The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) (7 page)

“Speak English, Stewart.”

His eyes narrowed even further. “Carole has more experience than you.”

She also had pert boobs, long legs and non-existent hips, and she put up with being called “doll” - Stewart’s dream of a seductive yet compliant female.

“Besides,” he said. “She’s an asset, brand-wise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We have a company website, you know.”

“I ought to. I designed it.”

“Carole’s picture there projects an image. It says, ‘this is a company with a winning paradigm.’”

“Excuse me?”

Stewart took a deep breath. “It says we have our feet on the ground, our nose to the grindstone, and our eyes on the prize.”

And our head up our ass.
She didn't speak her thought loud. Instead, she said, “Eye candy on the website.”

“You’re being counterproductive, Cyn,” Stew said. “You need to stay on-goal.”

“Oh, I’m on goal.” She rose, planted her fists on Stew’s desk and stared down at him. “And my goal requires promotion. Specifically, the position of customer account manager, and the salary that goes with it.”

“The company has plenty of opportunities for advancement.” He gazed past her at the golf trophies on his shelf. “Don’t blame me if you haven’t utilized the right career paths.”

Her fingers itched to shake the little weasel. That wouldn’t get her a promotion, though. In fact, it’d probably get her fired. She ought to quit on her own, but good job opportunities didn’t pop up everywhere these days, and most folks were happy to earn a paycheck, even from a boss like Stew the Poo.

“Now, maybe you’d better get back to work,” the Poo said. “I still need the project implementation projections.”

Cyn did a not-so-slow burn. The creep had dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her for months. Then, he’d hired someone from the outside. Next, he’d ordered Cyn to train the new person. Now, he’d dismissed her. If she stuck around another minute, she’d say something she’d regret.

So, she stood and looked down at him. “Fine.”

He gave her an oily smile. He’d won, and he knew it. “You’re a team-player, Cyn. That’s what I like about you.”

“Right,” she said from between clenched teeth. Before either of them could say another word, she turned and left the office.

Once in the hallway, she pulled the door closed carefully, rather than slam it, as she’d really like to do. Then, she pounded her head on the wall a few times.

Bam.
There had to be another job somewhere that would pay her more money. But, she’d have to leave her pension and 401k if she left.

Bam.
There had to be a way for a regular single person to qualify for a mortgage. But in Oakland, decent houses started at three-hundred thousand.

Bam.
She’d move to the boondocks. But then, she’d have a multi-hour commute on freeways that looked like parking lots at rush hour.

Bam.
There had to be some way. There had to be.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Huh?” Cyn looked up.

Midge, the receptionist, was staring at her with alarm-widened eyes, coffee spilling from her mug.

“Why are you pounding your head against the wall?” Midge righted her cup.

“Because it feels so good when I stop.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

She knew it didn’t. Still, what could she do?

“Calories,” Cyn mumbled. “I need calories.”

*

Smells of chili and cilantro filled the air at Romero's, mingled with the scents of corn, cumin and melted cheese.

Jenny shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the wooden chair opposite Cyn’s. “Okay, who died?”

Cyn set down her menu. “You don’t want to know.”

“You never ask me to meet you at Romero’s unless something really bad has happened.”

“Sit down and help me decide,” Cyn said. “I plan to order half the menu.”

From the kitchen came incessant chatter in Spanish and the clattering of pans and dishes.

Jenny sat and put her warm hand on Cyn’s. “Tell me, honey.”

“In a minute. I need to fortify myself with some refried beans.”

“We’ll go for ice cream afterwards.”

Bless Jenny. The rest of the world acted as if she had no right to eat because she wore a size twenty-two, but Jenny never disapproved.

The elderly waiter waited with a pen poised in his gnarled fingers. “Do
las señoritas
know what you’ll have?”

“We’ll want to split some guacamole,” Cyn said. “And I’ll have the number three.”

Jenny didn’t even look at her menu. “I’ll have the same.”

The man took their menus and limped off as if every step aggravated his arthritis.

Cyn dipped a tortilla chip into the salsa and raised it in a toast. “Over the teeth and past the gums. Look out, buttocks, here it comes.”

Jenny crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you do that?”

