“Yeah, you’re a real slacker,” he told her. Gloria had an MD, an MBA, and a decade’s experience as a clinical psychologist. Now in her sixties, she was just hitting her professional stride. She’d be a great CEO. “Well, like I said, glad it worked out. WellyNelly is kind of important to me. I’m glad it’ll stay private for a little longer.”
“Private or no, we’ll honor your dream, Mark.”
He laughed uneasily. His dream was probably quite different than what she was imagining. “But look, if the touchy-feely path isn’t working out, don’t fire people to stay afloat. Do whatever you can to keep people working. Even if you have to sell to the big guys, go public, anything.”
“Don’t insult me,” Gloria said. “If anyone can do touchy-feely and profitable, it’s me. That’s why you brought me in.”
“You’re absolutely right. Forgive me.”
“And your girlfriends from MIT should help turn around some of that boy-club trouble you were telling me about.”
He groaned. “Don’t ever let them hear you call them my ‘girlfriends,’” he said. “They’ll quit on the spot. Neither one of them would go out with me.”
She made a sympathetic noise. “I’m not sure I want to hire women with such poor taste.”
“In the interests of full disclosure, you should know I never got up the guts to ask them.”
Gloria laughed. “Good to know. I’ll withhold judgment. How long will you be staying with the company—on a daily basis, I mean?”
“I’m not sure. I promised to give Sylly my full attention by the end of the March. He’s eager to get started.” He closed the window for the Sport Injury forum, moved over to Women’s Health. “I’ll let you know as soon—hold on, I’ve got another call coming in.”
“I’ll let you go. Happy Holidays.”
She hung up and Mark looked at his phone, saw Sylly’s name. “Aren’t you at the party?” Mark asked him.
“Don’t get pissed, but there’s been a little snag.”
Mark sat up straight. “What happened?”
“Crossed wires somewhere. A lot of people get involved in a real estate deal, you know?”
“Spit it out, Syl.”
“Somehow Annamarie didn’t get the message it was a special situation. When she saw the sale was pending, she went in with her crew and cleaned the place out. Guess she wanted to get it done before the holidays.”
Mark stood up, sending the chair shooting out behind him. Rose would assume she had to move out, might do something drastic before all of his plans were in place. “Damn.”
“It’s worse. They even took Rose’s clothes. Actually, she seemed most worried about her shoes,” Sylly said. “Women.”
“This is bad.”
“Suddenly those pillows aren’t sounding so bad, are they?”
Mark paced across the floor of his bedroom. “What are you doing about it?”
“I can’t do anything right now. Nobody’s picking up the phone—tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
“I’m not ready yet,” Mark said.
“Well, whatever you’ve got planned, just push it to eleven.” Sylly’s smile was audible over the line. “I’ll try to get the stuff put back tomorrow, but she’ll want an explanation.”
Mark went to the window, pressed his forehead to the glass. “I’m not ready.”
“Yeah you are,” Sylly said. “And it’s about time.”
Mark hung up, found himself staring at the house next door. John had stuck around, which surprised him a little. But he and Blair seemed to be a couple, often side by side as they came and went, talking, holding hands, stringing Christmas lights together.
A fantasy struck him, as it had been striking him lately with increasing frequency.
Maybe if his neighbors were happy, they’d want to spread some of that around.
Maybe they’d help him.
Chapter 22
THE WELLYNELLY HOLIDAY PARTY WAS held the afternoon before Christmas Eve in a trendy bar and bistro a few blocks from the office. Since the entire company would be closed until after New Year’s, the atmosphere at the party was especially festive—and given the long hours that everyone had been working to allow them to shut down for ten days, particularly alcohol-soaked.
Rose was an exception. Although Mark hadn’t shown up at the party, she didn’t want to risk losing a shred of her self-control around her coworkers ever again. Her tonic and lime was boring, but safe.
That’s me
, she thought.
Boring and safe. Safe and boring.
Perhaps because they hadn’t nearly been caught screwing at the office, nobody else seemed to be under the same constraints. The bistro was in a converted warehouse, and they’d opened up the interior to give them room to dance, jump on pogo sticks (provided), attack each other with inflatable bats, compete at carnival arcade games, get their faces painted, and generally let loose in geeky, immature abandon. The bar was open and free, and everyone took advantage.
