Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
I t’s taken weeks to finalize the article about Hamilton Restorations, but I’m proud of the work. After a cursory review of the printout, I’m about to leave my cubicle to fax it to Gus when Don Jennings appears, blocking my exit. His brazen eyes linger on my body.
The nerve of this man. And I can’t say a fucking thing. A flash of anger burns in my chest and frustration ripples through me like a set of ocean waves.
“That outfit is very becoming, Jacqueline.”
My teeth grind together, and I forcibly relax my jaw. “Thank you. Can I help you with something?” You lech.
“Just checking on the status of the Hamilton feature.”
Oh, right. “I finished the draft and was about to fax it. I believe it captures the essence of the business, their storied history, and state-of-the-art auto shop.” My palms turn sweaty, and I slide one down my skirt.
He tracks the movement over my hips, his hazel eyes practically bugging out.
I stare at the floor. “I never thanked you for recommending me...” I shift my gaze back to his, trying to find my backbone.
“Don’t mention it. I had a hunch Gus would like you.” He winks.
This douchebag and his vulgar winks. With this one, I’m not sure what he implies; Gus was nothing but professional and clearly in love with his wife. I never got any weird vibes, unlike the inappropriate kind emanating from Don, as if he’d happily bang me in my cubicle this minute.
“Interviewing Mr. Hamilton was a pleasure. He was generous with his time and answered all my questions. Same with his son Butch.” Who provided some extra… details .
“Is that it?” he asks, nodding at the papers clutched in my hand.
“Yes.”
He gestures for it with his fingers. “I want to review this before you send it.”
I hand it over, and my nerves take a fresh turn. The publisher is going to read my article, which is about one of his oldest friends. If I haven’t done it justice…
“I’ll give it a spin, and we can discuss it over lunch tomorrow.”
Say what? “Oh, uh, okay.”
“Don’t be nervous. I’m sure coworkers have regaled you with stories about my vicious red pen, but my edits have helped every writer become better. That’s the only goal.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. A business lunch then. I can do this. What choice do I have? “Thank you. I appreciate your professional input.”
He winks again and strolls out the door.
Fresh sweat trickles from my armpits and I hustle to the breakroom and buy a Coke from the vending machine. After chugging the cool drink, I dial Hamilton Restorations and ask for Butch. My pen taps against my notepad until his voice breaks the silence.
Instant comfort. “It’s me.”
“Sundance. What a pleasant surprise.”
A smile edges my mouth. “The article is nearly finished. Should be able to fax it over tomorrow. Just wanted to give you a heads up.” And hear your voice.
“I’ll let my dad know. If you’re happy with it, Ms. Hall, he surely will be.”
“Way to keep it professional, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Hmm. I like the sound of that leaving your lips.”
Now I’m sweating for an entirely new reason. “When will my lips see you again?” It’s been a few weeks, and I’m jonesing to see Butch worse than I craved a cigarette after quitting.
“Not soon enough for me. I’m trying to arrange this weekend. Are you free?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I exclaim, cringing at my obvious overeagerness. “I could head your direction if it’s easier.”
“No,” he answers quickly—maybe too quickly. “This is your first fall in Virginia and Mother Nature puts on a hell of a display. I want to take you for a drive, show it to you. That cool?”
“I’d love that.”
“Call you tonight?”
“It’s my favorite part of the day.”
“Mine too, baby.”
Dread greets me shortly after I open my eyes; the expected lunch with my boss looms large.
I dress conservatively in a black turtleneck and tan slacks.
I sweep my hair into a basic ponytail. I’m fully aware of my efforts to downplay my assets, blend into the background, seem less attractive.
..and the lunacy of it. I shouldn’t have to do anything different— I’m not the problem here.
As I cinch my hairband, the questions erupt. Did Don approve of my article? Did he slash it to smithereens? Does he doubt I’m talented enough to write for his magazine?
Despite my personal disgust for Don, I still value his constructive criticism. He is the publisher, which means he’s a seasoned pro—not just a seasoned scumball who hits on his employees.
