Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (38 page)

“Hey, so… when I see Brendan again, what do you want me to tell him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t know…” She pauses. “Are you still into him?”

I stare at the scraggly bushes near the bench and chew at a loose cuticle on my thumb. “I don’t know. It’s been a year since I’ve even seen him.”

She blows out a breath, causing static to crackle over the line. “I know.”

“Even if I were into him, it wouldn’t matter.”

She pauses. “What if he wanted you back? Would you move home for him?”

I jerk my chin back. It’s such an odd question, and I’m getting the feeling she wants me to say yes.

“No.” I examine the answer and nod at the rightness of it. “I can’t have the career I want there. I need to be in Los Angeles. It’s my only option.”

“Okay.” She sounds slightly disappointed.

I bite the edge of my thumbnail, then realize what I’m doing and drop my hand in my lap. “Just tell him I said hi, will you?”

“Definitely. You know, I think you guys were a great couple.”

I smirk. “I know. You tell me that all the time. But I’m here now.”

“Yeah, a million miles away.”

“It’s not quite that far.” I chuckle.

“It feels like it,” she says with a sad laugh that makes my heart hurt. “Okay. I gotta go. I’m helping set up Anne-Marie’s baby shower.”

“She’s
pregnant?”
I nearly shriek, thinking of the friend who was in the same high school class as us.

“Sure is.”

“Damn. Didn’t she just get married?”

“Six months ago.”

I slowly shake my head, the whole concept of being married and expecting a baby at twenty-two completely foreign. Anne-Marie’s whole life is now planned out in front of her. She knows which man she’ll sleep with for the rest of her days and what will be expected out of her: changing diapers and driving to soccer practice.

The idea of committing that much to one way of living freaks me out.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” Lee says. “Bye, Sydney.”

“Okay. Bye.”

She hangs up and I drop the phone in my lap, my head reeling from the conversation.

Lee was right about one thing. Being in L.A.
does
feel like being a million miles away from home. Every time I get online or talk with someone back in North Carolina, the divide becomes clearer and clearer. The people I’ve grown up with are all moving in new directions.

It’s strange and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I miss home, but I also hate the place.

Married, with a baby on the way.

A shudder goes down my back. I feel luckier than ever before to be following my dreams. Let everyone else do the same. If Anne-Marie is happy, good for her.

Talking with Lee just happened to make me even more aware of the fact that I’m right where I need to be.

And that thing about Brendan… I hug my knees up to my chest.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper to myself. “It was a lifetime ago.”

With that settled, I stand and stretch. Sitting in front of me is an area containing about eighteen and a half million people and countless opportunities.

One incorrigible boss is a detail. Friends drifting apart is normal. And the only boy I ever loved is in the past.

The future is mine to make. It’s cheesy, but it’s true, and so I’ll take it.

*

Monday morning, I arrive at work fifteen minutes early, so I wait in my car until a few minutes before I need to go in. I don’t want to run into Mr. Mulroney again in an empty office. I have no interest in it just being the two of us alone ever again.

Two big white grip trucks pass by while I’m sitting staring out over the windshield. I watch them with longing. They disappear around the corner of the nearest building, headed for the backlot.

I purse my lips. So close and yet so far. What I wouldn’t give to be working on the backlot, where the actual sets are, or someplace out on location.

Instead, I’m in an office. I know I should be grateful for the job. If I somehow manage to keep walking the razor’s edge with Mr. Mulroney, then I’ll hopefully be out of the confines of four walls sometime soon. Pissing him off won’t keep me at the company.

Too bad I have morals.

If I didn’t, I could just screw him
and
maybe get a promotion. Now
that
would truly be killing two birds with one stone.

Smirking to myself, I climb out of the car and head for the office. Chuck is going in through the front door, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, dark circles under his eyes.

“Hey,” I say.

He mumbles something indistinguishable while holding the door open for me. We go down the hallway, falling into step beside each other. He looks like he’s about to fall over.

“Tired?” I ask.

“Ugh,” he grunts.

