23. Miss Multiples
miss multiples
Mirren
Day one is in the books.
After a shower, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. That is, after I take off the glasses and set them in their charging case.
One glance in the mirror earlier and two things hit me at once. One, I went to the bathroom with them on. Gross. And two, Strider looks better in his than I do in mine.
I miss him. I miss him holding me and cooking for me and joking with me. I miss his little touches and the overpowering orgasms he wrings from my body. Miss I-Can’t-Come-More-Than-Once has become Miss Multiples, and that’s ruined me. Ruined me.
I want to slide my fingers between my legs and get some relief from my mental misery, but my body isn’t interested. Not in average. Not in my own hand, my own strokes, or some measly release when there’s been no coil or tightening.
In order to keep my mind off of the thing that looms largest in my life, I sort through today, filing away as many details as possible.
The factory was massive, clean, and state-of-the-art.
I doubt the workers are paid what they’re worth, and none made eye contact.
It was the programming that was held too close to the vest for my liking.
Everything comes down to how the chips are programmed, how they can be back-doored, and where they’re vulnerable.
We discussed costs, which was absolutely lost on me, and for good reason. I don’t want to buy even if Tanzi does. I need to know how to control them, repurpose them, worm into them, whereas she needs them for her business and can’t ask any of that. Or can she?
We had a traditional lunch. Ask me how I shot myself in the foot on this op in a huge way.
I told them early that I was a vegetarian.
I was concerned about live octopus. That was the wrong thing to be concerned with.
Everything looked and smelled so damn good, and I couldn’t very well go for a braised pork belly bun as some heiress vegetarian.
I was stuck with the veggie dishes. Not a hardship with how flavorful everything was, but next time… Next time I’m a carnivore.
Lunch was followed by more touring, more inner workings. I changed clothes and went to dinner into the wee hours. Local time is eleven p.m. I don’t remember the last time I slept.
I leave a light on as I have every night since I returned from deployment… well, every night except for the nights I slept in Strider’s arms. The good news is, Strider or no, I should sleep well tonight simply out of sheer exhaustion.
Strider
The days seem to be passing faster than I like.
Charlie has been chattier. The anger on his phone call was misplaced. Seems he thought I was going camping with Mirren. Why is beyond me. I just took more than a week off work. And while he knows we had a date, he’s asked nothing more. For that, I’m exceedingly grateful.
Mikey told him it was sus that I flew out and Mirren left almost immediately after.. I pried as gently as I could without raising suspicions, which was no more than two questions. Mirren went on a trip with Army buddies, he said. A vacation she never even alluded to during our time together.
Her message said nothing to me about the same.
Give me a few days, and I’ll reach out. That could be the reference, but why the cloak-and-dagger?
My mind has spun on it, all the while catching up on all my work crap, plus all the conference bullshit. Serving on the board was a bad decision. It seemed a logical step. They were tapping “young talent”—kill me now—and Dad said it would be good for me and for Electric Peoria.
It was a consideration, and five years ago, it made sense. Now I’m stuck with a glut of people I have less and less in common with, who are comfortable with corporate sponsorship money driving policy decisions, and an overall lack of anything remotely related to thought leadership.
I won’t even get into the fight to the standards alongside our legislative partners.
We’re not an advocacy group, but as professionals, we’re often on the forefront of decisions that are made at state or national levels that impact our business in a practical way.
What makes sense theoretically doesn’t always make sense in the field.
And things that would run us out of business if we followed the letter of the law need to be discussed practically as lobbyists do on the other side of the issue.
We recommend political advocacy when it comes to our livelihoods and the safety of our crews.
When I think about it, I’m not seeing anything I joined the association for being addressed in our meetings.
Several people take plenty of trips to play rounds of golf or to deep-sea fish, but they’re low-level bribes, not business meetings.
I must have a target on my back because I don’t take the paid vacations. And I suck on a par three.
And the more I think on it, the less I want to be involved and the more it takes from me. Hell, the only thing it’s offered in the last half a dozen years is a trip to The Prestige where a gorgeous woman won me over with her freckles.
At our annual meeting last week, I was sworn in as vice president.
I cannot handle another three years of this bullshit.
And that’s what it would be — this year, next year as president, and the following as past president.
Three years of effort, energy, and time that I don’t care to spend, with people I don’t want to be around.
It may be poor form, but I don’t care. I compose an email to the board and to the administrative team that runs the association, resigning by month’s end. No excuses. No explanations. Thanking them for their professionalism and their trust, I sign off.
That’s it.
On the path from good to great or from average to exceptional, I’ve taken the first step—no more bullshit drains on my time.
With that off my shoulders and the lens I’m viewing life through much clearer, I have clarity on next steps with O’Neill’s crew. It will probably be as popular as the email I just sent. Again, I don’t care.
By Thursday, when I still haven’t heard from Freckles, I hover somewhere between annoyed and pissed.
My message still shows delivered but not read. That’s the reason for leaning toward pissed. She knows I replied and has chosen—is actively choosing—not to read it.
Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready. And holding you was one of my top three favorite things from my extended vacation.
My thumbs hover, and I consider adding to it, but fuck if I’ll blow right past her boundary.
I grab my keys, check our software system to see where O’Neill’s crew is, in addition to two others, seeing as how it never happened on Monday.
After filling a cooler with Gatorade and bottled water, I take off to the first of several job sites.
It’s not the heat of summer. Dehydration isn’t my biggest concern, but giving a shit goes a long way.
This is also the way Dad pioneered this company and the way I’ve continued leading. On the ground, in the field, with the teams, pulling wire, talking through challenges, being present.
I spend six hours with employees. We talk about challenges, places they might see for improvement, those who want advancement and what that looks like.
Several I ask to meet with before the lunch potluck in a week. When it comes to O’Neill’s crew, I ask them all individually to meet after the meal.
I thank all of them, making sure they know how grateful we are, that my door is always open, and I head home.
Home is empty and lifeless. A good evening run does nothing to bolster my mood. Nor does the steak and broccoli I choke down after.
Shit feels mundane. Today feels like all my steps are in a rut of my own making.
I need a vacation—and I don’t mean to Colorado.