Layers: Book One (2 page)

Dale closes his laptop, and leans forward.

Typical male. Say
fuck
and
rabbits
and they tune in. Well, okay just say
fuck
and they tune in.

I continue. “Remember ancient, and hot? There’s no air-conditioning in a one hundred and fifty year-old villa. Every night I would sit out on my balcony for a little heat relief, and every night it was like watching Gram and her
mature
friends in a Viagra infomercial on a continuous loop. Over and over and over.” I gesture this by rolling my hands—just because I can. “I would have killed for a remote control so I could change the channel, turn it off or at the very least, mute it.”

“Oh. My. God,” Janie says and plants her
fat
—seven-month pregnant ass on my desk.

“Yeah, Oh. My. God.” I articulate each word—so they totally get that I was freakin’—freaked out. “Two seventy-year olds fucking in a pool on an inflatable island is something you never want to see—or hear.
Ever.
”

Janie wrinkles her nose. “Yuck! The thought of my grandmother fucking in a pool––Oh God, or anywhere makes me want to…” She sticks her finger down her throat and mock gags.

“And that, folks, is why there shouldn’t be any geriatric porn.” Dale adds.

He groans and rubs his temples. “Oh my God, now I can’t get it out of my head.” He closes his eyes and narrates the scene that’s plaguing his psyche.

A set of dentures soaking in a glass that sits on a bedside table. A mature man lounges in a wheelchair, sporting a Viagra– induced stiffy. Then, with the aid of her walker a mature woman kneels in front of the man. The man leans his head back and closes his eyes. “Hell yeah woman… gum it! Yeah baby, just like that!
Gum it!”

He opens his eyes. “My new career,” he touts, “Geriatric Porn Writer.”

I think for a minute. “Hey, you might be on to something. Isn’t like seventy percent of the US population
mature?
”

Dale shrugs, then gives me a
where are you going with this
look?

“You could make it into some kind of reality show.”

“Yeah, right. Who would watch crap like that?”

“Oh come on dude. Isn’t that what reality shows are all about—crap? What’s that one—Honey’s got a boo–boo? Oh, and the one my friend, Jules watches all the time—Talk To Your Dress, or The Dress Talks—who the hell knows? Who the hell cares?”

I bite my lip—I do this when I’m trying to think or I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. So yeah, my lip has permanent teeth tracks. “Let’s see, the Amish one—Amish CSI, or is it Amish SVU, I haven’t a clue.

There’s one other Jules talks about all the time—The Kardoucheians?

Janie rolls her eyes at me.

“What?”

“That’s not what it’s called,” she whines.

“Who gives a shit?”

“I do! I love that show,” she shout-pouts.

“Well, I say a Kardoucheian free world—is a better world.” I huff.

Janie stomps her foot. “You are
so
not with it, girlfriend. I mean you’re gorgeous and all that, and you dress great, but you’re a…well, you’re a nerd.”

“Well thanks Janie, I happen to think
nerds
are like
way
sick. The good sick, not bad, in case you were wondering. I don’t know about the gorgeous thing, but the dress…great thing. Yeah, I know I’m stylin’ chica, because my friends dress me. They don’t literally come over and dress me. They shop for me—for my clothes and stuff. My point is that you can’t make a reality show that people won’t watch. So why not, Dale Adams Geriatric Porn Writer Dynasty.”

“Yeah. I can see it.” Dale says. “After about a year there will be all–day marathons. Not to mention all the additional marketing crap. T-shirts, mugs, key chains, beer—the list is endless. I think you might be on to something, Lex.”

“Well that’s one show I’ll be missing.” Janie huffs.

“Yeah right,” Dale replies.

Janie farts, then slides off my desk and rubs her tummy. “Crap. Sorry about that—pregnant and all.”

Dale and I wrinkle our noses. “Don’t worry about it,” I say while holding my breath.
Yeah, come fart on my desk anytime you want, girlfriend.
FYI—pregnant farts are nasty. Avoid at all costs.

“I’d better get my big, baby-assed self back to work before someone comes looking for me.”

She waddles toward the door then stops. She turns and hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’m such a raging hormonal idiot. I almost forgot the reason I came down here.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and hands me a Post-it-Note. “From your biggest pain in your ass. Sorry, she huffs.”

I recite from the note
.

Your vacation is over!

Sims audit on my desk by Thursday!

Stop screwing around, and do your job!

Get it done, or I’ll report you to Ryan!

“What a pissant,” Dale comments. “He makes it sound like we’ve been sitting on our asses and twiddling our thumbs while you were gone.”

“Don’t worry about Frank,” I utter.

“I’m not worried about him. I just can’t stand the man. He’s such a fucking dork.”

“Yeah, I agree he’s no legal prodigy. He thinks a legal
pad
is a place where attorneys hang out, and legal
briefs
are the tighty whities that crawl up his crack.”

Dale laughs.

Janie gives him a playful slug in the arm. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you had to work with the assbag. It amazes me that a guy who can barely tie his shoes could pass the bar.” She huffs. “And you.” She points a finger at me. “When my ass is bigger than a house, I won’t be delivering Post–it–Notes, so start answering his stupid e-mails.”