Sipping her water, Rose watched as Jared, in his usual Levi’s and gray T-shirt, slow-danced with Bridget under the climbing wall, hands drifting lower with each beat of the imaginary music only he could hear. Well, Bridget seemed to hear it, too. She seemed to be leading the steps, her happy face even happier than usual.
Rose dropped her gaze to the ice in her glass. She’d intentionally stood with her back to the door so she wouldn’t be tempted to watch for him. But it hadn’t worked, not at all. Her eyes might’ve been on Jared and Bridget, but her thoughts, as they were most of the time, were on Mark.
Who wasn’t there.
It had been a month; she should’ve been over him by now. Or, at least, the ache should’ve faded, the bruise healed.
Instead, she hurt more, felt damaged, incomplete. Like a bone that had been fractured and never set properly.
Fuck it
, she thought, heading for the bar.
I’m getting a martini.
The crowd around the free booze had thickened since she’d gotten her earlier drink, and she was forced to wait in a long line that snaked past an alcove filled with antique arcade games. The sounds of Pac-Man and Space Invaders tangled with those of vintage Atari and Nintendo consoles, plugged into a 1980’s-era TV with rabbit ears.
The guys inside were gathered, backs facing her, around the Atari, the young ones laughing with disgust at the primitive graphics, the older ones gleefully reliving their youth. The room was dim, crowded, lit only by the glow of the old screens.
Smiling, Rose watched them play Asteroids, considered joining them. One of the guys, Rob, was on her team, an engineer who’d been with WellyNelly for years and wasn’t thrilled, she suspected, with her lack of experience.
Maybe it was time for a charm offensive. Giving up on the martini, she took a step into the room.
“And then he disappears again,” Rob was saying, “and she’s still here.”
Another engineer, also one of the old guard, shoved him, laughing, and grabbed the joystick out of his hands. “No accounting for taste.”
“I’d hit it,” Amit said, kicking back a beer.
“Careful she doesn’t roll over on you afterwards.”
Rose felt the blood drain out of her face. She stopped in the shadows of the doorway, tightened her grip on her drink.
Amit shook his head. “You’re just jealous, Dennis. I’ve seen the way you watch her.”
“She’s so big, what else can I watch?” Dennis said. “Blocks out the view.”
“Guess MaJo had the same problem. He didn’t get shit done after he got her hired,” Rob said. “Double-whammy having her here. First we have to carry her weight”—the others laughed—“and then MaJo is too horny to carry ours.” Shaking his head, he changed the cartridge on the Atari.
“Hope we don’t get a newbie overlord each time he wants to get laid,” Dennis said.
“Don’t think we will,” Rob said. “Sylly’s learned his lesson. When the deal’s done, MaJo’s toast.”
“That’s not what I heard. Big shit’s going down,” Dennis said. “He’s always been the heart of this place, everyone knows it.”
“Just because he was here at the beginning doesn’t mean he should be here at the end,” Rob said.
“Sure wasn’t here in the middle,” Dennis said.
“I’d like to be in
her
middle,” Amit said. “I wonder if he’s done with her?”
“Fap on, Amit. ” Rob said. “Unless you founded a few tech companies in secret and have millions in the bank, she won’t give your skinny ass a glance.”
Amit snatched the joystick out of Dennis’ hands. “She’s not like that. She doesn’t even know who he is.”
“Yeah, right,” Dennis said.
“Who’d tell her? We’re not even supposed to know.”
“You can’t keep a secret like that, give me a break. It’s like people at Apple not knowing who Steve Wozniak is.”
“I’m telling you, she doesn’t know.” Amit hit a button on the Atari and Space Invaders started up.
“She’s dumb enough,” Dennis said.
“Take it easy, Dennis,” Rob said. “You’re just annoyed she pointed out you’re two months late on your QA testing.”
“And that she turned down his generous offer to suck his dick,” Amit said.
To Rose’s immense satisfaction, Dennis turned bright red. “Chick doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“Then why was she laughing so hard?” Amit asked.
The men, except for Dennis, burst out into guffaws.