Daniel and Dana are at their desks. They’re both busy on their computers, looking like good little workers, so that’s got to mean Mr. Mulroney is in. I swallow the lump in my throat and go hang my backpack on the hook.

“Coffee?” Dana asks. She hands me a paper cup from the paper carrier on her desk.

“Wow, thanks.” I smile at her and take the offered drink.

“So.” Dana takes in a long breath, and the room collectively flinches, preparing for whatever announcement is coming next. “Lots of meetings today,” she says. “And the first one is in the office in an hour.” She looks at me. “Sydney. That means you get the very special job of tidying up.”

I feebly smile.

“This building has a janitor,” Chuck points out.

Dana ignores the comment. “The windows need to be cleaned, the shelves dusted, and the plants’ leaves trimmed.” She rolls her eyes. “Sorry. This isn’t me talking. It’s You-Know-Who.”

Voldemort.

I set my coffee down on the desk top. Did Mr. Mulroney specifically say
I
needed to clean the office? Is this my punishment for not taking him up on his offer Friday night?

Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. I’m the new girl, after all.

I force myself to smile. “I’m on it.”

Forty-five minutes later, I’m down on my hands and knees, scrubbing at a questionable stain beneath the window. Questionable meaning two things. One: what exactly is it? And two: will it ever come up?

So many mysteries… and so much time to ponder them while I stare at the sponge moving back and forth over the white paint.

A door opens, but I keep scrubbing, just doing my job as told.

“What is she doing on the floor?” Mr. Mulroney’s voice asks.

I clench my eyes shut and slow down the rubbing, waiting for the worst of it to come flying from his lips.

“Cleaning,” Dana says. “Mr. Murakami is coming in a few minutes.”

A short silence. “Hm. Send some bottled water in. For some reason, the fridge is empty.”

A door closes.

“Shit,” Dana hisses.

I straighten up, my back creaking in protest. “What?”

“I’m an idiot,” she whispers. “I forgot to stock his fridge last night.”

I wish I could say it’s no big deal; it’s just water. But we all know with Mr. Mulroney, everything is a big deal.

“Will you go to the front desk and get some?” she asks me. “And hurry. Mr. Murakami will be here any second.”

“Okay.” I grab the cleaning bucket and rush out of the room, suddenly excited. I had no idea the person coming was Murakami. My job suddenly seems really good again.

Maybe his wife mentioned me when he came home that night and read the script. Maybe she told him how “impressive,” “bright”, or “eager” I was. Or maybe she said, “The girl has nice bangs.” I don’t care, as long as she said something positive about me.

I practically throw the bucket into the water closet. About to rush to the front desk, I realize my hands smell like cleaning product. The scent will get on anything I touch.

“Damn,” I whisper, hopping across the hall for the bathroom.

I scrub my skin as fast as I can and then wipe my hands on my jeans while I push the door open. I look down and see two large, wet hand prints across my thighs.

“Damn, damn,” I curse, running back into the bathroom, grabbing paper towels, and making an attempt to blot my jeans dry. Halfway through the process, I deem them to be good enough and toss the paper towels in the trash.

I power walk to the receptionist desk.

“Hey,” I say to Stacey. “Do you have bottled water? I need it ASAP for Mr. Mulroney.”

She looks up at me with her black rimmed eyes. “Yeah,” she says, taking eight years to say the single word. Like my request has just bored her to within an inch of her life.

Sorry to interrupt your game of solitaire,
I want to say. I know she just sits there all day and plays games on the computer because I’ve caught her doing just that several times already.

You would think she’d find it invigorating to actually have something to do, but apparently not.

Pushing her rolling chair away from the desk, she edges over to a little fridge near the wall. The woman is sloth like. Every second literally creeps by as I wait for her.

She grabs one bottle from the fridge and shuts it.

“I need more than that,” I say.

She huffs, but grabs four bottles. It will have to do. I’ve already lost enough minutes thanks to the paper towel fiasco and don’t have time to hold my breath and wait for her to roll herself back over to the fridge. I eagerly reach my hands over the counter top for the water.

“Thanks!”

Speed walking down the hallway, I burst into the office.

“Got them!”

