The Plan (13 page)

It is an all-you-can eat restaurant. All you can eat meat. Meat.

Fralin wants the only kind not on the menu. Her attempts would only be more obvious if she stuffed her panties directly into Canon’s mouth.

Most of the evening has been pleasant enough. Canon is beside me, so I’m spared his judgmental looks. I do get a few errant brushes from Fralin’s heels when her attempts to play footsie with my boss go astray.

If she snags my stockings, I might have to cut a bitch.

“More top sirloin?” the server says, leaning a skewer of meat over Fralin and her décolletage. Making sure he gets a tip tonight. She’s giving him two right now.

Others take slices, and I wave him off. Undaunted, he returns with chicken moments later.

“Beautiful lady perhaps prefers chicken?” He smiles down at me. Beside me, I feel Canon stiffen. All eyes are on me.

How unfair is it that this moment feels more unprofessional than all of the off-color comments made by others during the evening? I’ve listened to these company executives execute enough puns and double entendres to rival a sleepover chock-full of twelve-year-old boys.

“Look at him pound back the meat.” Way to stay classy there.

“Don’t choke the, er, I mean on your chicken.” Been waiting all night to say that one?

“Well, hello, Sir Lion, so we
meat
again.”

How exceedingly droll. Yawn.

Now, with the waiter orbiting Diana’s omnipresent moons, I feel more like a chicken than like eating it. “No, thank you. I’m finished,” I say.

“I will take whatever you’ve got,” Fralin chimes in.

I just bet you would.

“We have glazed pineapple. Sweets for your sweet smile.” He cuts meat for Fralin as he speaks to me.

I shake my head again. Canon clears his throat loudly.

Fralin’s eyes narrow. “How sweet, Ms. Baker. Should I get his number for you?” she sneers.

Silverware clangs next to me. “Thank you for the dinner. We really must head out and go over those new proposals.” Canon stands and pulls my chair out.

Sure. I don’t mind leaving. I’m done. Thank you for asking.

Peters takes a break from his protein bonanza. “Well, well, well. Throwing in the towel already, are you, man?”

“Oh,” Fralin says, crestfallen. “We will see more of you tomorrow, right?” Oh, she wants to see more of Canon, that’s for sure. The thought is nauseating. Her…him…across the hall from my room…touching…each other. I push my chair in a bit too forcefully. The place settings clatter.

I should be thrilled at the prospect of someone keeping him occupied. I shrug it off. It’s probably just the thought that someone so crass, so unworthy, might get noticed when I have failed.

11:10 p.m.

*
Phone
: In bed beside me. Like a lover. Possibly better. Definitely bigger than some.

*
Volume
: On high.

*
Screen
: Dark. Continuously so.

I S
HOULD
B
E
F
OCUSING
on the lecture playing back on the laptop. Instead, my eyes keep darting to the phone.

I keep expecting him to call.

He doesn’t.

A silent ride from the restaurant was followed by a silent ride in the elevator. Then I followed him down the hall to our rooms. Three paces behind at all times.

A couple of hours poring over tweaked proposals and highlighting differences with Bossy Pants. Now I’m alone in my room to thrill to the history of common-law marriages and other things only a handful of states still honor.

Back on task. Two days in and already seven hours behind in lectures. Not good.

At some point, I fall asleep with headphones on, listening to Professor Cameron explain the SEC’s role in enforcing the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act.

It’s as stimulating as you’d imagine.

Day of Employment:
377

3:33 a.m.

“N
OOOOOOOO
…”

Huh? Huh—What the—? Oh. Oh, shit. It is me.

I haven’t had this many nightmares in a while.

They seem to be stress-induced. Occurring more frequently now. Go figure.

In my youth they happened all the time. Always different, but with one important element often the same: Mr. Lincoln.

Dude is scary. Just picture him out in a field, stoic eyes and stovepipe hat, staring. Shudder.

Tonight he was in the closet. Not like that. Waiting. Breathing. Getting beard hairs on all my borrowed business clothes.

Then Abe made his presence known. Dumped thousands of pennies on me. Drank all Canon’s coffee.

Yeah, I’m messed up. Other people get nightmares with mangy-furred werewolves tearing the shingles from their roof. I’m terrorized by Abraham Fucking Lincoln.

No point in trying to go back to sleep. I hit the fitness center.

7:00 a.m.

*
Clothes
: Black pantsuit.

*
Canon
: Dressed. Foiled again.

N
OT
G
OING
I
N
E
ARLY
T
ODAY
. He says there’s no point if they’re expecting it.

Worrisome. He may be beginning to make sense to me.

“I will need those figures from corporate.” He’s straightening his tie in the mirror.

“They’re in your email as well as hardcopies in my case.”

The tie is not cooperating. “They don’t do me any good in your case.”

I bite my tongue and pull the stack of papers out for him. It’s not really a stack so much as a ream.

It hits the desk with a thud.
Help yourself. Might wanna bend at the knees when you lift it.

