3. Graham #2
Instead of simply telling her that I need her, that she's truly the best at teaching new financial advisors the important aspects of client engagement and portfolio management, I challenge her right back. I need to remind her, and myself, that I'm her boss.
"And I didn't sign up to shell out five thousand dollars for a new Xerox machine."
I glance at her and immediately regret it.
This close, I can see the increase in freckles the sun has given her, the small patch along her collarbone where her shirt dips into a zone I became all too familiar with the other evening when I accidentally hit the video button instead of the call button.
Swallowing takes effort with how dry my mouth is, and my skin burns under her gaze.
"Are you fuc—” I lean back in my chair, raising an eyebrow at her. Her full lips morph into a thin line as she takes a deep breath. "Are you serious? That was an accident."
"An accident?" I reply, crossing my arms and digging a finger into my ribs to stave off the thrumming of my heart.
"An accident is getting paper jammed into the slot or buying the wrong kind of ink.
" I get up and walk to my bookcase, hoping to get some much-needed space.
"It's not dropping an entire bowl of soup onto the machine and frying the hardware when you aren't supposed to eat anywhere except your desk or the break room. "
She moves lightning fast, her body heat encroaching, and the sweet smell of pineapple wraps around me. A step closer and we’ll be touching. Her eyelashes flutter in a way I can’t tell if she’s baiting me or not, then her voice dips low as she says, "So, you're punishing me?"
I groan, the noise so soft it could be mistaken for a sigh.
"I hardly think molding the minds of the next generation of finance is punishment.
" Our height difference makes it so I have to look down at her.
Dark lashes fan out over her cheeks, and my tongue darts out to moisten my lips.
"It's your choice how you view the job, but you will show up for those training hours. "
"Or else what?" She challenges me.
Needing to get out of her orbit and recalibrate my brain, I walk back and gather the papers spread across the desk. "You can shut the door on your way out."
I don't look up, but I can hear her huff like an angry bull, and the walls shake when she slams my office door. Fighting the smile on my face at getting a rise out of her like she does me, I sit in the chair and rest my head against the back.
Verbal sparring with Rosay Wilmington is about the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.
***
Water splashes my shoes as they slap against the concrete, the silence on the road a welcome reprieve to the never-ending chatter inside my brain as I run along the sidewalk.
A new bill seems to arrive in the mail every day, and I slowly watch as my savings dwindle, cursing my dad’s old job for shutting down and leaving all their employees with no insurance or severance package.
It wasn’t like he could predict that he’d get diagnosed with lung cancer two weeks after having the rug pulled out from him, but neither of us were prepared for the financial burden that came along with the sickness.
A loud bang down the alleyway beside the Chinese takeout place startles me, and I lose my footing when a ball of black and white scurries across my path, nearly stepping into a puddle from last night’s storm. Pain shoots through my ankle, and I curse at the raccoon.
“Quiet, asshole!” An elderly Chinese woman pops her head out from a window. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, rotating my ankle a few times and bracing for the pain to come again.
When it doesn’t, I carefully put pressure on it.
I start off down the familiar path, headed into the park, weaving in and out of the trees lining the sidewalk.
I usually don’t run so early in the morning, before even the birds are up, but when I can’t get my mind to settle, it’s the only thing that helps.
That or the medicine my psychiatrist prescribed.
The imposing green trees in Brackenridge Park sway with the breeze, shaking dew onto my hat as I veer off the path and take the tunnel toward Alamo Heights.
My lungs burn with each inhale, spreading fire to my fingers and toes as I pump my arms and legs as fast as they’ll take me.
Over the incline, the familiar sight of Terrell Hills—my old neighborhood—comes into view.
Charming cottages mingle with luxurious Mediterranean style manors, and there, in the center of it all, sits the house I bought for me and Bethany. Where we would’ve raised our family.
I pace back and forth, allowing my heart rate to slow.
Two cars are parked in the semi-circular driveway of the sprawling two-story, colonial home, and there’s a yellow glow inside the room that should’ve been my office.
I imagine the new owner of the house sitting behind his desk while his kids sleep soundly above him in the three-thousand-square-foot house, crunching numbers and sending emails.
Once upon a time, I would’ve lived that life.
The fancy cars, vacations all over the world, courtside tickets for any NBA game, and a standing reservation at the hottest new restaurants in all the major cities.
I was well-loved, the boy from Montana who worked his way up through the ranks of every struggling finance company who hired him, eventually taking over the helm and leaving them in the black.
Graham Has the Golden Touch was the title of the article when I hit the Forbes Midas list years ago.
Before I decided to blow up my life after walking in on Bethany and one of my clients getting it on in the condo we had up for sale.
My throat aches staring at the house I had to relist when I realized she didn’t see the same future for us that I did, that I was only a stepping stone for her until she found someone else who could provide her with the life she thought she deserved.
One I couldn’t provide because my extra money now went to paying hospital bills and savings instead of her shopping fund .
I roll my shoulders back and try to ignore the churning in my stomach. Had I married Bethany, everything I’ve worked for could’ve been taken away and my dad wouldn’t be able to get the care he needs. Thankfully I caught on before I fell prey to her like my dad did with my mom.
