The Plan Page 8

  The leg and its friend are in black pants. I’m a bit more disappointed than I expected.

  Bullshit. I’m super fucking disappointed.

  But the point is, I’m not showing it.

  He turns toward the main part of the room, toward me, and I begin wrapping the cord around his charger.

  Hoping my movements still look natural and unaffected—like hanging out in a hotel room with one’s potentially half-naked boss is a regular occurrence—my eyes flick up to see Canon stop mid-stride.

  His shirt is open. The man is wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, cuffs loose. Pretending not to notice has just become a Herculean effort.

  “Explain yourself.”

  I barely glance up, even though staring would have been worth getting fired.

  I start to pack up his laptop. I’m all business.

  Pretending to misinterpret his words, I continue packing up as I rattle off the itinerary and my role in it. I’m to take notes, hand him hard copies or access reports as needed, watch for discrepancies. I omit “glorified nanny.”

  A few times it seems he’s about to say something, to redirect me back to the situation at hand, but I plow through. Finally I close with describing the food that better not have gotten cold.

  He nods once, mouth a thin line. The shirt is buttoned and tucked in now. I have missed the show.

  “You failed to mention the dinner meeting tonight. I presume you brought suitable attire.”

  “The little black dress. Perfect for all occasions.”

  “Hopefully not too little,” he says under his breath. He may have even rolled his eyes.

  Do I seem like some sort of tart? Is this because I’m in his room? He shouldn’t have told me to be here and given me a key then.

  He takes a sip of the coffee, and the look is priceless. He was so ready to bitch and moan, and I have kept him from it. Despite the fact that he had to realize I’ve checked off all the boxes this morning, he remains somber.

  “If orange juice is not okay, I can get you something else.” Prune juice perhaps?

  “A good rule of thumb,” he says as he polishes off the eggs, “is not to make offers one cannot complete.”

  “Agreed. Thank you for imparting your expertise,” I say. “By the by, I have grape, apple, and cranberry juice in my refrigerator, if you should feel so inclined.”

  He stops mid-bacon-chew. I think I’m getting addicted to flustering him.

  If I can’t be a blip on the radar, I will settle for being a fly in the ointment.

  4:47 p.m.

  * Location: Office of Lawrence Peters, World’s Most Tedious Man.

  I FIND MYSELF THINKING about that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when a female student blinks at Indy, and her eyelids have words on them that read “I Love You” in black eyeliner. Maybe I can do that but make it look like my eyes are open. Even if I weren’t already sleepy, this company’s CEO would do me in.

  He is ether in human form. I could easily keep up even if I hand-wrote everything.

  In calligraphy.

  Mr. Peters, on the downward slope to retirement, does not self-edit. Interspersed with the incredibly slow-spoken actual negotiations, we get it all. Some of it twice. The kids. The grandkids. The basset hound.

  They’re a hardy breed, seventeen years old before Peters had him put down last week. He will be missed.

  Peters has prostate issues as well. Nothing’s off limits, it seems.

  During this, Canon doesn’t even bat an eye. One would think he might be concerned about the health of his own prostate, given that it has been cohabiting with a very large stick.

  He makes notes of this minutia as though it’s as vital to closing the deal as the fine print in licensing our intellectual property rights.

  Canon has remained stoic. Begrudgingly, I must admit I’m impressed.

  Warm afternoon sun beats down on me from the window. There’s a sunbeam on the carpet near my chair. I want to curl up in it like a tabby cat.

  The morning was less trying. Three other executives had livened up the discussion. One was even lively enough to check out my ass. A pen jab to the leg he just happened to keep bumping against mine under the conference table seemed to give him the message that he was not my type.

  “I must say, you have thought of everything. What do you need me for?” Peters chortles. Yes, chortles.

  Canon smiles and raises his eyebrows infinitesimally; he doesn’t need this guy in the least, and I’m fairly certain Peters is going to be enjoying his retirement sooner than planned. Mr. Peters doesn’t notice and excuses himself to make a call. His meandering trek to the door takes about five minutes.

  We’re alone for the first time since his hotel room this morning. Canon takes out his phone then returns it to his pocket almost immediately.

  I turn, shifting toward him just a little. I’m sure my eyes are a bit wider than normal due to my struggle to stay alert.

  Our eyes meet, and I must be punch-drunk from sleep deprivation and three hours of Peters’ monologue because I can’t help the smile that takes over my face and, just when I think I might be able to rein it in, one corner of Canon’s mouth turns up too. The shock wave ruptures the dam, and I can’t help a single laugh escaping. He looks at papers he’s holding, but even in profile I can see tell that his smile is bigger. Oh, good Lord, we have both been tortured for hours, and he’s just better at hiding it. I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to resume professional behavior.

  Not much longer. About 45 minutes, tops. Though it will seem twice as long since this Peters guy has tortoise nervosa.

  “What?” Canon is looking at me.

  The filter is broken. I’ve said that out loud.

  Oh, crap. I’m mocking a potential business partner. I am so fired.

  I own it. I repeat myself.

  And Canon laughs. Hard.

  Holy shit. I have actually fallen asleep on the job. Or died.

  I hear myself laugh, too. It is a bit nervous and hollow. I need to get out of here. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Canon?”

  He nods repeatedly, pointedly avoiding eye contact, regaining composure.

  “Take a chance with their coffee or just a Coke?” Caffeine on an IV drip?

  “Coke is fine.” He clears his throat.

  Over thirty minutes later, our drinks are gone and Peters has yet to materialize.

  “Do you suppose he’s left?” I break the silence. I’m concerned about running late to dinner; I had planned on being back at the hotel by now, and I need time to change.

  I bet this is killing Canon, this waiting around.

  “We will give him two more minutes, then we will leave.”

  I’m in the shower when I realize Canon said “we.”

  7:54 p.m.

  * Location: Sierra De Touro Churrascaria.

  * Itinerary Item: Dinner meeting with 4 top execs.

  * Dress: Black. Littlest one I brought. Worn intentionally. Don’t judge me.

  THE FOOD IS AMAZING. Freshly grilled meat straight to the table again and again. Salad bar with items I can neither recognize nor pronounce.

  We’re dining with the comptroller and three VPs. There appears to be a shit ton of suits at this company; thinning the herd seems to be in order.

  My recommendation is that we begin with one Diana Fralin, VP of Marketing. Tits on display and blatant, just blatant, flirtation attempts with the males. She’s the embodiment of every negative connotation with female executives. Giant step backward for the women’s movement.

  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 SHOULD BE FOCUSING 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.

  “NOOOOOOOO…”

  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.

  NOT GOING IN EARLY TODAY. 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.

  “THIS HERE’S THE MAIN FLOOR 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.

  “NO, NO, A DISCOUNT 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 questionin
gly.

  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.

  BOSS MAN WRAPPED THINGS UP 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.