You’ve Got Mail

 

Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.

- Thomas Jefferson

 

 

KAT

 

“Laney!” I called out to my secretary. “Can you get in here, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” she shouted back. Our office space was so small it was as if she had yelled it in my ear.

Casual was too strict a word for our laid-back office environment, and though we’d made a few changes in personnel—fired a fast-talking typist with no real experience and brought in a few new journalists, our ten-person team was a small publishing titan. Two years had brought us a series of ups and downs, and around year three we were on our way up in the world, making waves in the little publishing pond that was Tampa, Florida.

Home of the Buccaneers… and some of the most back-stabbing businesses in the country.

It was one of those back-stabbers that had me shouting for my secretary, who also played personal assistant and doubled as the most loyal friend on the entire East Coast. She flounced in, folders in hand, her red bob bouncing as she strutted towards my desk, her blue eyes bright.

“You rang?”

I sighed. “I’d like to say I did, but neither of us have used our phones in months, have we? I’m still paying the phone bill and yet no one in here uses one. Not the ones on their desks anyway.”

“That’s because it’s so much easier to yell.”

“And so much harder on my ears,” I noted. “I’ll be deaf by fifty… and when I am, I’ll have no one to blame but you. You, and that wide mouth of yours. I know we scream at each other across the office, but every time you shout, a tsunami is born.”

“Speaking of wide mouths and tsunamis,” Laney diverted, “I met up with Justin Harrington last night. You were right about him. He is a prick… and for some reason, it totally turned me on. The only tsunami happening at dinner yesterday evening was in my pants. I took Justin home and made use of what you like to call ‘my wide mouth.’”

She smirked knowingly.

“God, Laney,” I scoffed, slapping her with a file. “The man’s a dickhead, a miscreant…”

“And has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen,” she finished.

I sighed. “You sure you don’t have severe Tourette’s? Every word out of your mouth today has been ’cock’ or ‘fuck’.” I searched through my files. “And it’s distracting. I’m actually trying to talk business right now and all I can think about are tsunami-sized cocks.”

She leaned in. “Jealous?”

“Sure…” I stood. “I’m just dying to be in a relationship again after dating a coworker, having him steal some of my best articles and take them to a corporate competitor.” I smiled sweetly. “Aren’t relationships just swell?”

“Who said anything about a relationship?” Laney shrugged. “I’m talking about good old-fashioned fucking here, Pussy Kat. No fuss. None of the muss…unless we’re talking about ’freshly screwed’-sex hair.”

“Yeah, well, if mussed hair were the test of a true phenomenal screwing, then there’s a reason I haven’t seen my hairstylist since dating Greg. Didn’t have to…” Laney nudged me. “Now, I’d love to get a blow-by-blow for every dirty Justin Harrington detail… but for now, we need to talk shop. Serious shop.”

I appreciated Laney’s sense of urgency. With those few words, she shut up, taking the seat in front of my desk and whipping out a notepad. She touched a pen to the tip of her tongue and then to the page. She looked up at me.

“I’ll take some meeting minutes. Okay…” she nodded. “Go.”

I started. “Foxxhole Publishing is back in town again… and they’re coming for A Whole New World’s customers again. Greg’s breaking his non-compete, going through with his bastardized clone of a company, TravelTalk. Foxxhole is behind him, bought him out. I don’t care if his travel magazine is under new management.” I stood. “It makes no difference. A contract is a contract. Greg worked for this company, traveled for this company—used our ideas. He can’t take them, smear some bullshit all over it and call it different.”

I walked behind my desk, shutting my slightly cracked door tightly. “I won’t allow it. He’s going to honor the terms of his agreement, and so will Foxxhole. I don’t care how deep Greg has been in bed with that bastard, Victor Foxx…”

“Or how far he’s crawled up Victor’s ass,” Laney muttered.

I nodded my head, knowing that that was exactly what Greg had done: Brown-nosed his way into a business deal. Greg had once used his old money and clout to help me get my small publishing business off the ground. Combined with everything I ever fucking owned, A Whole New World Literary Press was off to a fantastic start when we started three short years ago… but then we’d hit a rough spot about twelve months back.

And Greg had jumped ship. Taken off at the first sign of trouble.

He had always been that way. When the going got tough, Greg got going. He never stuck anything out past its use, and still, he laid claims to things that no longer belonged to him.

Things like me.