The lights inside the house flicker off. Figuring I’ve been standing here looking at the house like a creep for long enough, I pivot and head back up the hill, allowing the burn of my lungs to singe the remnants of any lingering emotions.
The doorman, Thom, greets me with a wave as I step into the building, dripping sweat all over the beige tile. He’s the nice, if overly friendly and slightly creepy, grandson of the building owner, and I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s only working here to get an inheritance.
“Burning the midnight oil, Mr. Miller?” Thom asks, though I clearly have on headphones—even if there’s nothing playing. I consider being an asshole and ignoring him, but since he’s working the graveyard shift, he probably hasn’t spoken to anyone all night.
“Yup,” is all I manage to say with a slight nod as I press the elevator button.
His next words are lost when the doors slide shut behind me. The silence of the space should be welcoming, but I’m left with the thundering of my heart and racing thoughts as a soundtrack while the elevator takes me to the fifth floor.
I trudge into my living room and flop onto the couch, exhausted and sweaty.
The run was supposed to help me contemplate my life, but all it did was remind me of all the shit I need to take care of once I get into the office.
I grab a cold water from the fridge and head back to shower, ignoring the bright light of my laptop calling to me from where I left it on the kitchen island.
I pass through the hallway that was once lined with pictures of me and Bethany but is now bare—except for the nail holes that held memories of the lie of our life.
Hot water spews from the showerhead as I strip and throw my clothes into the hamper.
I welcome the heat when I step into the spray, allowing it to beat against my sore muscles from yesterday’s workout.
Though I’ve caught my breath, and my lungs are no longer squeezing from the energy spent on my run, adrenaline continues to spike my heart rate as I go through the interminable list of things I need to complete and the meetings I have to attend today.
I rest my head against the tile and silently beg for a reprieve from the constant drone of tasks. A flash of pink slides to the forefront of my mind, and I instantly harden at the image of Rosay’s wet, curly hair plastered to her ample chest.
It’s disgraceful how fast my hand finds my cock.
As ashamed as I should be at finding release in an accidental flashing—and from one of my employees at that—I can’t dredge up an ounce of guilt.
The woman drives me up a wall.
Yeah, a wall you’d like to pin her to and devour her against.
The thought explodes just as I do, spent and worn out as I relax against the wall, mind finally quiet.
I quickly towel dry and grab the outfit I laid out before my run.
My legs ache as I slide on gray dress pants, but I ignore the twinge that tells me I overdid my workout.
Out in the living room, my laptop chimes with a new email.
I massage the still tense muscles at my neck as I walk toward the screen.
A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s four-thirty in the morning, so the email is most likely spam, but better to clear it now than to let the emails pile up.
I tip my head to the side, a tentative smile forming when I see who sent it .
Why is she up this early?
I tap my fingers on the scroll pad, trying to decipher why my heart is racing at just the thought of her sitting at her computer this early, hair gathered up into a bun, a steaming mug of coffee beside her as she works, the little crease that forms on her forehead when she concentrates.
Whoa, buddy. Pump the brakes.
I push away from the desk, confused as fuck.
Mentally calculating how long it’s been since I got laid, I realize that’s most likely why my brain decided to latch onto the closest beautiful woman to start having these fantasies about.
It’s an easy fix. Ever since my breakup, I’ve never lacked a warm body beneath me when needed, but work has always been my sole priority.
No strings. Only three dates so no attachments can form. I made that mistake once, allowed my heart to override my head, and I’ll never do it again.
The tabloids deemed me the playboy who cared about nothing but money.
And they were right.
I learned my lesson. Getting attached to someone who wanted me for nothing more than a good time was a recipe for disaster. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose everything I worked for.
Realizing I simply need to clear her from my head, I push the errant thoughts to the back of my mind and open her email.
From: [email protected]
Date: Sat, Jul 27, 2024 at 4:30 AM
Subject: Everybody Wants to Rule the World
Graham ,
Attached you’ll find the list of potential clients we haven’t reached out to in the last five years.
The majority are older companies and businesses that are prime for takeover or are in transition to the next generation of owners (so they’ll be more likely to hear us out and come on board), and the rest are companies with a high growth potential.
Due to the late-night request and the hours spent pouring over P&L statements, I’ve also made a spreadsheet that calculates the time spent versus how much I “owe” you for your precious Xerox machine.
Coldly,
Rosay
I chuckle at her brazen email, unsurprised at her candor.
Most employees steer clear of me, and some of the male employees are overly helpful as if kissing my ass will mean they get a promotion.
But Rosay does neither. In fact, she is the opposite.
She’s the first to call me on my bullshit, she doesn’t let me bulldoze her in the name of business, and she’s the hardest working employee on the team.
She’s essentially me in female form.
A prickly cactus exterior yet a soft cotton candy center. She might think I haven’t noticed the way she treats everyone but me, how she dotes on the older employees, guides the newcomers, and laughs freely with the rest of the coworkers, but I do.
I notice everything about her.
She’s a sweet treat. I must remind myself that I cannot—no matter how many times my brain wants to trick me into thinking it—have a taste of her.