The Plan
“You with us, Son?” My eyes move up to the man in front of me. I was daydreaming again. He must have caught me in mid-dissociation with my gaze on the black table in front of me. I focused on the painted wood as if I could make it move with the powers of my mind. Just call me Charles Xavier.
My boss's dull gray eyes stay on me while he stands at the front of the long conference table. We’re all sitting and supposed to be listening in high-back, black leather office chairs.
I have a similar one in my studio. We all pretend to listen while he talks about some useless business plan.
Whether I hear what he is talking about or not, it won’t stop me from taking over his law firm one day.
It pays to be sleeping with his daughter, even if it’s not her I keep fucking in my mind.
I have been fantasizing about that long red hair– how it would look wrapped around my fist as she took me deeper into that pretty little mouth. I can’t stop thinking about how good her pale, tattoo-covered, thick thighs would feel wrapped around my waist or straddling my lap .
“Alan?” There it is again, his agonizing voice.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, I just have a lot on my mind this morning.” That’s one way to put it. I’ve not stopped thinking about my red-headed siren, Thalia Smith, since Friday night.
I scrolled through her perfectly posed photos on her Instagram page quietly, while I sat in my large bed.
Sunlight peeked in through the blinds and my eyes were still glued to the phone screen, careful not to double-tap on each one.
She has taught me so much from the way she presents herself to her followers.
Does she have any inclination as to what a picture like that can do to a man? A man like me? She has no fucking idea.
“All right, that’s it for now.” My father-in-law’s voice jolts me back to life once again. I’m sure he could feel me jump in my large, leather office chair.
“Alan, are you doing okay?” No. I am sexually frustrated. My mind is filled with visions of a pretty redhead in a variety of positions. I’ll admit, it’s a bit concerning. A whole list of fantasies makes their appearance in the front of my mind and I would be a more than willing active participant.
“Yes, sir. Just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” My eyes gaze up at him through the steam flowing above the coffee cup in my hand.
“Have a busy weekend?” His question seems forced. I know he doesn’t care what his least favorite son-in-law did over the weekend. We both continue our meaningless conversation in front of the conference room.
“Just a lot of research.” It isn’t technically a lie.
“Oh, that podcast of yours. How’s that going?” His inquiry is the last thing he wants to discuss. Sure, that’s what we’ll call it .
“It’s going well, getting more attention every day.”
“How does Ashley feel about that? Are you guys spending any time with each other?” Who? I pause. Maybe a little too long. That’s right. My wife and his daughter.
His inclination that Ashley and I don’t spend enough time together is my fault, is well, hilarious.
Frankly, I don’t think she cares much for it either way.
It keeps us separated, and she gets to have her alone time.
She has her Kindle, her books and her nights out with her friends.
I have my podcast and my only real friend who meets up with me every Friday night to focus on the latest episode.
We have our interests, and that’s what works for us.
“Oh, she doesn’t seem to mind,” I admit bluntly. His smug smile appears on his face, as well as a condescending pat on the back. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Well, good. Glad to hear it.” He walks towards his office. What a prick. He isn’t so bad out of the office.
Who am I kidding? The guy is a fucking cocky asshole. My hand digs my phone out of my dark gray slacks, checking the time while walking to my own office.
“Hello, Mr. Jones.” My secretary, Stacy, greets me after every morning conference.
She was hired by my son of a bitch father-in-law.
The bastard isn’t as cunning as he tries to make everyone believe.
I know it is so he can salivate whenever she bends over in her tight black pencil skirts.
I wouldn’t be too surprised if he tried to do more than just that.
She is the center of every man’s attention as they walk by her small desk in front of my office.
They’re all a bunch of beasts in three-piece suits.
Her dark brown hair is pinned up. Only being held up by one of those clips, I see my wife wearing one from time to time.
What do you call them? Claw clips, maybe.
She wears her large tortoise-shell glasses, which accentuate her big, beautiful brown eyes.
