Chapter Five
By three o’clock, I had managed to regain my composure and was escorted into the design meeting with my shoulders squared, game face on. Bryce walked me to the design department conference and led me inside. A group of people stopped everything the moment I entered the room and it was oddly quiet.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Bryce started as people filed around the table and took their seats. I hung back slightly, my hands clasped in front of me so I wouldn’t start fidgeting. I needed these people to respect me and the only way to get that was to not reveal my inexperience. None of them knew I used to work as a barista and that I’d never coordinated anything more complicated than a birthday party.
Bryce continued, “This is Allison Rand. I know most of you were introduced to her at the meeting yesterday. Mr. Brighton has placed her in charge of his account, to act as an ambassador on his behalf to ensure that his needs are being met and to keep everyone on the same page.”
A few people seemed to be hiding their smirks behind their hands, others refused to make eye contact, and a couple gave me steely glares.
“Now as you know, the Plush account is our largest, most profitable account, and Mr. Brighton has very specific needs. Allison is here to help and reduce the friction that has become a problem over the last few weeks as we all work to get this newest campaign ready for fall. Are there any questions?”
He surveyed the room, looking for any sign of life but the group remained silent at his question.
“Excellent. Then I’ll hand things over to Allison.” He nodded in my direction and I smiled back. I held his eye contact for a moment, trying to absorb some of his confidence, before I turned to address the room.
“Thank you, Bryce,” I started. My eyes flashed around the room and my stomach flipped over. I swallowed hard and snuck a glance at the note cards taped to the front page of my legal pad. “The first, uh, thing is that I want you all to know that I am here to help. I’m not here to criticize anyone or their work. I’ve seen the designs that have been submitted to Mr. Brighton, and I think they’re good. But, I think with a few tweaks, they could be great. I’ll be the first to say that I am not a designer and I’m not here to try and become one.”
Somewhere, about halfway through my monologue, the tension seemed to release in the room and everyone loosened up a little bit. The glares present at the beginning softened into expressions of interest and some people even started to take notes as I flipped through the design pages and passed along my feedback as well as the notes from the emails I had been flooded with all day from Mr. Brighton.
At the end of the meeting, I took a deep breath and couldn’t help but smile to myself. Everyone dispersed and some people even thanked me on their way out of the conference room, notebooks full, ready to put action to the ideas I had just presented.
“That was impressive,” Bryce said when we were the last two people in the room. “I honestly don’t think it could have gone better.”
“Thank you. Before today, I would have never imagined myself being able to speak to such a large group about anything, but especially not something like this. I feel like I really made a difference.”
“You were a leader in there, and you gained their respect. I’m sure Mr. Brighton would be very pleased.” He smiled broadly, teasing me.
I rolled my eyes. “I just hope the designs come out right. Then this drama can be over and I can go back to my computer where it’s safe. This was a rush, but not exactly the kind of thing I want to do on a daily basis.”
“Are you sure? You pretty much kicked some corporate ass in there.”
I laughed. “Thank you, but yes, I’m sure.”
***
The only positive thing about working late was that I missed the headache of rush hour traffic. By the time I arrived home, it was already eight o’clock. I was starving, sweaty, and exhausted. I fumbled around in my purse as I dragged myself up the last flight of stairs to my apartment, looking for my keys. I looked up just in time to avoid tripping over a huge box that was placed right in front of my door. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember ordering anything online in the last few days. I stooped over and read the address label.
It was from Plush, Inc.
Of course it was.
“Ugh!” I grunted as I unlocked the door and pushed it into the apartment. My cat, Sam, ran over and instantly started attacking the cardboard with his claws.
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, scratching him behind the ears.
I kicked out of my heels and ripped off my blazer. The downside of wearing long sleeves was that I felt like I was having hot flashes all day. The next thing to go was my pencil skirt and shirt. I threw those on the bed and then stripped off my shape wear and panty hose. Finally free of all the layers, I flopped onto the bed and exhaled—the wear and tear of the day seeping away as I basked in the freedom from my corporate life costume.
