Slave to Love (14 page)

“Okay,” she nods. “You’re a guy’s guy, Hale. Former military, CEO. Men respond to you. And you seem a lot more comfortable with guys. But it’s not that you treat women badly. You’re just more aloof with women. I don’t think the women here feel close to you.”

“Okay, I can see that,” I take in her words. “Do you think women are given the same opportunity here at SpaceCloud as men?”

Hesitating, she has silently given me my answer. “Hale, I’m your only female direct report and I’m your personal assistant.”

“Pretty lopsided, huh?”

“Yes, I think so,” she agrees. “If we’re going to be honest, it’s a boys’ club.” She’s mirroring my board’s assessment. “But I do think people genuinely like working here. It’s a great work environment, the culture is good.”

“What could make it better?”

“I know you like to keep yourself somewhat detached, you are the CEO. But I think you need to reach out a little more. Let loose, have some fun with everyone once in a while. Bond with your staff in a non-work environment.”

“I can do that.”

“I think the staff would love that. There’s a huge group going out tonight to Mexican Radio for Margarita’s and Mexican food. You should join us.”

“I’ve got a conference call at 5 P.M., maybe I can meet up with everyone afterwards.”

“Hale, the whole staff will really love it.”

“Okay, I’ll try and make it.”

Margaritas and Mexican food. That seems like an Austin, Texas thing, not a New York City thing. But it will be fun to shock the staff with an appearance.

It’s a little after 6:30 P.M. when I enter the restaurant, Mexican Radio, in NoLita, the neighborhood just north of Little Italy. Entering the venue’s warm, inviting atmosphere, my eye is first caught by the colorful Mexican folk art throughout the restaurant, the neon pinks, greens and yellows, then my eye roves to the crowd of patrons in the bar area. At least twenty of them are on my staff. And it appears that Susan and Robyn have joined them.

Tipping a Margarita glass at me, Blair uses her other hand to pull up the corners of her mouth, reminding me to smile. I laugh. Am I really that much of an ogre?

“Boss, the rumors were true, we didn’t believe them,” Annette from accounting ribs me. “I said, ‘I’m not getting on a ferry back to Staten Island until he shows up’.”

I laugh with her, “I bet these folks thought you were going to have a long night here.”

I see Blair is watching me talk to three women from accounting and she gives me an approving nod.

“You’re so handsome. Why aren’t you married?” Carmela from accounting asks. “My daughter is a real looker. She’s twenty-six and is a paralegal at a very good firm.”

This is why I don’t do this,
I think.
I would kill to be running the SkyTrack over at Level 9 right now.

“Carmela, she sounds way too good for me,” I say with a laugh.

Out of the corner of my eye I see red, so I know Robyn is approaching.

“What are you drinking?” Susan asks, as she pulls up right beside her colleague.

“You know what, let me talk to the bartender to open a tab for everyone. What are you two drinking?” They join me over at the bar where the bottles are on recessed shelves under cobalt blue lights, adding to the restaurant’s warm and festive mood.

“We’ll have two Margaritas rocks, one with salt, one without and I’ll take a bourbon Manhattan up. And I’d like to open a tab for everyone in this group over here.” Blair joins us, along with some of the programmers and Annette and her accounting crowd.

“Isn’t he handsome,” Carmela starts in again. “Hale, do you have a girlfriend?”

I’m looking at Blair as she makes a comical face at me. I never talk about my personal life with staff and today she called me aloof and detached. Scanning the faces as they wait for my answer, it occurs to me that these people give me the better part of their days and while I compensate them handsomely, provide good benefits and a pleasant work environment, I really do owe them more than that.

“There is someone very special in my life.” It feels good to admit that truth.

“Call her. Have her come join us,” someone suggests.

“She doesn’t live here in New York. I split my time between here and Austin and she’s out there.”

“You have no pictures of the two of you in your office,” Susan notes.

Playing dumb, “You know you’re right. I need to change that.”

“You need pictures of all of us. We need selfies with you,” Carmela suggests as she and Annette flank me, holding a cell phone high. “My daughter is going to be so jealous.” Carmela elbows me and I actually laugh. These women are hysterical.

“What about your husband,” I tease, taking a sip of my Manhattan. The cherry is only partially submerged and just the thought of feeding it to Sierra makes my cock twitch.

“Twist my arm, I need one of the two of us to share with my husband. He can’t get mad, you’re the boss and you pay for our medical insurance,” she laughs and holds the camera high, putting her cheek next to mine.

I look over and Blair is shaking her head at me approvingly. Apparently I’m doing a good job of shedding the reputation of Mr. Aloof.

“C’mon Annette, let’s get one for your husband.” I put an arm around her. “Tell him he needs to take you out for a night on the town or you’re going to be forced to run away with the boss.”

“Who knew you were so funny, Mr. Lundström.” Annette clinks her beer stein to my Martini glass.

“Mr. Lundström is my father.” I wink at her. “You need to call me Hale.”

“Would you take our picture?” Robyn asks Annette. Handing over her cell phone, she changes places with the older woman and struts between my legs, taking a seat on my left thigh, where she crosses her legs with great flourish.

I’m in shock. Literally in shock. We both know she’s commando and her bare, hairless everything is on my pants leg. Turning to look at me with a smile, she grabs the cherry from my Manhattan and holds it before her lips as Annette shouts, “Perfect” and then she pops it into her mouth with a self-satisfied look.

