ChapterOne
I walked into the meeting fifteen minuteslate.
That’s when the murders began…
Justkidding!
Nobody was murdered. Nobody did any murderingfor that matter. It was only our weekly planning meeting, held every Monday atfour o’clock, rain or shine, blizzard or earthquake, or zombie apocalypse.Because that was how my dinosaur of a boss rolled.
Every Monday at the same time, theentire staff ofSixTwentySixMarketing gatheredtogether in the sleek conference room eight stories above downtown Durham andwent to war. Or that was what it felt like. My boss, Mr. Tucker, or MotherTucker as I liked to call him, presided over the meeting at the head of thetable. His firm fist pounded like a gavel as my colleagues and I battled overcoveted accounts and lead positions while skillfully dodging less lucrative projects.
Because I was a minnow in a sea ofsharks, guess who always ended up with the dud accounts?
A family insurance firm is in needof a new logo? Something updated and eye-catching, but also a straight-upreplica of the same one they’ve used for eighteen years? I’m your girl.
A family dental office hoping topull in new customers with some flashy social media graphics? Yep, I’m all overit.
A dinky Baptist church thatbasically needed someone to explain PowerPoint to them? Watch out world, I canexplain the hell out of PowerPoint.
Which was basically what the pastorhad asked me to do. “Please get Satan out of this program so we can use it onSunday mornings.”
I was pretty much the go-to girl forall things boring and uninspired. But it paid the bills, and I had high hopesof moving up one day. For now, I wassomewhathappy to pay my dues. I’dstart with logos and promo pics, so that tomorrow I could move up to six-figuresocial media campaigns and citywide advertisements.
It was all in my five-year plan. Alongwith being on time to a meeting every once in a while.
My boss glared at me from hisself-appointedthronechair, tracking my every step as I quietly tiptoed around the roomin three-inch heels. So basically, not tiptoeing at all. I clunked clumsily onthe bamboo floor, causing every set of eyes to turn my way.
Waving meekly from behind myplanner, I ignored the smirks from my smug coworkers. They thought they werebig deals because they had things like job security and savings accounts. I wasjust grateful to have a seat at the table.
I was the youngest designer attwenty-seven working at a cutthroat graphic design company and didn’t have aton of perks. My coworkers resented me, my clients underestimated me, and myboss barely remembered that I wasn’t his secretary.
I kept waiting for the call into thecorner office. Mr. Tucker would raise one bushy eyebrow and say, “We appreciateall you’ve done for us, Holly, but we’re going in a different, more punctualdirection.”
Squeezing between two swiveling,leather chairs to take the only available seat, I set my planner on the table,hid my phone on my lap, and pulled a pen from hair. I crossed my legs at the anklesand leaned forward attentively—the consummate professional.
“So nice of you to join us,Mitchell,” he grunted.
My last name was Maverick. And myfirst name—Molly. But for some reason I’d never found the courage to correcthim. It was borderline ridiculous at this point, but I’d let him get away withit for nearly three years now, so mentioning it to him after all this time seemedhumiliatingawkward.
Every time I got paid, I breathed asigh of relief that at least human resources knew my name.
I flashed him a closed-lip smile andwaited till he turned away before I brushed my bangs out of my eyes. Slumpingjust barely in my seat, I clicked on my pen and pretended to start taking notesin the margin of my planner.
To the Mother Tucker, it looked likeI was an excellent listener. To my ErinCondrenorganizerit looked like Fourth of July at nighttime—a horizon full of explodingfireworks that were all shapes and sizes; metaphors for the current status ofmy spiraling career.
And I didn’t mean because of thecelebratory sky. I was referring to the gunpowder and fiery explosions part.
Mr. Tucker began going over standingaccounts. Different designers gave updates and reports for forty-five minutes.I focused on the details of my drawing so I didn’t embarrass myself further byfalling asleep.
Finally, after so much ass-kissingfrom my coworkers that my own lips felt chapped, Mr. Tucker pulled out hisivory cardstock stationary. For as many modern advances asSixTwentySixMarketing had made in the last several years, Mr. Tucker was as old school asthey came.
His idea of marketing revolvedaround magazine advertisements and call-based surveys. I wasn’t even sure hehad an email account set up in his name. He’d started STS sometime shortlyafter Alexander the Great tried to invade India, and then named the companyafter his anniversary date so he would never forget.
Romantic, right?
I’m sure the first Mrs. Tucker felthonored. I wasn’t so sure how Mrs. Tuckers two, three and four felt about it.
“We have some new bids today.” Hegrinned at us as though he were holding the winning lotto numbers and one of uswas going to be lucky enough to win them. “And they’re good ones.” He turned tohis son and heir of the company, Henry Tucker, or as I liked to call him eversince he propositioned me at the Christmas part three-fourths of a bottle ofJack Daniels deep, The Little Tucker, and winked. Henry beamed under hisfather’s approval, basking in the recognition he didn’t deserve.