“He’s here,” Dana loudly whispers, pointing at Mr. Mulroney’s door.

“Oh.” I press my fingers against my mouth. One of the bottles tumbles from my arms and hits the carpet. I close my ears, waiting for the explosion. It doesn’t come.

“Just go take them in,” Dana says.

I snatch up the bottle and walk across the room.

“Knock,” Dana reminds me.

I rap on the door and wait. The condensation from the bottles presses against my shirt, getting the cotton wet.

“Come in,” Mr. Mulroney says.

I push the door open and flash a quick smile. My boss sits in his usual seat, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. Across from him is a wrinkled Japanese man. I nod to them both, trying to act like it’s totally no big deal to be in the presence of John Murakami.

“I brought you some water,” I feebly explain.

Mr. Mulroney says nothing. His eyes dart to the fridge in the far corner. I get the hint and go to put the water away.

“Are you Sydney?” Mr. Murakami asks.

About to bend down towards the fridge, I halt and turn around. “Yes. Hello.”

“You met my wife the other day.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, not sure where this conversation is going, but holding onto hope nonetheless.

“She likes you.”

“Oh. Wow. Thank you.”

I clutch the water bottles in an effort to not do a happy dance right then and there. If I’m not careful, I might jump onto the desk and attempt the electric slide.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Mulroney giving me a deadly stare. It’s enough to yank me back down to reality. I hold my back straight and square my shoulders.

Sorry to distract you for fifteen whole seconds,
I want to say to him. That man can do anything he pleases, but he is
not
going to intimidate me.

The asshole clears his throat. “Let’s return back to our conversation. As I was saying, it won’t work with Michelle in the lead. It’s too risky.”

Obviously, I was just pushed off the tracks. Turning back to the fridge, I do the job I came to do and set the bottles of water in on their sides.

What… an… asshole.

“You’re living behind the times, Simon,” Mr. Murakami says.

I smirk to myself while I close the fridge door, thinking of how Mr. Murakami insists on having scripts hand delivered but then has the audacity to suggest someone else is old fashioned. Not that I dislike the man for his predilections. On the contrary, I find them charming. I also like the man a hell of a lot more than the person sitting across from him.

“Don’t you even suggest I’m sexist,” Mr. Mulroney says.

I straighten back up and turn around. One step and Mr. Murakami looks at me.

“Sydney is a woman. Let’s ask her.”

I freeze. “Uh, sorry. What?”

“She’s barely eighteen,” Mr. Mulroney says.

“I’m twenty-two,” I correct him.
And you propositioned me for sex while you thought I was “barely eighteen.”

“Her age doesn’t matter,” Mr. Murakami says. “Surely she goes to see movies.” He looks back at me.

“He’s right,” I slowly answer. “I see a lot of movies.”

Mr. Murakami leans forward in his seat with his forearms on his knees. “John thinks we need to change the gender of the lead in my script.”

I glance at Mr. Mulroney. His face is stony and unreadable.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“He thinks people won’t come see a film with a female lead in it.”

“It’s statistics,” Mr. Mulroney quickly answers. “The numbers do the speaking. Obviously, I have nothing against films with female leads, but women usually go to see films about women.
Both
women and men go to see films about men.”

I can think of five films off the bat with female leads that grossed record high numbers.

“That’s only because that’s the way we’ve been trained to approach films,” I say. “We’re taught men’s stories can be related to by both genders, but we’re told only women can relate to stories about women. It’s the same with a lot of things. Like clothes. Men and women can both wear pants, but God forbid a man put on a dress and walk around in public.”

Mr. Mulroney stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted horns.

I clamp my mouth shut, afraid I’ve said too much.

“I agree,” Mr. Mulroney says, taking me by surprise. He continues to keep his eyes locked on mine. A little shiver goes down my back.

So that’s one thing we agree on.

Mr. Mulroney continues, turning back to Mr. Murakami. “That doesn’t change the fact that this business is about making money, just like every other business. The percentage of female leads is dismally low. I know that. But we can’t change the whole system in one year. And your films do too well. They’re not the ones we can afford to take risks with.”