5. Sophie
5
SOPHIE
Attention All Employees of E&V,
For those of you who haven’t heard, the severe winter storm watch that was originally forecast to begin later tonight, has been moved up. Our offices will be closing early, at 1 p.m. to allow everyone time to get home before the storm. Please remember to cancel any scheduled meetings.
As an added reminder, please clean out any perishable items from your desk and the fridge, as we will not be returning until after the new year.
Have a Happy and Safe Holiday!
Janet McDonald
Head of Human Resources
Ellinger & Vogel
O h, thank fuck.
I lean forward, reading the email through twice to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. The “small project” Holden asked for my help on has turned out to be a nightmare. Not only were there design irregularities, but the print itself would have taken almost twelve hours. My grossly incompetent counterpart undoubtedly called in sick because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get this print completed in time to meet the deadline, leaving it to me to break the news to his boss.
Also, his keyboard has greasy finger marks all over it, and I had to wipe it down with disinfectant wipes prior to use. Probably not a surprise considering the number of mini chip bags shoved in his drawer.
Using someone’s desk is pretty much the only time you can get away with totally unabashed snooping, but Vincent is boring. Not a single nude Polaroid or printout on medieval torture devices. First the shitty work, then the un-scandalous but greasy workspace? Christ. The man appears to be disappointing in all areas. I’ll have to send a drink to his girlfriend at the next company party. She deserves it.
Boring desk aside, I actually kind of like it over here on Team Ellinger. Holden is a relaxed boss, and seems to want to see me naked, which is useful for manipulation purposes. Then again, since I’m moving on and all, maybe my not-boss would be a strong candidate for some weird, no-feelings-involved sex. He’s attractive, single, and definitely not looking to change that status anytime soon. Then there’s the added benefit of him being Bram’s business partner and an ideal candidate for revenge fuckery.
It still counts as revenge if the person you’re enacting it upon doesn’t know they deserve revenge, right? I mean, it’s the thought that counts.
Either way, Holden is top-notch rebound material, and maybe I should use his attraction toward me for non-manipulation purposes. My vagina probably has cobwebs in it by now and could use a refresher on decent sex with an actual non-silicone penis.
Not caring to hang around and risk running into Bram, I seize my bag from the desk and stand, yanking my knit cap down over my ears. I’m about to leave when a voice comes from behind me. “Be honest,” says Holden, “how badly did Vincent fuck up?”
I wince, turning to face him. The room has emptied, apart from the two of us. We’re alone. “Badly is relative.”
Holden smirks. “On a scale from one to ten.”
“Oh, I’d give it a solid eight.”
He laughs, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Yeah, I figured as much. Human resources is firing him after the holidays. So, what do I have to do to poach you from Bram?”
Way less than he thinks. I’m not an expert, but it stands to reason that it’s way easier to get over someone when you don’t have to spend forty hours a week with them. I bite my lip, and Holden’s eyes are quick to track the movement. “Wouldn’t he be mad at you? For stealing a member of his team out from under him?”
This earns me a snort. “Somehow his disapproval feels worth it.”
Yeah, no question about it, he’s flirting with me.
“I’ll think about it.” I take my coat from the back of Vincent’s chair, draping it over my arm. “Thanks for having me today. It was a nice break.”
Holden’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Trouble on Team Vogel?”
“Nothing like that. Just personal stuff,” I assure him with a halfhearted smile, edging toward the door. It occurred to me that I don’t have enough food to eat dinner, never mind make it through the biggest storm of the decade, so I’ll need to fit in some grocery shopping before I head home.
“Have a good holiday.” Holden smiles, already turning back toward his office.
I make my escape.
There isn’t another person in sight as I traipse down to the lobby, my boots echoing off the marble floors. Snow is already swirling outside the high windows, and even the receptionists have gone. By the looks of it, I’ll be spending my Christmas eating whatever the corner bodega has to offer, because there’s no way I’m going anywhere else in this weather.
I’m busy wrapping my scarf around the lower half of my face and making sure my wireless earbuds have enough battery to last the walk, when footsteps sound from the hallway leading to the conference rooms.
Somehow, even before I turn, I know who I’m about to see.
My stomach rolls when my hunch proves correct, and a quick glance confirms it’s Bram, looking ruffled and more than a little pissed off. He stops dead when he sees me, and I watch as his eyes roam to the empty reception desk, then to the balcony above us, which is absent of its usual collection of employees in the lounge area.
“What’s going on?”
What has he been doing all day that he didn’t know?
Reluctantly, I take out an earbud and force a polite smile. “You didn’t hear? The storm is hitting early. They wanted to give everyone a chance to get home.”
Bram nods distractedly. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“It’s only a few blocks,” I protest, gesturing in the direction of my apartment building, as if he doesn’t know where it is.
He ignores me. “Just let me get my coat. Wait for me.”
My mouth falls open as I struggle to come up with an explanation for his behavior. Only yesterday, things seemed to be back to normal. Is this some kind of misplaced concern? Is he feeling fatherly toward me right now? Gag. “I have to stop at the store,” I blurt out, and my eyes must be close to bugging out of my head.
“Perfect. So do I.” Without another word, and pretending he doesn’t notice my not-so-subtle brush-off, Bram heads for the stairs. “Wait for me,” he repeats over his shoulder, the stern tone leaving no room for argument.
My mouth is dry as I listen to the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the Vogel team offices, until all I can hear is the howling wind outside.
I don’t know what brought on Bram’s sudden weirdness, but screw this. He’s my boss, not my keeper. Work was officially over thirty minutes ago, which means I am a free agent for the next two weeks. There is no reason for me to be standing here, waiting for a ride I don’t want to take.
Screw. This.
Admittedly, there might be some regret when I shoulder open the door and am blasted in the face by a gust of arctic wind. The exposed skin of my face burns as I hustle down the sidewalk, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Bram.
