8. Salinger
8
SALINGER
“ H ope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
Scarlett sits on the edge of my desk, her pencil skirt riding up her thigh. I know what she’s doing. She’s at least slightly more subtle about it than Sansa was, though the attempt is still somewhat ham-fisted.
Before I can verbally slap her down, Mandy returns to the office, heralded by the anxious yips of her obnoxious dog. Instead of greeting it and stuffing it full of dog treats or hotdogs or whatever she’s constantly feeding it, she storms into my office.
“You, sir, are a complete fucking asshole. You have been gaslighting and manipulating Alma. She thinks you’re in love with her. She’s got baby names picked out. She thinks you two were going to get married. Your relationship was barely over, and now you’re flirting with your intern.”
I try not to smile. “I’m an asshole. Guilty as charged. ”
“You are shameless,” she hisses at me. Her hair is snarled around her face, and her cheeks are flushed.
Scarlett gives me a knowing look. “Honestly, Amanda.”
“It’s Mandy, and seriously?” Mandy turns on the intern. “Get off his desk—don’t sit like that. This isn’t the eighties. Geez, I’d get a leg cramp if I tried to sit like that. Shoo. Out.”
Sure, it’s petty of me, but it’s endlessly amusing to see Mandy so jealous and territorial.
“I just wanted to see if Salinger needed someone to tag team on the charity event next week,” Scarlett drawls. “I heard from a friend that he had tickets.”
“He does have tickets but not for you.”
“I have the guest list if you want to debrief, Salinger.” Scarlett’s not giving up.
“Excuse me, but the adults are talking. You can go back downstairs now,” Mandy interjects, glaring as Scarlett saunters out of the office.
Mandy turns on me the minute we’re alone.
“You’re a sick, twisted man.” She jabs me in the chest with her fingernail. “Scarlett’s practically a child! You rich men are all the same—you go after some twenty-year-old coed with the personality of a saltine cracker and the self-preservation skills of a mall pet-store hamster.”
“Exactly,” I mock her. “Girls in their twenties are easy to manipulate. Everyone knows it except for…” I laugh. “Well, except for twenty-something girls.”
“Go after someone your own age. Fucking pervert. You’re just like your father.”
Mandy must really be pissed to bring that up. If she wanted to make me angry, she succeeded.
“You mean someone like you, Mandy?” My voice drops. To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch when I stand up, sending the pens on my desk rattling. “Someone who spills coffee all over herself, who’s bitter and washed-up and can’t even manage to dress herself in the morning?”
There aren’t any tears in her brown eyes, just stubborn defiance. “No.” Her chin sets. “Not like me. Unlike those poor girls you manipulate, I know exactly what kind of man you are, and I don’t want someone like you in my life.”
“Too bad.” My voice is sardonic. “Because unless you quit, you’re stuck with me, trapped here in this tower—”
“Forced to do your bidding,” she says in a poor mimicry of my voice, “like microwaving your lunch because you’re too much of a helpless man-child to do it yourself.”
“Please. You like being able to mother people. It makes you feel like less of a failure.”
“ I’m the failure? I’m not the one who doesn’t have the balls to break up with my twenty-something girlfriend. Aww,” she croons, “did I hurt his widdle feewings?” She glares at me. “Weak.”
“Bitter,” I spit.
“You said that already. Do you have anything else? Some of us have to, you know, actually work today.”
“Yeah. My date tonight. She better be hot.”
Her eyes flash. “Oh, she’s gorgeous. Just your type.”
“Young? Beautiful? Nice rack?”
The flush in her cheeks makes the dash of freckles stand out. “All that and more.”
“I trust you.” The smirk plays around my mouth. “You know my taste by now.”
For a second, I think she’s going to slap me. Instead, she turns on her heel.
“You better not drop the ball,” I call after Mandy, baiting her. “I want every man there to be jealous of me. ”
Pausing, my assistant glances back over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry—she’s perfect. She even puts out.”
“Fantastic. You, the girl, and the dog need to be at my penthouse—”
“At five-thirty.” Mandy’s smile is sickly sweet. “Don’t you worry.”
It almost sounds like a threat.