11. Straw into Gold #2
By now, Angie knows all my dirty secrets.
Like a sinner at a confessional, I’ve given a play-by-play of my arrangement with Rhys.
It helps me sleep at night. I guess I’m holding onto more guilt than I let on.
Angie, however, is an instigator. Maybe it’s because she’s starved for affection after her divorce, but she sees innuendo everywhere and has somehow managed to twist every non-verbal cue into a signal for sex.
We mosey over to the plant section, sizing up vases and scoping out fern stands. Angie sneaks a mini succulent into our cart and wags her finger at me. “What about this ‘fae fuck face’ he gave you after ya’ll consumed all that hot basil beef?”
“Indigestion?” I offer.
“Girl...” Angie shakes her head. “Please.”
“Maybe I imagined it! I’ve been reading too much fairy smut and now I think every guy who’s halfway attractive is on the prowl.”
Angie turns around, batting her eyelashes. “Ooh la la. Mamma Mia! So you think he’s attractive?”
“Halfway attractive,” I sputter, correcting my slip. “Decent. I mean, he doesn’t have to be an incel if he doesn’t want to be.”
Angie tickles my face with fronds of faux pampas grass. “So if he requests sexual favors in exchange for his help, your hand jobs will finally be enthusiastic?”
I let out a long-suffering sigh. “Angie, I love you, but do you really want to die in the middle of IKEA?”
She shrugs. “Maybe after we eat those Swedish meatballs. Come on.” She tosses a terracotta vase and a baby snake plant into our cart and ushers us away. “I don’t think we need a plant stand.”
“Agreed.” I trail behind her, my thoughts a million miles away. “Why do you think he wants to watch me present for a second time?”
“Naughty secretary fantasies,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Better trade in your bossy trousers for a pencil skirt because Rumpelstiltskin has got a surprise for you... in his pants.”
I shoot her a murderous look while trying (and failing) not to laugh. “That’s not Rhys at all,” I say after I’ve collected myself. “But it sounds like Sam.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“Sam Rylan, the hot CEO. If there’s a box, he’ll definitely try to get inside it.” I take charge of the cart and head toward the cafeteria, leaving Angie blinking in surprise. “Wait,” she scrambles after me, “what hot CEO? Is he single?”
* * *
“In my humble opinion,” I shut off my laser pointer and turn to the board, “the ASSET predicts our mid-year profits will increase exponentially. Some may say,” I arch my eyebrow at my audience, the equivalent of poking them in the ribs, “synchronistically.”
As expected, my joke was met by a round of chuckles.
Sam Rylan chews on his inner cheek and shoots me a clandestine wink.
Also, as expected, Rhys, a routine guest visitor at these ASSET presentations, groans inwardly, though his ‘inward’ groans seem pretty ‘outward’ from where I’m standing.
His gaze roams around the room, and I could practically hear his judgmental mind thinking, “Idiots.” I purse my lips, soured by his unwillingness to go with the flow.
Everybody finds me charming except him. Nina was right.
Rhys Stiltskine is a real jerk and not much of a team player.
“Any questions?” I ask a bit more testily than I intended.
As usual, no one has any questions, and it occurs to me that perhaps Rhys was right: I am surrounded by idiots.
The entire board is packed with overpaid, incompetent, sycophantic idiots.
Does anyone care about what the ASSET is or what the ASSET does?
I’m literally spouting off thirty minutes’ worth of nonsensical yet professional-sounding gibberish, and no one has called me out on it.
They haven’t called me out on it because no one is paying attention. I could just as easily save everyone’s time (and mine) by getting straight to the punchline: your stocks will rise. You’ll make money. There. Done.
And if everyone around me are idiots, including the CEO, what does that make me?
What are these words coming out of my mouth?
I’m gesticulating at slides and laser-pointing at pie charts and line graphs like I’m trying to land a role as a data analyst in a movie, but I’m just the Pied Piper of Idiots. I’m the meat in an idiot sandwich.
To think, if I hadn’t been so money-obsessed and concerned about impressive-sounding job titles, I could be happily researching sea turtles in the Galapagos.
My shoulders slump a little whenever I think how my life could have turned out had I just become a marine biologist. I catch Rhys’ knowing eye and grimace, a shockwave of unexplained anger rippling through me.
I haven’t thought about my idealistic dreams for a long time, but Rhys’ doubt in my abilities to do my job has triggered a long-buried burr of discontent.
Now I yearn. If I fall down another career crisis rabbit hole, it’s his fault.
And this is why all companies require their employees to buy into the cult of synchrony.
