I bet I could find a little something extra for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say with a professional smile. I turn to leave, but he says my name.

“I have a meeting today with your brother’s firm,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting you in an awkward position, but if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to have you sit in with me.”

“Is Mark going to be there?” I ask.

“No,” Mr. Waite says, waving his bandaged hand. “I would never put you in a position like that. Actually, as I come to think of it, I don’t really think that it would be fair to put you in the middle of this particular meeting.”

“Well, sir,” I say, “I
am
your secretary.”

“Assistant,” he corrects. “Secretary is such an archaic, draconian word. I never liked it much. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to put any pressure on your family relations.”

“Not at all, sir,” I say. Actually, I’d be more than happy to screw over my brother just a little bit. I love the man, but he’s such a jerk. “I’d be happy to join you.”

“Great,” Mr. Waite says with a smile. He glances at his watch. “You’re late for your lunch,” he says. “Why don’t you run along and take your break. Go ahead and take an extra few minutes so you get your whole hour.”

“Hour, sir?”

“Company policy,” he says. He sits up straight in his chair. “Don’t tell me that Rory didn’t give you an hour for lunch.”

“Can I be honest, sir?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says. “And enough of this ‘sir’ business; call me Sam or, if you absolutely
must
use a title, Mr. Waite is just fine.”

“Well,” I begin, unsure why it is so hard to say “Sam.” I take a breath. “With Mr. McDaniel, I was lucky if he’d give me half an hour. He’d usually end up calling me a few minutes after I left, screaming at me to come back. I guess I’m just trying to adjust to someone who treats me like a person.” Maybe I shared a bit too much.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” he says. “Adjust, that is. I knew that Rory was hard on those closest to him, but I had no idea that he was so bad to you. That’s something that I’m going to make up for on his behalf.”

I want to run over to him, crying and hug the man so tightly that his head pops off, but I resist the urge. “Thank you, sir—I mean, Mr. Waite.” I don’t think I’m quite ready to start calling the CEO of the company that I work for by his first name on a regular basis. Maybe I’ll ease into it.

“Enjoy your lunch,” he says. “The meeting isn’t until two-thirty. It’ll be in the board room, but I’ll grab you on the way there. We can walk in together.”

Did I happen to mention that any time Mr. McDaniel and I were walking in the same direction, he would insist that I walk a few steps behind him. He said that it was unbecoming for someone like me to walk side-by-side with someone like him. “Sounds wonderful,” I answer.

I get back to my desk and I pull the phone from my purse.

“James,” I say, “I have an hour for lunch. Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” he says. It sounds like I woke him up. He can be a bit lazy sometimes. “Do you want me to meet you, or do you want to have lunch at home?”

I want to say “home,” but I’d rather not confront the bashed-in bookcase that had been such a sweet present from my fiancé at the moment. I’m in a good mood, and I want it to stay that way. “How about our usual spot?” I ask. “If you want, I can pick you up.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you there. I have to meet some guy about that bookcase anyway. He says he might be able to patch it up.”

I don’t know if he was reading my mind or not but, as far as I’m concerned, so long as James keeps doing sweet things like this, he can sleep in as long as he wants. “Sounds great,” I say, finally. “I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I hang up and carry myself with pride through the gauntlet of coworkers. Nobody’s ready to say anything to me, but I know that day is coming. For now, I just get to hold my head high as I wait for the elevator.

This floor is the epicenter of Opulence International. At the far end of the floor is, of course, Mr. Waite’s office, but on the way there are a few offices, and the open area with its half-walled cubicles from which Melissa claimed to have seen me kill my former boss. It’s not the most logical layout, but it’s seemed to be functional enough.

The elevator doors open, and I walk inside. There are a few people waiting in there, all of whom swiftly avert their eyes when they see me. I had prepared myself for how difficult today was going to be, but right now, whatever these people may think of me doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. I’m glad to be here.

I get to the ground floor and make my way to my car. It looks a little bit strange from a distance, but I can’t quite tell why until I’m right next to it. Someone let the air out of my tires and left a nice sticky note on my windshield. The note has only one word written on it: murderer.

Okay, so I guess my mood isn’t quite untouchable. I give James a quick call to let him know what happened, and he agrees to meet me here with an air pump. I’m
not
a murderer. I suppose that it could be worse, they could have spray-painted the word on my car, but I can’t imagine that would have hurt much worse than what they already did.

There’s not much I can do but wait for James and try to decide whether I should call the police or not. I finally decide that doing so would only escalate the situation, and I just want this all to be done and behind me.

James finally shows up, and it takes most of my remaining break for him to help me pump my tires back up. On the bright side, at least they didn’t slash them.

“Who did this?” he asks when we finish, “do you know?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I don’t have that much longer for lunch. Do you just want to grab something in the cafeteria with me?”

“Sure,” he says. “Listen. Don’t take this too seriously,” he says. “I know that this isn’t what you wanted to come back to, but people are assholes. If you want, I can start taking you to and from work so you don’t have to worry about something like this happening again.”

“That’s okay,” I start. “Then again, that might not be such a bad idea. I can always bring something for lunch or eat at the cafeteria—”

“Or I can pick you up and we can get lunch together,” he interjects.

“I’d like that,” I say. With that, we leave our cars where they are and head back to the building. I think if anyone else was my boss, I would just quit right now, but there’s something about Sam that I really think is worth holding onto. If it weren’t for him and James, I’d probably be curled over my steering wheel, tires still flat, crying right now. Believe it or not, I consider myself lucky.

*                    *                    *

L
unch is wonderful with James, even though I have to consciously ignore the stares and hushed whispers that are coming from all directions. I wouldn’t be back here in this building if I was guilty of anything. Why can’t these people get that through their thick skulls? I’m innocent, damn it!

James and I finish eating, and I have to get right back up to the office, so I kiss him goodbye and thank him for coming to my rescue. The man is my knight in unwashed clothing. The elevator ride up is about the same as it was going down, but this time it’s more difficult to ignore. Maybe I should just quit. I mean, it’s not like there’s no one else that can do this job. I need to talk to Mr. Waite.

I get out on my floor and keep my eyes on the ground as I swiftly make my way to the office. I knock on his door lightly. While I’m waiting for a response, I have a chance to take a quick look at Melissa’s desk. I don’t know if she’s been fired or if she quit or what, but she isn’t at her desk. I wish I could say that was a relief but, truth be told, I’d kind of like to have the opportunity to call her out in front of everyone so maybe the goddamned staring will stop.

The office door opens, and Mr. Waite is standing there with a smile. That smile fades slowly as he sees the look on my face. “Rose,” he says, “come in.”

He closes the door behind me and I take a seat in front of his desk. I don’t know where to start.