My relaxation bubble popped when I heard the sound of kitty claws and remembered that Sam was currently destroying whatever it was Mr. Brighton had sent me.
Infuriating man. It was bad enough that he took up every second of every day with his constant emails full of notes and demands. Then he invaded my mind when I was home, too. Not to mention the flower arrangement, bizarre dinner invitation, and the subsequent phone call.
I flattened my hands on my bare stomach and allowed my mind to wander for a few minutes. Was it all a game to him? The whole situation seemed very thrill-of-the-pursuit. It was obvious that he was used to having women throw themselves at him, so perhaps his interest in me was that I was not chasing him. In fact, quite the opposite. I was actively trying to get out of his life, not more invested in it. But then again, why would he even want me to throw myself at him? By all accounts I wasn’t his type. What had Bryce said? Thin, blonde, easy.
Yeah. Not so much.
I sighed. I had never been a skinny girl, and for the most part, I was okay with that. In the years following high school, I had learned to embrace myself in a lot of ways. My curves and height, or lack thereof, were part of that acceptance process. I began to run my hands lower on my stomach, tracing the lacey edge of my panties.
“Mr. Tight Ass wouldn’t even be able to handle a girl like me,” I said to myself and Sam, if he was within earshot.
I didn’t know if it was the sensual feel of the lace, the darkness, or the memory of his cologne, but suddenly my mind started to wander through a series of images, starting with his tight ass. His perfect, firm-looking ass.
“He might not be able to handle a girl like me, but I’d know just what to do with him,” I added, my fingers slipping beneath the lace, feeling my soft skin, wondering how it would feel if they were Mr. Brighton’s instead. I arched my back against the bed as my fingers slid lower and lower, the heat building as I touched myself softly.
Behind my closed eyes, I could see his face, those dark eyes the way they had looked when he had been watching my figure out in the parking lot. Hungry. But then, his face morphed and shifted back to the cold, self-satisfied smile he wore and I instantly stopped what I was doing.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed, jolting back to a sitting position and shook away the remnants of my brief fantasy. “Get it together.”
I slipped on a long tank top and a pair of shorts before shuffling back out to the entryway to inspect the box. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t had anything since the trail mix at lunch, so I made a detour to the kitchen to make a quick veggie patty and slapped it between two pieces of sprouted grain bread. Then I returned to the box, steak knife in hand, doing my best to saw through the packing tape in between bites.
Eventually, I got the box open and started to dig through the contents. There were a dozen smaller boxes inside. It looked like the entire line of Plush products according to the also-enclosed catalogue. I wasn’t sure what it was all for, but I decided to take Bryce’s advice and get to know the products I was supposed to be trying to market.
The first step was to read each product label. A few years back, I had had a nasty reaction to one of the ingredients in a bottle of perfume and broke out in a horrific rash. When it first happened, I remember being extremely irritated, but once I did further research on how nasty some of the common beauty product chemicals are, I decided to accept it as a blessing that my body was allergic. Since then, I’d been a bit of a freak about reading labels of everything I put in, or on, my body.
I scanned down the listed ingredients and gasped when I saw BHA listed. Back when I had done my initial investigation into the different chemicals used in most make-up and body products, I had read about BHA and BHT’s, but found it hard to believe it was actually allowed to be used on humans in the first place. My memory was slightly foggy, but I remembered that it had shown very serious side effects in independent research trials, not to mention the un-environmentally friendly way it was created.
I dumped the pile of bottles from my lap back into the box and immediately shut the lid, sticking it loosely back down with the bits of tape I had cut off. The knot in my stomach that had hardly let up since two days ago when Mr. Brighton was first thrown into my world, now felt two times bigger. How could I possibly be expected to work on his account now? Knowing about the use of BHA changed everything. Again.