“What?” Cyn put the salsa-laden chip in her mouth and chewed.

“Why do you make fun of yourself like that?”

Cyn swallowed. “You think it’s not going to my buttocks?”

“Your buttocks are gorgeous.”

“You’re the best, Jenny,” Cyn said. “But you need to have your eyes checked.”

“You’re in fabulous shape, Cyn. I bet you were at the gym bright and early today.”

“Of course,” Cyn said.

“You’re strong. You have great muscle tone.”

“I guess.” Sometimes, sweaty guys using the exercise machines after her had to lower the intensity setting.

Of course, Jenny did not have that problem. Although she carried a few extra pounds herself, she never let them spoil her fun, and she was a lot slimmer than Cyn anyway.

“Your skin glows,” Jenny went on. “You radiate health.”

“Yeah, yeah. I glow and radiate. I’m a regular x-ray machine.”

The waiter brought a bowl of guacamole and more chips.

Cyn dug into the creamy pile of green, savoring the soft texture on her tongue. “Here goes weeks of dieting.”

“No one can live on carrot sticks and low-fat salad dressing,” Jenny said.

“I could.” She could if the world would cooperate.

“You could exist on that,” Jenny said. “Not live.”

“Okay, then, I exist.”

“That low-fat dressing is vile.” Jenny huffed. “It isn’t working, anyway. It isn’t making you thin: it’s making you miserable.” She leant back. “So, will you tell me why I had to meet you here on no notice?”

“I didn’t get the promotion.”

Jenny's head snapped up. “Has Stewart lost his mind?”

“If he ever possessed a mind. He hired someone from the outside. A size six.”

“Hire someone who doesn't know the company? Even Stew the Poo can't be such an idiot.”

“Don’t underestimate him. He gives idiots a bad name.”

The waiter bore a huge platter of beans and steaming rice, an enchilada and a taco, a
chile relleno,
more creamy guacamole, sour cream and cheese – gooey, melting, fattening cheese - with a cloud of spices floating over the whole thing.

Cyn dug into the beans. They oozed calories. Was it possible to smell lard? “Eat your lunch. It’s delicious.”

Jenny finally helped herself to spoonful of guacamole. “He used you, didn't he? He wanted someone to do the manager's job without a manager's pay. He lured you with the promise of the promotion, and you fell for it. What's his excuse?”

“He wants someone who projects the right image on the company website. A slim image.” Cyn finished her
chile relleno
and moved on to her rice, savouring the firm yet melting texture on her tongue. “And he wants to pork this woman. It's probably an unwritten part of her job description.”

Jenny grimaced. “Would you want a job where you have to pork Stewart?”

“Ewww.”

The two of them ate in silence for a while, savoring the colors, flavors and scents of the Mexican cuisine. At last, Jenny asked, “So, what are you going to do?”

“About Stewart, I can do nothing. And I doubt I could get a better job.”

“Why not?” Jenny said. “You have the qualifications, you have the skill. You understand how customers tick and how to get them to buy. And now you have management experience, too. You’re so well qualified. You just have to find the right company.”

“What company would that be? They all want stick women to adorn their offices.” Cyn wiped her mouth with the starched linen napkin. “I have another idea.”

She reached into the pocket of her jacket for the brochure from the clinic and slid it across the table to Jenny.

Jenny's lips narrowed. “No, honey. Surgery is not the answer.”

“I called them this morning. I can have it done in a couple of weeks.”

Her friend crumpled the brochure into a wad and set it on the table. She clasped Cyn's pudgy wrists. “Don’t you dare even think of such a thing. Just an anesthetic mistake can kill you.”

“Lots of people have had it done.”

“People who need it,” Jenny said. “You don’t.”

“Nothing else is working.” Cyn rested her palms on the table and leaned toward her friend. “To be thin, I'd sell my soul.”

The room changed. The walls leaned inward, and the floor shook.

Cyn clasped the table edge.

“Are you all right?” her friend’s voice sounded as if played in slow motion.

Everything started to spin, and Cyn pressed her hands to her eyes. When she removed them again, everything had gone black.