A hive mind buries discontent. You allow one naysayer into the fold, suddenly everyone’s questioning their purpose.
The next thing you know, everyone’s asking for raises and advocating for work-life-balance and your star ASSET expert wants to become a marine biologist. I think I’ll deny Rhys access to future presentations.
“That was brilliant work, Carina. I think you’ve explained it all and,” Sam’s eyes travels up and down my body, “you looked great doing it.”
At some level, Sam must be aware that he’s being inappropriate. He glances around the board with a peevish arch to his brow, almost daring someone to call him out.
Some of the female board members seem uncomfortable. No one speaks up on my behalf.
“Um... thanks.” I smile, avoiding his eyes, which he probably reads as humility.
I love praise, but I could’ve done without the comment about my looks.
It opens up a host of questions about my competence, the obvious question being: have I risen to the rank of director so fast because I’m banging the CEO?
I look to Rhys for confirmation. He may not notice many things, but he’s picked up on Sam’s come-ons. Rhys is glaring daggers at Sam while everyone suddenly seems interested in my print-outs for once.
“If there aren’t any further questions,” Sam says, “I say we take a field trip to Penelope’s. Carina, you’re the guest of honor—”
Rhys swivels to face me and raises his hand. “How do you account for the forthcoming dip in March?”
I take a deep breath, horrified. The time has come. He’s been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to humiliate me in front of the CEO.
“Dip?” Sam turns to me, alarmed. “What dip?”
My thoughts exactly. What dip?
As if reading my mind, Rhys says, “Slide 17.”
“Ah yes.” Tentatively, I pull up Slide 17.
Okay, there’s a slip blip in the graph but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a ‘dip.’ “Well, there might be minor losses next March as you can see here,” I say, circling my laser pointer at the teeny tiny depression in profits.
“Nothing that can’t be weathered by our collective synergy.
” I narrow my eyes at Rhys. “And look here, almost immediately after this supposed ‘dip’ there’s a giant spike. ”
I glance around the room. Sam and the board seem satisfied with my explanation.
Leaning far back in his chair, Rhys laces his fingers behind his head. “There it is.”
“Yes,” I clench my teeth. “There it is.”
“These slides are exceptionally detailed.”
“Well, yes. I spent all night on them.”
“I’m sure you did,” his mouth twitches ever so slightly, “it’s too advanced for me. I’ll have to trouble you to walk me through them.”
I flash him a tight smile. “Happy to.”
“I’m honored.”
“The honor is all mine.”
If left unchecked, we could one-up each other for hours.
“That’s the collaborative spirit!” Sam says, oblivious to our tension.
“We’ll just let you two at it.” He lassos the air with his finger, wrangling the board out of the room.
He’s the last to leave, halting at the door.
“Great job,” he adds, firing off another round of finger pistols.
He’s really taken to them. I wish he would just stop.
I don’t have the heart to return his finger pistols this time. I just smile and take it.
“Is something going on between you two?” Rhys asks the moment we’re alone. “He’s been staring at your ass the entire presentation.” He scowls at me, conjuring up an air of accusation. As if this is somehow my fault!
“Of course not!” I explode. “I barely know him, and if he’s staring at my ass, that’s his problem. And I wore these...” I gesture to my wide-leg trousers.
Rhys frowns. “Why are you pointing at your leg?”
“These pants alone should tell you I’m not trying to entice the CEO.”
He stares at my trousers for a beat, then back up at my face. “I don’t get it.”
Now I remember who I’m talking to. Rhys is stylistically challenged. I could be wearing an evening gown or a pair of funky sweats, and he wouldn’t notice. I pluck the material at my thigh. “These are natural man repellents.”
“Hm. They don’t seem to be working. He was still looking.”
“He can look, but he can’t touch,” I snap. “What’s it to you, anyway? You don’t even work here. Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he grumbles. “I just don’t like that guy.”
“Sam Rylan?”
Rhys grimaces as if I’ve said something vile. “He’s just so smug.” He chews on his words before grumbling, “Not to mention inappropriate.”
His dark mood amuses me. “You sound like a prissy hall monitor. Speaking of smug,” I gesture to Slide 17, still projected on the whiteboard, “‘What happened to the dip’?” I repeat, mimicking his smart-ass cadence. “What are you up to?”
Standing up, Rhys strolls toward the whiteboard and tips his head up at the chart. The projection paints a mural of ghostly numbers on the back of his boxy blazer. “I was just having a little harmless fun.”
I snort. “By ‘fun,’ you meant to humiliate me in front of the entire board.”