Sam cocked his head at me, as if waiting for an answer to the problem.
“I’ll just have to smooth things over with Rita tomorrow. The ads should be fixed. I did my part, now it’s time to move on.”
Sam stretched and started to lick his paws, clearly not concerned about my ethical dilemma.
I looked up at the red, vintage-looking clock on the kitchen wall, groaning when I realized it was already past ten o’clock and I would barely get six hours of sleep in before I would have to wake up and do it all over again. I dragged myself up off the floor, collected the protesting Sam in my arms, and trudged back to my room to get to bed.
***
“How can I help you, Allison?” Rita stared me down across her desk.
This was going to be harder than I had anticipated. I took a deep breath and did my best to lay out my case in a logical manner. I explained that the meeting with the design team had gone well, and that the new sketches I’d been shown earlier that morning looked great, and then I ever-so-gently reminded her that really, my job—or rather, the job I was hired to do—had nothing to do with client relations and managing accounts. In closing, I wanted to be done with the Plush account and go back to training on the coding work.
When I finished my defense, I sat silent, waiting for her to reveal my fate.
“I understand Mr. Brighton can be an exceedingly difficult client to work for. The Plush account has gone through more account managers than I can count in the short three years that Mr. Brighton has been with our company. And I’m also aware that this isn’t what you expected when you were hired. Truth be told, it’s not what I need you doing. Bryce touted you as a computer genius who would be able to be groomed to run the technological side of our marketing efforts. Something we desperately need, since right now it’s all a bit fly by night and not even close to organized.”
A little bubble of hope rose up in my mind, the feeling my ticket to freedom was close.
“But, that being said, I can’t risk making Mr. Brighton lose his faith, fragile though it may be, in what we have here because if he goes, so do his millions of dollars in advertising. And, he wants you to run things. Possibly you learned a valuable lesson about knowing when to interject, and when to remain silent. Your words can get you into a lot of trouble.”
That last shred of hope I had been clinging to washed away from underneath me at her scolding. I knew I deserved it. Keeping my mouth in check had never been a strong suit. But having her lecture me only made me want to rebel even more—until I remembered the paycheck.
“In other words, Allison, your talents and skills are on loan to Mr. Brighton until he says otherwise.” Her expression did not change but a shimmer in her eyes gave away her delight at resigning me to Mr. Brighton’s will.
“Understood,” I said, once I was sure she was done speaking. I rose from my seat, preparing to leave.
“One more thing,” Rita continued, right as I set my hand on the doorknob.
I turned back to face her. This time she did smile.
Oh, shit.
“Mr. Brighton has requested our presence tonight at a company event for Plush. The official launch of their fall line, I believe. I trust you will be able to rearrange your schedule in order to attend.”
I felt my hand involuntarily ball into a fist. The voice in my head rattled off a quick speech that started with a “fuck this” and ended with an “I quit”, but I reined it in and tried to focus on the fact that if I did that, I would likely cost Bryce his job as well and that wasn’t something I wanted to be responsible for.
“That won’t be a problem,” I answered, through gritted teeth.
“Excellent. Do keep in mind that even though it is a private event, you will be representing our company tonight, so please adhere to the black tie dress code and don’t abuse the open bar.” She smiled sweetly at me and folded her hands atop her desk.
My nails were cutting into my palm and it took every last shred of self-control to turn and leave the room without flinging myself across her desk and sinking them into her skin instead.
I stormed back to my desk and saw Bryce perched on the edge of it. He reared back at my entrance. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you’re ready to explode.”
“That pretty much sums it up. Listen, I’ve got to get out of here. If Rita asks where I went, just tell her Cinderella had to go get ready for the ball.”
“Cinderella? The ball?” Bryce’s eyebrows creased. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Just cover for me, okay?”
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” he answered. “Have fun at the, uh, ball.”
“Oh, it’s going to be delightful.”