*

When Cyn’s vision returned, she found herself in some kind of anteroom with bare vinyl floors and rows of straight-backed chairs lining the walls. An empty metal desk stood in front of an unadorned door. Without windows or pictures, the décor went way past minimalist to bleak. If she’d sold her soul to the devil, the Prince of Darkness ought to be able to do better than this place.

She was in hell, right? She wasn’t in Kansas anymore, for sure. Nor Romero’s Cocina Mexicana. She’d just vowed to sell her soul in exchange for a svelte figure, so the devil must have taken her.

Had the trade yielded an improved figure? But a glance down her body showed the same bulging belly and fat thighs. Beelzebub hadn’t kept his part of the bargain – every surplus pound on her body had followed her here.

“Well, Satan, or whoever brought me here, I don’t have to endure any lakes of fire if you haven’t made me thin.”

“Come in, Cynthia.” The deep male voice seemed to come right out of the walls.

She looked around. “Huh?”

“The door, Cynthia. There only is one.”

She did a complete three-sixty. The voice was right. Only one door – the one behind the desk. She must have materialized inside the anteroom. Either that, or she’d had a wicked reaction to MSG, if they used that at Romero’s.

“I’m waiting,” the deep voice called again.

Oh, what the hell? Oops, now that she was in hell, maybe she’d better stop using it as a curse word. The landlord might take exception. She walked to the door and tried the knob. It opened easily.

The room was even sparser than the anteroom, with the same vinyl floor, the same metal desk. A man sat behind this desk, though, on the only chair in the place. He hunched over a keyboard, his face obscured behind a huge computer terminal. As if unaware she’d come in, he typed and stared at the screen while she fidgeted.

She cleared her throat.

“Cynthia Redmon?” he asked, still studying the screen.

“You were expecting, maybe, Britney Spears?”

“What would I want with her?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’m almost finished here.”

She glanced around. “The floor looks comfortable.”

“Sorry.” A hand appeared from behind the terminal, masculine with long fingers. It pointed at a spot beside her, and a high-backed armchair appeared. Oh-kaaay. Definitely not Kansas. Cyn lowered herself into it and put her hands in her lap.

He tapped his keyboard for a minute. Then he pushed his swivel chair from behind the screen and looked at her. Cyn’s breath caught on an audible gasp before she got control of herself. He was easily the most unusual looking man she’d ever seen, as well as the most handsome. His skin had a dark glow, in contrast to the ice blue of his eyes. High cheekbones and bushy eyebrows made his face look harsh, almost animalistic. Yet the whole package worked in an otherworldly sort of way. Could this be the face of Satan himself?

One of his bushy eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”

Horns, maybe. His hair was long enough to hide stubs of horns. It came to a prominent widow’s peak in the front, which also made him look devilish. Oh, those eyes…

He glanced back at his screen. “Cynthia Abigail Redmon. Born 25 years ago. Single. Assistant accounts manager for a mid-sized publishing company. Height, five-seven. Weight…”

“Hey, wait a minute, pal.” Cyn raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t discuss my weight with anyone.”

“Aren't you? Weren't you doing exactly that right before you called to me?”

“I called to you?”

He looked back at the screen. “Your exact words were ‘I’d sell my soul to be thin.’ You said it twice.”

“I didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have a contract.” She looked at her watch. Rather, tried to. Her wrist was bare. “Okay, I don’t know what you’ve done, but it must be time for me to get back to work.”

“Your last physical was excellent. Blood pressure 110 over 80.” He smiled at her. “Very nice.”

“I didn’t know men cared about women’s vital signs.” The only vitals men cared about, in her experience, were 36-26-36. Or 40-18-22 these days.

“You live alone in a nice apartment and make a good salary.”

“Not enough to buy a house in California,” she said. The way her life had gone so far, she wouldn’t get a husband’s help with the down-payment any time soon.

“That’s why you were so upset to lose that promotion,” he said.

“How much do you know about me?”

The fire in his blue eyes flared briefly, making him look truly dangerous. “As much as I need to know.”

She got up from the chair, strode to his desk, and rested her fists on the top. From this close, his ice-blue eyes and the glow of his skin could hypnotize a woman off lesser determination. In fact, a more susceptible female might lean toward him, hoping for a kiss from… those lips were as luscious as the rest of him. Full and curved. She shook herself.