I wait for the firm knock before pulling the door open.
Gerald is a forty-two-year-old ex-marine. He has two kids of his own, and he and his wife took in his two nephews last year when his sister found herself in some trouble. He now has legal custody of them. The man has a soft heart, but on the outside, he’s a huge giant, with a shaved head and narrowed eyes. He’s intimidating because he thinks that’s what security should be. He takes his job seriously, and I can tell he doesn’t like the woman standing at his side.
She’s average height, around five seven, making her about as tall as Gerald. While he’s professionally dressed in a crisp black suit, she’s…not.
I don’t even know what to say about her ripped black leggings, the Lycra leotard straight from the eighties, or the leather jacket. Did she come to shake me down for money straight from a jazzercise class?
Her wild mass of curly hair does that naturally untamed thing where it flatters her oval face, the dark chestnut contrasting perfectly with her pale skin. She might be dressed for an eighties party, but she’s not rocking the makeup for it.
My body does something instinctive that it hasn’t done for anyone in a very long time. The more than lowkey burn catches me off guard. I’ve never been more thankful for the businesscasual dress code that allows me to wear jeans, but I still automatically angle away and imagine a weenie roast in which it’s my dick over the flames. Naturally, just the thought of it causes immediate shriveling.
It’s the middle of summer, but she’s clutching a pumpkin purse complete with a carved-out face. I almost double back to check my calendar and make sure I haven’t missed a few months of my life and fast-forwarded straight to October.
I’m a mess on the inside, but I manage to sound at least half professional on the outside. “Thanks, Gerald. I’ll take it from here.”
Hehumphsat that but shuts my door quietly.
The woman,Amalphia—I was given her name not more than a minute ago on the phone—twists her purse strap anxiously. She eyes the floor, then takes in the office. There’s not much to look at. It’s sparse, modern, and large. Lots of empty space, minimalism at its finest. One painting on the far wall, an original abstract by a local artist, catches her eye before those soft brown irises quickly flick black to me.
Heat grips the back of my neck and infiltrates my spine in a slow drip as she brazenly assesses me. She has the grace to get a little pink-cheeked over her frank perusal like I’m a lovely dress in a shop.
“Whoa,” she breathes. “You aren’t what I was expecting.”
Society might deem her decidedly average in build, her features pretty, but not anything out of the ordinary. Well, society as a whole usually gets it wrong. The light in her eyes betrays a stark intelligence. I’m not sure about her style choices, but whatever her fashion sense is, it definitely can’t be called bland.
“Are you and the security creep playing some kind of joke on me? You are Warrick Beanbottom CEO, right?”
I nearly wince at her incredulous use of my last name. I have a meeting in half an hour. It’s Monday, and people aren’t in the mood to be kept waiting for shit they already don’t want to be doing. No one would say that or act like it, but does anyone on this earth enjoy meetings or Mondays? Ever?
Long story short, I don’t have time for this.
“In the flesh,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. I roll it to the side, releasing the buildup of stress responsible for the gross heat I feel back there. But that only serves to transfer it lower, straight into my chest and stomach. If I’m not careful, I’ll have to go back to campfire images.
“Okay.” She stops fiddling with her purse and clasps her hands instead. “How do you scrub the internet like that anyway? Get it to tell no tales? Hide all your personal info and photos? How do you control whatotherpeopleare posting?” She sucks in a half breath. Her face is suddenly so red that she might be in danger of blacking out. “Right. Money. Tons of money.”
“You need to take a breath,” I advise. I also don’t have time for medical emergencies and ambulances.
She tries, sucking in another half-measured watery gulp like she’s drowning.
“Deeper, please.”
Her lashes part as her eyes got wider.
Right. Instruction with proper words instead of shit that paints obscene images straight into my brain would be great.
“Do I need to turn on meditation instruction? Hold on. I’ll get it going. Just give me one second.”
“No!” She gulps in five huge breaths until she’s likely in danger of hyperventilating. “I’m good. I mean, no, I’m not, but you don’t need to put on a guided meditation. That’s not going to help.”
Her eyes sweep over me far too leisurely, taking in all the details.Again. People don’t appraise me like this. My throatcloses up with immediate anxiety. Fuck it, I’m turning on the meditation.
“You don’t look like your son,” she states.
I wheeze out a sputtery breath. The air quality in this office must be questionable. That’s probably it. We’re both affected.
I didn’t need to ask Gerald to sit in on this because there are cameras around my office recording in high definition with sound. There’s nothing in this office that can be done, said, or used against me. I’m much more careful now. Having been burned once and all that.
“It’s more like he doesn’t look like me, I’d say.”
