21. The Chaperone
The Chaperone
When I was a little girl, I dreamt of being a warrior princess.
With my trusty sword (and sometimes, a crossbow or a chakram), I will slay dragons and vanquish warlords.
When I wasn’t kicking ass and doing back flips, I’d help the poor by giving alms, mending a fence, or helping a blind baker kneed her sourdough. I was one of the good guys.
Until today, I still thought I was one of the good guys. But I just had a rude awakening. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself as part of an evil corporate syndicate.
Does that mean I’m the villain? Shit. I don’t want to be the villain! I’m not prepared. I’ll need a different wardrobe and a signature scent.
I’ve always been the hero in my own mind.
Another depressing realization dawns on me. With a groan of despair, I bury my face in my hands. I’m not even the main villain. I’m the villain’s goofy sidekick, the one who makes dumb jokes and gets myself eaten by a shark.
I should probably start looking for a new job.
Instead, I check the balance of my bank account.
My paycheck just came in. I stare at the generous amount, bolstered by my third raise in three months, plus a fat bonus because Rylan Industries has more money than it knows what to do with (yeah, because they’ve mastered the tax loophole) and it’s a rare company to give so generously to its employees and then I wonder:
Maybe I can change Rylan Industries?
It doesn’t have to be evil. It can be good. Besides, I don’t think anyone on the Board of Trustees or Sam Rylan himself has it in them to be evil villains. They’re not the brightest tools in the shed. They know not what they do.
But, as the Director of the ASSET, I’m like the appointed commander of this nefarious submarine. I can steer them away from blowing up poor defenseless ships: “Hey guys, maybe we shouldn’t be militant submarines anymore. Maybe we should be jet skis and have fun!”
Yes. I think this should work. Look at what I’ve done for Rhys.
He was an impossible case, and now he’s wearing a waffle-knit sweater and is on a date with the girl of his dreams. The incel is the stepping stone to my greater purpose: transforming a thriving corporation from an evil one to a slightly less profitable yet infinitely more ethical one.
It shouldn’t be such a hard pill to swallow. My direct reports have my back. We’re synergetic. Tabitha, trustee with the pony, will be on my side. Sam will be on my side, so long as I wear a tighter skirt during Wednesday’s presentation (ugh).
The board is susceptible to my ideas, and I can be very convincing if I put my mind to it. I’m going to manifest this company makeover, and it will happen. Synergy!
I glance at my bank balance again and think of that slice of ocean outside my apartment, the bougainvillea on the south wall, the perfume of gardenias in summer. Rylan Industries will be good. It has to be. I have manifested it. Let it be done.
The ping of a text yanks me back to the present. One ping follows another…
And another.
And another.
My phone vibrates non-stop.
I snap to attention, my head still foggy from my dreadful discovery, a cement brick lodged in the pit of my stomach. I haven’t yet manifested a full transition from a shit mood to a hopeful mood yet. I’m working on it.
Still swimming back to the surface, I pick up my phone and immediately wished I hadn’t. A barrage of texts swamps my lock screen, cascading message after message. Ping. Ping. Ping. Everyone has decided to text me at exactly the same time.
Rhys
She’s waiting for a response about her cousin. What do I say?
Michelle
He’s acting weird about that drama with my cousin...
In my group text with my direct reports…
Paulina
SOS! Meeting moved to Tuesday. Next steps?
Angie
We’ve got a problem...
CEO Grab Ass
Come to my office after the meeting. I’ve got a surprise for you;)
He sent a photo, which I’m unable to see in the preview.
When it rains, it pours. I shut my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.
I’m no stranger to putting out fires. In college, I worked as a hostess at an upscale seafood restaurant in Malibu.
It was the most chaotic job I’ve ever had, much like being the ringmaster of a circus.
Short of making reservations and handling the whims of the restaurant’s entitled clientele, I stepped in when we were short staff and did everything from bussing tables, shucking oysters, unclogging toilets, and valeting cars.
I may have a cushy corner office now, but if the need arises, I’m not above putting out dumpster fires while rolling up my sleeves to unclog a toilet.
“Okay, first things first.” I whirl around and deal with my immediate problem.
Just as I feared, the initial chemistry between Rhys and Michelle has fizzled.