What happens next is over so quickly that my mind struggles to process it happened at all.
One moment, I’m striding toward the apartment, listening to my favorite murder podcast and debating whether I need to stop for food, or if that leftover Chinese is still good.
The next, there’s a long, blaring horn and I pause, looking for the source of the noise. Behind me, someone yells my name.
Then, I’m flat on my back, a huge body pressing me into the icy pavement. Sharp pain is shooting through the back of my skull, and I can barely hear myself scream as a deafening crash sounds from nearby.
What—I stare up at the gray sky, my breath shaking as I struggle to comprehend what just happened. With difficulty, I turn my head and let out a feeble cry when I find a car tire about two feet from my face .
“Sophie! Fuck—” The weight on top of me vanishes, and gloved hands touch my face. Blinking, I find myself looking at Bram, and his face is as white as the snow swirling around us.
I blink. “Did... Did I just get hit by a car?”
“You got hit by me,” he growls, then makes a choked noise, eyes on the sidewalk beneath me. “You’re bleeding. Fuck, sweetheart. Come here.”
Like I weigh nothing at all, I’m lifted straight off the ground, cradled in his arms. “Is she okay?” calls another voice—a man’s. “I’m so sorry! I hit an ice patch?—”
“Shut up,” snarls Bram, already moving. I catch a glimpse of a smoking engine, the car bunched right up against a telephone pole, and a horrified driver.
Warm liquid is trickling down the back of my neck, and white-hot pain is radiating through my skull. “I think I’m okay,” I tell Bram, blinking up at his hard-set jaw and panicked eyes. “It’s no big deal. I can walk.”
He ignores me, which is apparently a theme today, and I’m so busy trying to piece together what just happened, that I’m only vaguely aware of us crossing the street. We head right for the parking garage, and Bram’s fancy, dark SUV. When he sits me carefully in the passenger seat, I see the entire arm of his coat, and most of the front, is soaked in blood.
My mouth falls open. “Is that from me?”
“You’re going to be okay.” He curses under his breath, reaching over me to buckle my seatbelt, and it’s like he’s trying to convince himself, too. “Everything will be fine, sweetheart. Head wounds bleed a lot.”
I nod, my breathing coming a little quicker in the time it takes for him to close my door and cross to his own.
“First the shoes, now the coat,” I joke weakly as he starts the car. “How much leverage is this going to buy you?”
Bram shakes his head, expression grave as we turn out onto the street. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he hisses, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.
The car that almost hit me is smoking even more now, and its driver is standing on the sidewalk, phone held to his ear. “This sure will teach me, huh?”
They take one look at me at the ER check-in desk, and moments later, Bram is pushing me through the waiting room in a wheelchair. A pair of nurses meet us in a cramped little room, already wearing gloves and yellow gowns. “She was nearly hit by a car,” Bram tells them, his voice shaking. “I pushed her out of the way, but her head hit the pavement pretty hard.” There’s worry coloring his tone, and something else. He doesn’t feel guilty, does he?
“Hi, Sophie.” An older woman in a white coat slips into the room, offering us a tight, professional smile as she pulls on a pair of gloves. “I’m Doctor Adams. Do you mind if I take a look at your head?”
Bram’s hand finds mine, squeezing reassuringly as she pokes around at the back of my skull, then plops down on a rolling stool to shine a flashlight in my eyes.
“Well, you have about a three-inch laceration on the back of your scalp, and it’s still bleeding quite a bit. We’re going to need to do some sutures, then we’ll get you down for a head CT to check for a concussion. Your pupils are fully responsive, which is a good sign.”
I’m searching for a joke in what she said, something to lighten the intensity of the moment. Nothing comes to mind, though, and to my horror, I hear a sob.
“Is that me? Am I crying?” I demand, turning to look at Bram, who is pale-faced and grave. I blink at him as a startling thought occurs to me. “You saved my life. That’s… the ca r would have hit me, right? I would have gone full pancake?”
Bram’s throat works, and slowly, he nods.
Oh, hell. Come on. I decide to get over the man and what does he do? Save my freaking life, probably risking his own in the process.
Now that we’ve stopped moving, I can see the blood that’s in his hair, coating the side of his neck and even dripped onto his pants. Fumbling blindly for the purse still slung over my shoulder, I grab my phone and turn the camera on selfie mode.
This proves to be a mistake. I look… Well, I look straight out of a horror movie. Blood is drenching my hair and dripping down my face. It looks like a lot. Too much.
“She’s losing a lot of blood,” Bram barks when the doctor returns, gesturing to me as if she could miss the steady drip of red liquid onto the checkered vinyl tiles. “Shouldn’t she be getting a transfusion?”
“We’ll get her started on a saline IV,” the woman says mildly, as if none of this is even slightly concerning. “Head wounds look worse than they are.”
I sway. “It looks really bad.”
“Then it’s only kind of bad,” the doctor quips smoothly.
The crying starts up again, but I manage a valiant nod in her direction. “I appreciate your humor in the face of my imminent demise. If I live through this, I’ll name my first cat in your honor.”
The doctor, whose name I can’t remember—an issue for my hypothetical future cat—and who is busy opening a bunch of supplies on a metal tray, looks at Bram. “Is she always like this? Or should we be fast-tracking her CT?”
He considers. “She’s always like this.”
I groan. “Am I allowed to kick you out of here after you saved my life? ”
“No,” says Bram.
“Yes,” says the doctor.
My bottom lip trembles, and I clutch his hand harder. “I want you to stay,” I blurt out, mortified by my weepiness but totally unable to do anything to stop it. “If you want, I mean. I think you’ve pretty much gotten out of doing anything for me for the rest of your life.”
In response, Bram squeezes my hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”