Practically pushing the woman from my lap, I catch Blair’s face in time to note her shocked look. With a deep exhale of breath to keep my cool, I place my molested drink on the bar, excuse myself and head toward the men’s room. With a glance over my shoulder, I motion for Blair to follow me.

“Hale, Robyn is not wearing underwear.” Blair seems not quite sure how to react.

“I know.” My face mirrors her reaction. “Do me a favor and run interference for me tonight. If you see her hanging on me, get in between. Or send Carmela and Annette over.”

“Will do. Oh my God, you need to get those pants to the dry cleaner ASAP,” she laughs.

“What are you kidding, I’m going to burn them. So, you really wanted me to go out tonight?”

“You’re doing great, boss.” She pats my arm. “With the exception of having some nasty hoochie rubbed on your leg, you’re doing great.”

“You can’t make this shit up,” I laugh, as we walk back to the bar and I insert myself into a group of techie boys.

“Do you want me to grab your drink off the bar?” Blair points to my half full Manhattan still sitting on the blonde-wood bar.

“That’s not going anywhere near my lips.” The thought of Robyn’s fingers in my drink pisses me off.

“Why don’t I get you a fresh one,” Blair offers. “One that’s, ummm,
untouched,
” she laughs.

Laughing, “Remind me to give you a raise.”

“You really are a nice guy.” She smiles and heads to the bar to order me a new drink.

Pouring over my reps sales
reports, trying to decipher if the deals are real and will come to fruition before the end of the calendar year, or if they are fairy dust, just figments of the reps imaginations, is not my favorite activity. Several times a year, senior management tasks us with putting together the quarterly stack rankings, where I have to rank my sales team from top to bottom. This is an exercise everyone in management hates. Your bottom players are always vulnerable and usually this activity takes place prior to a layoff.

I always have terrible guilt about the people I have to rank at the bottom. Especially if they have families. Delivering bad news never, ever gets easier. Sitting at my dining room table, I recheck all the numbers I’ve calculated. This is not something you want to get wrong. It’s actually not something I want to do at all.

Stretching out my arms and shoulders, I think maybe I’ll take a break and shoot my daily photo for Hale. It’s become quite the joke between us as I place the mermaid in a different position every night. Just as I reach for my phone, it rings. Perfect timing for a break.

“Hey Monica,” I answer the phone, “what’s up?”

“Do you fucking believe the photo that skank had the nerve to send us?” I hear the indignation and anger in her voice.

“What photo?” I have no clue what she’s talking about.

“You haven’t seen it?” Her voice rises an octave.

“No, sorry. I’ve been working on something for Kemp.”

“Check your texts. Now.” The now is emphasized.

“Okay, hold on.” Pulling the phone from my face, I go into my texts. There is only one unread one. It’s from Robyn Stiles.
That’s odd,
I think.
Robyn’s never texted me before. Why would she be texting me?

It’s a group text to me, Monica and Beverly.
Hands off, girls. He’s right where he belongs. #Mine
Below the text is a photo.

“Hold on,” Dropping my phone to the table, I dash to the bathroom, sinking to my knees. My dinner quickly makes its way back up, as I sob. I’m not sure if I’m sobbing from the photo I’ve just seen or because I’m throwing up and that always makes me cry.

Robyn? Seriously Hale? Seriously? You big fucking player. Robyn? Oh God, my heart hurts. I let you in, thinking we could be something. Share something. What a fucking mistake that was.

“Oh crap,” I realize I’ve left Monica on the phone. I don’t even want to touch my phone. I don’t want to see that picture again.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No. I’m really not okay. Fuck. I really was falling for this guy, Monica, in a way I haven’t fallen for anyone in a long, long time. And he’s just a big fucking pig. It’s one thing after another with him. Then he comes back with the trust me stuff, so I do and then it’s another thing. It’s just too much.”

“Why would she send this to the three of us? That is what I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know.” A fresh round of tears begins.

“I know this is probably not the best time to bring this up, but can you see her vijayjay?”

“What?” I screech and look at the photo on my phone. “Hold on, I’m going to mail this to myself and look at it on my PC.”

Opening the photo, I gasp. “Someone needs to tell her that pink and red clash.” There it is, on display, right under the hem of her red slut dress, a very pink body part.

“Ewww,” Monica starts laughing, “she’s got a really nasty looking one. That is the ugliest vagina I’ve ever seen.”

Laughing through my tears, “It really is. It’s as nasty as she is.” Looking at the picture I notice she has the cherry from his Manhattan and that hurts more than anything.

I thought that was our thing.

“What a dick, Monica. I am really glad I didn’t sleep with him. He’s just a big playboy. Love the one you’re with must be his motto. I would love to pull myself off his project. Wait, didn’t I just say that like, umm, yeah, recently. He is just trouble.”

“I just don’t understand why she sent it to us and with that message. It’s just weird.”

“Hold on, Monica, Beverly’s calling.” I click over to the other call. “Yes. I saw it,” is how I answer.

“She is a disgusting tramp.”

“So is he.” I choke on my words.

“Why did she send this to us? I don’t understand why she sent this to us.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the modern version of an engagement announcement.” The sarcasm more than drips from my words, it gushes.

All I know is that for me it’s the end of something that was clearly never meant to be. If I needed a sign to say, stay focused on your dream, stay focused on that promotion, this was certainly it, delivered in flashing red and pink neon lights.