Michelle has exhausted her two icebreaker stories and has ventured into her taboo ‘cousin’ tale.
This is what I was afraid of. The ‘cousin’ incident is not something you want to unload on someone on a first date.
Maybe the third date, after you’re both fortified with alcohol. Maybe never...
Now Rhys, probably freaked out, messages me non-stop.
Rhys
Do I comfort her? She’s waiting for an answer...
Michelle is, unfortunately, glued to her phone as well.
Michelle
I think he’s judging me. Do you think he’s judging me?
Rhys
I’m kind of judging her. Is it wrong to judge her? This is all new to me. I’ve never slept with my cousin.
Michelle
He’s a third cousin on a distant branch of the family tree. In my defense, I didn’t know he was my cousin at the time...
I let out an audible sigh, wishing I could march up to their table and take away their phones. Instead of texting me, they could be talking this through like adults.
Tell her you understand her situation. If you’d just met your hot third cousin while under the influence of two vodka martinis, you’d have slept with him too.
Rhys
I don’t think I will.
You haven’t seen her cousin… If you’ve seen her cousin, maybe you shall.
Rhys
No. What about the second time?
What second time?
Rhys
When she slept with her cousin.
Oh. Okay. Michelle told him the full story and not just the sanitized version.
I can’t answer for her. Why don’t you ask her yourself?!!
And her proposition?
I heave another sigh. “Michelle, you bonehead…”
Tell her you’re flattered, but you’ll have to decline. That being said, you led me to believe you were adventurous. You literally tried to hook up with two women, and now you’re judging her for trying to introduce you to her cousin?
Btw, she really likes you, or else she wouldn’t have suggested a threesome.
Rhys
I am open-minded. And I wasn’t really trying to hook up with both of them at once or at all. I just got caught up in the moment.
So what’s the problem with Michelle’s ask?
Rhys
Her cousin Mike? Do I have to spell it out for you?
Not so open-minded after all;) What’s the matter? Afraid of an accidental sword cross?
Rhys
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
Maybe you’ll like it…
I let him stew on the possibilities while I switch gears to Michelle:
Why did you tell him about your cousin?! You’re coming off too strong. He’s a small-town boy from Vacaville. He isn’t used to your West Hollywood ways.
Honestly, anyone with common sense would’ve told her you didn’t open with a story of light incest, even if you’re a victim of circumstance and your third cousin was an underwear model.
Michelle
We were actually hitting it off! He enjoyed my car accident story but didn’t seem shocked. Said, “there was nothing that could shock him.” And I said, “Is that a challenge?”
I nod, understanding. Michelle has shocking stories, alright.
Michelle
Who knew he was such a prude? Speaking of… Who the hell does he think he is to judge me?
Are you still sleeping with Mike?
I glare at them as I type this. Immediately, Michelle whips her head around, guilt flashing across her face. She pinches her fingers together, indicating ‘just a little.’
I wave at the sad pair and type, one-handed:
That’s what I thought. Talk it through with him.
To Rhys:
If you’re uncomfortable with Michelle’s relationship with her cousin, tell her so. Tell her you’re not a threesome type of guy and you’re a virgin.
Rhys
But I’m not a virgin.
I raise my eyebrows. That’s what he keeps telling me. I don’t buy it for a second. Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.
You’re a born-again virgin.
Rhys
No.
Suddenly, Angie explodes my phone with a barrage of texts. Shit. Angie. I’d forgotten about her entirely.
She’d gone on a bachelorette weekend to New Orleans and should have arrived home an hour ago. But we both knew she was going to get an Uber at LAX. Unless all her cards were declined and she needed a ride...
Okay, the date needs to take a back seat as I deal with my roommate. I scan her texts, my eyes popping as I take in the crime scene photos.
Angie
Why the fuck do you have your phone on silent? Look what they did! Call me NOW!
She picks up on the first ring.
“Angie!” I’m stunned stupid. “What the fuck happened?”
“It’s gone! All gone!” comes her hysterical reply.
“When I came home, the door was ajar, the handle lopped off, the frame busted. No way was I going in by myself...” she tells me of waiting for the cops and finding the entire apartment cleaned out.