The wolves of Wall Street drool over her and stare at her cleavage between her tight button-down silk shirts and tight sweaters that she seamlessly tucks into her skirts.
“Hello, Stacy.” I try my best to be polite in this place. She gets enough from the animals that work here. I give her a gentle smile and head to my office. Her cheeks blushing through the office windows. She seems sweet. Too sweet for a place like this .
This morning, my phone has become a hindrance to my occupation.
After locking myself in my office, I mindlessly scroll through social media.
Pictures of mutual connections fill the screen of my phone.
Most of the accounts are from other podcasts and true crime stories.
Some of them include mysteries and cases that have yet to be solved. Same shit posted every day.
However now, I have someone new to look at. Maybe look isn’t the right word. Gawk? No, that isn’t it either. How about studying intensely until I know everything about her? Yes, that seems more fitting at this point. How does the song go? “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
Her account is in my list of followers with her name at the top. Like the dedicated follower I am, I fixate on her face for what seems like minutes. While looking at her posing so perfectly, it feels like time has fucking frozen.
She shines under the glow of Edison bulbs, her face in a contented expression with a slight upward smile.
Her picture shows her pouring what looks like bourbon into a glass.
Her red hair is pinned up with long, wavy pieces falling out just right.
Damn . If you look close enough, you can see her black shirt hugging her tits just right.
I bite my lower lip, imagining what her smooth skin would feel like under my lips.
Thalia, you shouldn’t pose like that. You could attract strange men.
Strange men who stare at your pictures. Strange men who want to do more than just stare.
My breathing gets heavier, and my skin gets tight. New listener, what have you done to me?
My unhealthy gape is interrupted by the sound of Stacey’s voice through the intercom. “Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones is on line one.” Her voice is still sweet through the rough speakers of the office phone. Focus, Alan. Your wife is on the phone. “Thank you, Stacy. Put her through,” I utter calmly.
Taking a second to breathe, I put on the act that I wasn’t just lusting over a woman I’ve never met. “Alan Jones speaking,” clearing my throat and turning on my professional attorney voice. You never know who could be listening. It always pays to be cautious in this business.
“Alan.” The way she says my name is more out of annoyance than a loving and compassionate wife.
“Ashley. Yes, dear…” My tone matches hers.
“I just wanted to let you know that I am leaving to go to my tennis lesson. I may go get drinks with the girls after. If you need anything, feel free to call. I may not answer right away.” Of course, tennis.
Don’t worry, dear, I know you’re fucking your tennis instructor.
I have known for a while now. The way your eyes widen whenever he texts you and the way you try to hide the screen on your phone gives away your dirty little secret.
Don’t worry, baby. I have my secrets too .
“I’ll be fine, Ashley. Go enjoy your lesson. Have a drink for me.” I wonder if she can hear the smile in my voice as I look down at my phone, still staring at the woman unknowingly smiling back up at me .
“Thank you. I’ll have a few for you.” She laughs. “Don’t forget, my book club is tomorrow night.”
“How could I ever forget?” The more I scroll through Thalia’s other posts, the less interested I am in what Ashley has to say.
“Okay,” she lets out another fake laugh.
“I will be home later.” She won’t. She’ll say she’s drunk and that she's staying with one of her friends. It’s become a weekly occurrence.
I know where she really will be, opening her legs for another man while I think of burying myself between another woman’s thighs.
“Okay. Enjoy your day.” The phone clicks off as she hangs up first. A part of me is a bit relieved.
The deep sigh I let out as I exit Thalia’s social media page, I admit, is exaggerated.
The lawyer in me goes back to what I should have been doing—looking through the long list of emails and tasks the boss man left for me.
That should keep me from looking through Thalia’s social media scrapbook.
I have been sucked in. I can shake my head at the thought, but there isn’t any denying it.
Thalia is always on my mind. My overthinking makes me wonder what she’s doing.
Who is she doing it with? What her voice sounds like, what she looks like when she laughs.
What would she look like underneath me? How her voice would sound when she makes little moans, and how it’d change when she screams my name.