The sound draws him away from his battle with the rabbit and its hole. He looks like he’s about to say something but then thinks better of it. He yanks the tie free in frustration.

Wordlessly I step around the desk and hold my hands out, offering to tie it. He pulls his head back slightly and seems surprised, then takes the step to me, to where our feet touch.

So close together. Close. The soft sound of his breath fills my ears. I work, then slide the knot up and linger near his throat for a moment.

Warmth. I’m aware of every hair on my neck. Slowly, I smooth the tie down over his chest with my hand.

“Better?” My voice is hoarse in my ears.

He glances in the mirror, gives a nod.

Computers and papers are packed in silence.

10:05 a.m.

“T
HIS
H
ERE’S
T
HE
M
AIN
F
LOOR
for pick-and-pack. Four tiers high for the runners. The fork trucks can reach clean up to the top.” Sean Becket, floor supervisor, has been the most personable of all the personnel.

Of course, we’re scheduled to spend a whopping ten whole minutes with him.

Peters and Fralin, however, are practically shadows. Boring, whorish shadows.

The distribution center appears monumentally efficient.

If I listen closely, I can hear the gears in Canon’s head turning. Copying it has become his plan.

Mine is still under revision.

Lagging behind, I film the operation with my phone.

I may or may not have filmed Canon’s ass. Twice.

11:37 a.m.

*
Deli Delivery Driver
: Driving me mad.

“N
O
, N
O
, A D
ISCOUNT
is most certainly not okay. Not only will you not be paid for this, but you will be back on these premises with a suitable substitute in under twenty-three minutes.”

The deli delivery person does not seem to comprehend that some people cannot be bought with 15% off.

Wrong is wrong.

“But, ma’am, it’s over ten minutes one way.”

“Then you better call in an order to a nearby Quiznos.”

He looks aghast. He hasn’t read the COYA file. Seriously, dude. I’m not going down because your people slathered honey mustard on his sandwich.

Actually, I’m onboard with this particular preference. Honey is gross. Bee vomit. I have no idea why people willfully choose to ingest it.

The driver hustles off. Behind me, I hear movement.

“Mr. Canon. I didn’t see you there. Are we headed back in?”

His mouth may turn up. “Not yet. Everything seem to be in order?”

“It will be.” I hedge and hope Deli Man pulls this off.

Pursing his lips, almost pouting, he looks at me. Really looks. I start to feel self-conscious, flushed.

Is there something on my face? Something wrong I have not noticed? Without thinking, I tilt my head and look at him questioningly.

His eyes widen for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to inform me that I have toured the facility and met a hundred-plus people with spinach omelet in my teeth, he coughs.

“Would you like a drink, Ms. Baker?”

Knock me over with a feather. “Yes, yes, actually I would.”

“Good. Pick me up one, too,” he says and disappears into the conference room.

My nostrils flare like a dragon guarding a pile of gold.

9:00 p.m.

*
Location
: Bed. Alone. As ever.

*
Plans
: Highly overrated as a concept, it seems.

*
Homework
: Untouched.

B
OSS
M
AN
W
RAPPED
T
HINGS
U
P
early tonight. I have rewarded myself with sleep in celebration of removing the anchovy garnish from his room service Caesar salad without detection.

Deep in pre-dream fantasy about negative calorie brownies, my phone rings.

“Request the POs for the last five years.”
Well, hello to you, too.

“Will do, sir.”

“Also, the older sales contacts lists. We will need to cross-reference.”

“I’m on it.” I smother my yawn with a pillow.

“There are spec sheets for the warehouse. I need them.”

“Yes, sir.” Anything, just let me sleep.

“Now. I need them now.” Oh.
Oh.

“I’ll be right there.”

Clara’s robe is a beautiful black kimono. I don’t own a robe, so it’s better than none; however, I see now that it’s rather sheer. Sheer, as in see-through.

My nightgown is pretty much a gray slip and covers everything, so that’s not an issue, but this would not have been my first choice for traipsing across the hall to my boss’s room. Well, there’s nothing for it.

I knock, and his door swings open. Suffice it to say, Canon did not anticipate sheer anything.

While I’m standing in the hall, his eyes dart quickly to see if anyone else is there—as if that would make a lick of difference—and he yanks me inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He starts pacing rapidly in the small space of the room. If he rakes his hair any harder, he’s going to need plugs.

“Sir?”

“Why are you in my room like…like…like that?” His hands wave wildly around my frame.

“You said ‘now’ so I came now.”

“I have to be able to trust you. Do the right thing. Tell me.”

“Trust me?” Well now, doesn’t this just frost my buns. “You’re calling trust into question? You’ve said you’re a fair man. I want to believe that. But you’re not being fair now…sir.” I want to spit.

“Is it fair to parade around in lingerie?” He paces, his shoulders brush against the curtains.

“This is not lingerie.” I reach in the robe and pull out the very non-see-through corner of my gown. “Trust me—if I wore lingerie, you’d know it.”