“All our furniture, Carina,” her voice breaks, “Gone.”
“The new bookshelf Rhys just built?”
“Gone! They took our houseplants, cleaned out our fridge.”
I exhale, my heart galloping with rage. We’ve noticed an increase in home burglaries in our neighborhood, but who would have the balls to break in during broad daylight. “Everything in the fridge? Even my leftovers from Mendocino Farms?”
“They took the curry couscous salad, but left your chicken sandwich,” Angie reassures me. “They even swiped the ice trays. What kind of sick motherfucker takes the ice trays?”
Per my request, Angie sends me the police report and the inventory of stolen goods:
The entire living room set.
Our house plants.
90% of the food in our fridge.
A few of my designer jeans.
My entire purse collection, which includes one Fendi baguette bag, one Coach clutch, and my Longchamp work tote.
Angie’s costume jewelry collection, most of which had been inherited from her grandma, holds no resale value, but the sentimental value is irreplaceable.
Overall, all the items stolen from our home didn’t amount to much money. I kept no actual cash in the apartment. My purses were hand-me-downs from my cousin, and I’d worn them within an inch of their lives. I doubt they had any resale value either.
“Didn’t our neighbors see anything?” I ask, incredulous that a burglary involving a sofa, a bookshelf, and three large monsteras could happen in broad daylight without anyone in our apartment complex being alerted.
“Essie saw two dudes moving the sofa down the stairs,” Angie explains, “she thought they were movers.”
“Did she get a good look at them?”
“She’s eighty-nine years old and can’t tell the difference between a ficus and a person.”
Damn. I glance over my shoulder at the anti-social date I’m supposed to be chaperoning. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
“No, no,” Angie waves off my urgency. “There’s nothing you can do. Police report’s been filed. Crime scene photos are done. I’m just wiping up the fingerprint dust and vacuuming.”
“Where are you going to sit?” I ask. “We have no furniture!”
“Carmen from 103 is giving us her patio furniture,” she says. “And Essie gave us a handful of gift cards.” She pauses, sounding like she’s shifting through them. “Wanna hit up Cheesecake Factory tonight?”
“Do I ever!” I massage my brow.
My frustration must’ve echoed in my voice because Angie asks, with a purr of curiosity. “So, how’s the date? Are the weirdos hitting it off?”
I check over my shoulder and unleash an aggravated sigh.
“Hmm,” comes her note of disapproval. “Figured as much.”
“Hey,” I snap. “They were getting along pretty well until she dropped the cousin story.”
I could hear Angie suck in breath through her teeth. She’s heard the cousin story. “At least you got the bag to her before the thieves snagged it. Girl, you were going to lose it either way.” She laughs at her own joke, notes my seething silence, then coughs. “So, what are they doing now?”
“Staring at their phones,” I say. “Bothering me.”
“What a couple of losers.”
“Not yet.” I furl my hands into fists. “I’m going to salvage this date if it’s the last thing I do. And guess what? I’ve finally figured out the ASSET and it’s... are you sitting down?”
“On this shitty patio chair,” she mumbles. “What is it?”
“Girl, wait till you get a load of this—”
My phone vibrates. “Hang on, someone’s texting me.”
A barrage of texts swamps me. I shuffle through Rhys and Michelle’s needy hand-holding questions, prioritizing the important ones and concluding that none of them were more important than a home robbery.
“Figure it out yourself,” I mutter, my patience stretched to its thinnest point.
I have a handful of texts from Sam, probably regarding my upcoming presentation on the ASSET.
Groaning audibly, I contemplate ignoring Sam too, though jeopardizing my job (questionable as that job may be) is not on the docket…
yet. I’m still determined to makeover Rylan’s evil agenda and so, I must endure and enable its bonehead CEO.
“Angie, I’ll call you back…”
“‘Kay. Bye!”
I pull up Sam’s messages, expecting the usual vague corporate questions about profit projections when, what should assault my eyes but a very poorly lit photo of a—
I blink several times, attempting to make sense of what I’m seeing. Maybe I’m imagining things.
Sam is brief.
CEO Grab Ass
this is for you
Okay. Forget about my fears of jeopardizing my career. The CEO just jeopardized it for me when he sent me a picture of his dick.