“That may be,” I said, keeping my voice as light as I could. “But it’s still not really professional, is it?”
“Not really professional is me asking you for another lap dance,” Dan purred, unperturbed.
My face was so hot I wondered if I was running a fever. How could he just stand there, straight-faced, propositioning me to take my clothes off? I should’ve known back at the bar that agreeing to dance for him would come back to bite me in the ass.
“You’re right about that,” I managed to say. “That wouldn’t be very professional at all.”
“Just keep it in mind, is all I ask for,” he said, grinning and turning to go. “The date, that is. Not the lap dance. Though a man can dream.”
He sauntered over to the nicest car in the lot by far, and I watched him go, wondering just what was so great about a crockpot dinner that made me pass up that tall drink of man. He was so sexy, and in spite of my misgivings about our professional relationship, I actually wanted to go on a date with him.
Hell, if I were being perfectly honest with myself, I would’ve given him another lap dance. That’s how much I liked him.
Maybe I’d understand Dan and Roland’s differences better if I’d had a sibling. Alas, though, I’d been a single child—probably for better than worse. I didn’t envy the idea that I’d have to deal with a living sibling, angry at me for causing our parents’ deaths.
But the difference between the two men was vast. Dan was handsome, for one, and outgoing, easy to talk to and get along with. He was flashy but compassionate, and flirtatious to boot.
And then there was Roland. Reclusive, unpleasant to gaze upon, and endlessly rude. How could they both be products of the same parents? I resolved to ask Sam as soon as possible if Roland wasn’t perhaps adopted into Dan’s family—or the other way around.
The rest of the week flew by. I started getting to work at 7:30 in the morning just to try and avoid Roland’s ire at my incompetency, but he still found things to be critical about.
“Too casual,” he barked at me when I gave him his paper and coffee while wearing dark wash jeans—which I thought looked fantastic with my blazer.
“This isn’t a club,” he said again, when I wore a dress with some sequins in the detailing.
However, it wasn’t until his sly “where’s the funeral” comment regarding my sleek, all-black suit that I struck back.
“This is my first office job!” I spat, sick of him commenting on my appearance. “If there is a dress code, forward it to me. There will be some wardrobe hiccups as I try and adjust to this particular culture! My previous job…” I gulped. Dan might have known what my previous job was, but I wasn’t about to divulge it willingly to Roland.
“Decidedly more casual, I’d imagine,” he replied coolly, making me flush to the very roots of my hair. Oh my God, he knew. I wished I could die right then and there.
“If you’re struggling with fitting in with the office culture here,” Roland added, not looking the least bit embarrassed, “you could always, I don’t know, open your damn eyes and look around the fucking office to see what the other women are wearing. Is that too hard a task? Want to screw that up, too?”
“No, I’ll open my damn eyes and look around the fucking office, like you said,” I replied, my shame thankfully replaced with irritation. “And maybe I’ll get some shitty fashion tips from some of these assholes, too.”
He gave me an appraising look, like all the tough language had impressed him, and I felt a weird little glow of pride. Yes, this girl had a sailor mouth right alongside the best of them.
“Get out,” he said almost amicably, and I left feeling like I’d won that round—or, at the very least, held my own.
At the end of the week, though, after a whirlwind of training and digitizing and trying to gain my footing at this confusing place, one major safety net was removed: Myra. On Friday afternoon, we all gathered near the breakroom to celebrate her very last day with Shepard Shipments. Most of me was consumed with panic. I always felt better at Myra’s side, accompanying her on the errands Roland sent her on, always knowing that she had my back when that frightening phone rang. Now, it was going to be just me, training wheels off, trying to do her work.
There was a swell of people I normally didn’t see on this floor, and I realized that employees from companies occupying the floors below had arrived to see Myra off. That was how important a contribution she had made to this place.
One person, however, was noticeably absent from the celebrations, which included an enormous cake and plastic flutes of champagne: Roland. The door to his office remained closed, even as the volume of laughter increased as the amount of champagne people drank increased.
It made me unreasonably angry to realize that he wasn’t here, sending off Myra, who’d been his right hand woman and then some. Couldn’t he at least come out and give her a hug in front of everyone? I didn’t expect him to imbibe in cake or champagne or anything else that symbolized happiness. He obviously wouldn’t touch happiness with a ten-foot pole.
“What’s that face for?” Myra asked me, handing me a slice of cake on a plate.
“It’s nothing,” I said, grumpy as I stabbed a fork into the treat, staring daggers at Roland’s office door, which remained closed and impervious to my anger.
“You might as well tell me,” she said, sipping on her champagne. “Your face tells the world what’s going on in that head of yours. And I won’t be here after today for you to vent to.”
“It’s just that Roland isn’t here for your going away party,” I complained, stuffing a piece of the cake in my mouth. It was moist and heavenly, but I didn’t want to get distracted from my purpose. “You’ve been with him all these years, doing everything for him. You’d think he’d climb down from his throne and at least say goodbye.”
“Silly girl,” Myra sighed, shaking her head at me. “You just don’t know the man yet. We’ve already said goodbye. So don’t you worry about that.”
That might’ve satisfied Myra, but it did very little to satisfy me. I thought it was disrespectful that he wasn’t here to celebrate the end of her career, cowardly, even.
I couldn’t relax, pacing around in consternation. Even Dan was here, topping off Myra’s glass of champagne whenever she wasn’t looking.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” I announced suddenly, hoisting my glass up. Something had to be said, and I was going to be the one to say it.
“A toast, a toast,” Dan said, clinking a plastic knife against his plastic glass of champagne.
Myra looked at me sternly and shook her head.
“I really want to say a few words,” I said, plunging forward in spite of her. “I know I haven’t been here very long at all, but Myra has really been something special for me this past week. I can only imagine what it was like to work with someone so caring and capable all this time.”
“Here, here!” Sam called, but I wasn’t anywhere near done.
“If I were Roland Shepard,” I continued, smiling dangerously as half the room paled, “I’d be kissing her feet right about now—no, the very ground she walked on. I don’t believe this place would function if not for Myra. I mean, she practically ran the place, wouldn’t you agree? The eyes and ears and hands and brains of the president of Shepard Shipments. Why not the president himself? I’d vote for her!”
A few people clapped uncertainly. I was downright shocked that Dan looked uncomfortable. He’d been able to ask me out on a date without so much as batting an eyelash. Why was what I was saying—the truth, by the way—so much worse?