I pout. “All right, all right.” I glide my feet off my desk and onto the floor, and then rummage through my desk until I find my Post Its. I write, and then recite my response
.

Frankie,

Feed your dick through the shredder!

Then shove your balls up your ass!

Oh wait—you don’t have any!


Sims audit by Friday!

Or whenever it gets done!

Comprendes?

Janie grins as I hand over the note.

“Tell the asslick I’ll answer his e-mails, but no more than three a day. I can’t handle more than that.”

“I’ll tell him, but I can’t guarantee he will
comprende.
” Janie puts the note in her pocket. “Well, you two, it’s been real.” She waves as she waddles out of my office.

I flip open my laptop and exhale. “Okay, let’s fix this freakin’ ass Sims audit.

Dale opens his computer and we get to work.

Two hours later my jet lag sets in. I yawn.

“Tired?” Dale asks.

“Yeah, jet laggin’.”

He shuts down his laptop. “I’ll run and get us a Red Bull and a triple espresso.”

There are four things in my life that I rarely pass up. A good hard run, good Scotch whiskey (Gram says there’s no such thing as bad Scotch whiskey), coffee of any kind and, well…you know? If you don’t know…well what can I say?

“I’ll skip the Bull.”

He smirks. “No Bull?”

I shake my head. “No Bull.”

“Are you positive. No Bull?” He grins.

“Enough with the Bull-shit.” I moan.

“Okay, no Bull.” He pouts and walks to the door. As he takes his first step past the threshold he smacks headfirst into—
The Wall.

The Wall, aka Mountain Man
,
aka Security Pete, is a bear of a man. Standing at six-five and weighing two-ninety—or about—he’s a one-man security team. A sweet guy but someone you don’t what to mess with.

“Fuck!” Dale puffs, while rubbing his head.

“Sorry Dale didn’t see you
down
there.”
Pete mocks.

“Well, maybe you need to
look down
here,” Dale cries.

Pete smirks. “Yeah, sure thing Dale.”

Dale continues to rub his noggin as he shuffles back into my office.

Pete walks in behind him still sporting his smirk.

I flip my laptop shut. “Hey Pete.”

“Alexia.”

“What’s up?”

He exhales. “I’m here…well I’m here on official security business. I’ve been asked to escort you to the CEO floor.”

“Escort me?” I chuckle.

“Sorry, Alexia,” he announces with a somber voice, “I need you to gather your personal items and come with me.”

“My personal items? You’re serious?”

He shrugs, then nods his head.

“What the fuck?” Dale growls.

“Yeah. What the fuck Pete?” I join in because I can.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know Alexia.”

I frown. What the hell is Ryan up to
?
I shrug my shoulders and begin to gather my stuff.

Dale plants himself in front of Pete. “Hey, wait a minute man, you can’t just barge in and…escort.”

Pete takes a step back. Pete dwarfs Dale by several inches, but Dale is a practiced Black Belt with a badass mucho-macho attitude.

I grab my satchel and duffle then trudge toward the door.

Dale grabs my arm. “Hey hold on a sec, I don’t like this.” He turns then glares at Pete. “Come on Mountain Man you need to explain.”

Pete raises his hands in surrender. “Hey man, I don’t know any more than you do, I’m just doing my job.”

I pat Dale on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay, I’ll be fine. Ryan probably just needs an Alexia fix.”

Alexia fix—a rare occasion when someone actually misses my sorry ass and can’t wait to see me—so they send security to escort me to their office.

“Well maybe.” He blows out then steps aside
real
slow. Slower than a slug slithering on a shag rug—if you’ve witnessed this phenomenon then you’re a bored sorry-ass loser. Yes, I’ve witnessed it. Enough said.

Pete follows me as we stroll through the Risk Management Department toward the elevators. When we reach the elevators Pete punches the up button. We wait in silence for a minute. Sensing breathing bodies behind us, we turn.

My entire department stands before us.

Pete gives me a
what the fuck
look.

I shrug in response because that’s all I can think to do.

I scan over everyone’s faces. I see confusion, concern and a whole lot of anger. Riot angry, lynching angry, raid and pillage angry. A little extreme don’t you think?

They shuffle forward in complete synchronization. Wow. Did you see that? Like that—was way cool.

Pete hobbles back a step and raises his arms. “Hey guys, just doin’ a job here. I need you all to take a step back.

They look at me for direction—I give them nothing––they look at each other then, with reluctance, the
Mob Squad
(Very creative name, don’t you think?) glides back. Wow, again totally synchronized. How do they do that?

Pete turns his body only—keeping his eyes towards the Mob Squad, then punches the elevator
up
button several more times. Like that’s going to help.

Everyone knows that the continuous pressing of an elevator button does not make it move any faster, but we all do it.

I stand and stare at the
Mob Squad
because I don’t know what to say. This is a very rare occasion.

They look at each other then begin shouting out questions and comments.

“What the hell?”

“What’s going on?”

“Mountain, who authorized this?”

“Alexia, what did you do?”

“Are they going to can you?”

“This is crazy!”

“Security Pete, what the hell man?”

“Where are you taking her, Mountain?”

“This sucks.”

“Did Frankie report us again? We’ll kick his ass.”