Optimism prevails, and for good measure, I talk to my reflection in the mirror: “This is a working lunch. Nothing more.”
As I drive to the office, Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” plays on the heels of a Huey Lewis he’s charming, complimentary, easygoing, and ridiculously attractive.
The kind of handsome where I could forget my own name, let alone my mission in life.
Yet in my deepest, messiest, broken parts, I’m wary of getting attached…
or worse, falling in love. Especially with a man who can’t trust.
I’ve traveled that path before, where I held up my heart on a platter, experienced a truthful, potent connection…and the loss of it fractured me, damaged me, obliterated me.
I’m not sure it’s possible to experience a love like that again…if I can or should. Or how much of me is truly left to give .
Don summons me to the lobby at noon, and we make small talk on the elevator ride.
He stands too close but keeps a reasonable distance as we walk the few blocks to the restaurant.
I tug my coat closer from the nip in the air and ponder whether I have enough cold-weather clothes in my wardrobe.
Having lived in California my entire life, I’m not used to temperatures below fifty degrees or sure what a Virginia winter promises.
We arrive and Don holds the door open, a blast of warmth hitting me when I step though. The place reeks of old money and business deals, with booths crafted of rich cherry and brass accents, Tiffany-style pendant lamps suspended overhead.
Our hostess seats us in a booth toward the back, and a waiter arrives for our drink orders.
“I’ll take a martini, shaken, dry. Shall I make it two, Jacqueline?”
I hide my surprise. Is this a test? I’ve never had a martini, nor do I plan to start in the middle of a workday. “A Coke is fine, thank you.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Don asks, “Did you hear the one about a young guy who went to his doctor for a routine checkup?”
I brace myself for another crude joke and he plows ahead, not really waiting for an answer.
“When he came in for the results, the doctor said gravely, ‘Jerry, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. You’ve got cancer. It’s spreading at an unbelievably rapid rate, is totally inoperable, and you’ve got about three weeks to live.’”
Maybe this isn’t another dirty joke.
“The guy says, ‘Jesus. What’s the good news?’
“‘You know that cute receptionist out in the front office...the one with the big tits and the cute little ass?’” Don’s hands lift to his chest, forming the universal sign for breasts, his gold wedding band gleaming in the lamplight. “‘I’m fucking her!’”
Don cackles, and that goddamned traitorous nervous laugh of mine bubbles forth, even while a part of me withers.
Our drinks arrive, and we review the untouched menus. The faster we order, the faster this mandated appointment reaches its fucking conclusion.
After our waiter takes our selections, Don pulls out my article and slides it across the table. His scribbles pepper the margins, the volume of red slashes and circled and underlined words and sentences making it appear murdered.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, a smile lifting one side of his mouth. “You’ve got a natural talent for this work. It merely required a little polish. You captured Gus nicely.” He grins, as if he shares an inside joke with his old pal.
I sift through his notes, finally glancing back at him. “Thank you for taking the time to review it. I appreciate your input.”
“You know, I could be a tremendous help to you, Jacqueline. A mentor. Someone to guide you and ensure you’re awarded assignments that tailor to your talents.” His gaze drops to my chest.
My heart thuds so hard I want to press my hand against it.
“You’re a beautiful young woman—and predators abound in our profession. That’s another benefit to being under my wing.”
Or under your sweaty body. I nod weakly, images of sordid casting couch stories projecting in my head, the kind where actresses are forced to their knees—or worse—to secure movie roles.
I’m thoroughly grossed out, yet unsure how to respond.
The threat of losing my job is glaringly front and center.
This man holds all the cards. He’s got a royal flush, and I’ve got jack shit.
I catch him staring hard at my mouth and realize I’ve unconsciously sucked in my lower lip and am actively biting it. Fuck.
“Think about it,” he says with a wink.
Our food arrives, and despite my roiling gut, I eat, desperate to end this lunch.
My boss prattles on about his golf game, and what a maddening sport it is—“his nemesis,” he calls it.
And you’re mine, buddy.