Rose braced a hand on the doorframe, willed herself to start breathing again. She swallowed over her parched throat, grateful she hadn’t had a sip of anything other than citrus-flavored water, because anything stronger would’ve ended up on her shoes.
She pushed away from the wall, took a step into the room.
Their
shoes. Because she was going to have a little
word
with these assholes.
“Happy holidays, guys,” she said, striding forward with a broad, fake smile. “Playing with yourselves?”
Dennis spun around first. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Happy holidays,” Amit said nervously, eyes darting around.
Rob closed his eyes for a moment. “You heard us, I take it?”
She stretched her smile another centimeter. “It was very educational. Until now I actually liked you guys.” She let her gaze drift over to Dennis. “Well, most of you.”
Amit froze, stared at the floor. Dennis shifted his weight from side to side, licked his lips.
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” Rob said. “They’re just letting off a little steam. Maybe had a little too much to drink. Nothing to take seriously.”
She batted her eyes at him. “Me?” Pressing a hand to her heart, she sighed. “I’m too fat and stupid to realize I’m being insulted by a few—pardon me, Amit—a couple of pencil-dicked, misogynistic losers playing video games.”
Amit shrank into himself. Dennis’s jaw went slack. Rob flinched, glanced over her shoulder to see if she’d been overheard.
“After New Year’s, when you guys have had a little time to sober up, we’ll have to have a meeting to discuss this unpleasant conversation,” she said casually. “Look for it on the calendar.”
Never dropping her smile, she turned on her new crimson patent leather heels and sashayed out of the room.
In the hallway, she made her way through the line of people still waiting at the bar, unsteady on her feet, heart pounding, hands shaking. She placed her glass on an abandoned drink tray near the kitchen and focused on the front door of the restaurant.
Get me out of here before I lose it.
She had to dredge up a smile for a couple of people who greeted her, people whose names she’d suddenly forgotten. Never slowing, she wove right and left through tables and waiters and coworkers until her palm was flat against the glass door and she was pushing it outwards.
“Need a cab?” a young woman in a royal blue WellyNelly bomber jacket asked her on the sidewalk.
“No thanks.” Rose reached for her keys, turned left to the side street where she’d parked her car.
“You sure? Company’s paying.”
She waved without turning, giving thanks she’d stayed cold sober tonight. God knows what she’d do right now if she’d had even one drink in her. Her keys, clutched inside her fist, bit into the skin of her palms. She was so angry, so itching to punch somebody.
But flattening Dennis wouldn’t help her in the long run.
Pieces fell into place, clues she’d ignored for weeks. Mark Johnson. Only hired a month before her, yet treated as a prince. Getting a random acquaintance a job without a résumé, interview, education, or experience. His familiar but tense relationship with the CEO.
The bastard should’ve told her.
Millions in the bank, founded a few tech companies…
She tripped over a tree root that had broken through the sidewalk, fell onto her hands and knees. The sharp pain sparked tears she’d held back until then; biting her lip, blinking furiously, she regained her feet and staggered on.
It was always too good to be true. She was just a body, lots of it. Tits and ass and blond, blond hair.
I’d hit it.
She jerked her car door open and climbed inside, vaguely aware of the dampness on her palms. They stung where she’d fallen.
Why hadn’t he told me? Couldn’t he have trusted me with that?
She kicked off her shoes and dug around in her purse for a tissue to wipe off the blood on her hands and knees.
It was always too good to be true.
She drove home in a daze, barely seeing the road or feeling the cold on her bare arms. She’d worn a sweater to the party but it was thin, low-cut, frilly. Two days before Christmas, even in California, that wasn’t nearly enough. When she parked her car in the driveway of her house—Sylly’s house—her hands were numb, in part because she’d been too distracted to turn on the heat.
The house was dark, not what she expected. The real estate agent had come by with the stager the day after Thanksgiving and strung up pale yellow Christmas lights all over the gate and front windows.
As Rose got out of her car, not bothering to put on her shoes, she wiped a stray tear off her cheek and squinted through the darkness. The lights were gone. Not just turned off; gone.
For a split second she wondered if, in her upset, she’d pulled into the wrong driveway. But it was a custom house. And the number was right. It was Sylly’s house.
Then she noticed the keybox that used to hang from the front door was missing, and for the second time that night, she felt the blood drain out of her.