Though he seemed perfectly content, crushing my business. He probably thought that when I failed, I’d run back into his underdeveloped arms, begging for a chance. The only person who’d be begging if this “non-compete” deal didn’t work out the way I wanted would be him… pleading for Laney not to kick his lanky ass, as she had threatened so many times before.

I groaned into my hands, wishing I could dial back time and “un-date” him. I pressed forward.

“Set up a meeting with TravelTalk’s new CEO. Tell him that the current CEO, and founder, of A Whole New World would like to have a chat with him. Maybe some coffee… I’d like to meet this, uh…” I looked down at my own notes on the desk. “What’s his name?”

“Foxx,” Laney glanced at my face. “Brendon Foxx.”

“Yes, Brendon. Brendon Foxx.” I thought for a moment. “What kind of name is Brendon? It’s not Brent. It’s not Brendon. More like some weird ass combo of the two. Bet Victor Foxx thought he was being really unique with that one.”

“He thinks everything he does is unique…” Laney rolled her eyes.

I stood at the window to my office overlooking the Bay. The day was clear, cloud-less. The view was breathtaking, the water shocking me every time with its bold blue hues. I swept my gaze over the other high-rises, wondering if Foxxhole Publishing could feel me looking out at them, could feel my presence. I certainly felt theirs.

I thought of Greg. I thought of Victor Foxx. And then I thought of Victor’s prodigal son returned—the new CEO. He was in for a rude awakening. Come back under his father’s thumb just to get moved to the side by mine.

He was a peculiar guy, picture-less on the internet, which was impossible these days, and yet I found the revelation somewhat charming. I envied him. In a time and age where anyone could be found, Victor’s Foxx’s youngest son had maintained some mystery. I briefly wondered what he looked like. This… Brendon Foxx.

I would meet him before the next week was out. I’d make damned sure. I said his name again just to get used to it. Mister Foxx. Mister TravelTalk. Mister CEO.

Brendon. I smiled to myself. What an interesting name…

I liked it. But why did it feel so familiar to me?

 

***

 

RISKE

 

“She has an interesting name,” my assistant commented off-handedly.  “The CEO of A Whole New World, a ‘small potatoes’ publishing press local to Tampa. Her name is Katarina Khvostova.”

He tried to hand me an envelope. “This is the fourth letter delivered this week. That makes fifteen phone calls, twenty e-mails and four snail mail cards she’s sent to you since she started. I know her reputation. I’d heard she was persistent. Some would even say ‘dogmatic’.” He shrugged in front of me.

“And some would say,” I kept my eyes on the notes I was writing in my leather-bound planner, “a pain-in-the-fucking-ass. And by ‘some,’ I mean me. What does the Whole New World woman want? Does she even know about the acquisition?”

My assistant, David, cleared his throat. “I don’t think so, Mr. Foxx, but she does want a meeting. More so, she wants a meeting with you…”

I said nothing as I finished the note in my planner, setting it aside. The note-taking was a habit I couldn’t get out of—a sort of journaling. I’d developed it nine years ago from the girl I’d known then, and even as a new C-suite executive, I couldn’t break it. I grabbed my phone from the edge of my desk. Perching at the corner of the tabletop, fanning my thumbs over the phone’s surface like a certified pro, I answered a few e-mails, confirmed three meetings and all the while, David, was standing there, practically pissing in his pants with anxiety.

He didn’t know if he should speak or shut up. Normally, I liked that, but the boy made me nervous. He was one giant ball of angst, wrapped in a tiny suit. I sniffed. You could smell the desperation on all these recent grads.

I looked at him, locking him with a quick stare.

“David, tell her I’m out of town. Tell her I’m unavailable. Or dead. Tell her anything… But get rid of her,” I snapped softly. “I don’t have time for some of our own advertising clients, let alone cranky competitors. I just got into this position, and it seems the entire world thinks they can make demands of my time. The only person who can do that is me…” I turned back to my phone. “And Natalie Portman, if she ever decides to leave her goddamned husband.” I glanced back at David. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.” His tiny brown head bobbed up and down like a buoy. “It’s just… well, I spoke to her secretary. A Miss Brigham. And basically… she threatened me. Said I’d better made sure you read at least one of Ms. Khvostova’s letters or emails… or she would put her high heel so far up my ass, I’d be spitting Red Bottoms for weeks.”

He looked down at his shoes and then the floor. I got the sense that he believed the secretary—this Miss Brigham. She had a name that felt vaguely familiar, and from the way David was shaking in his hundred-dollar shoes, I had a hunch that the apple didn’t fall far from the CEO. If this “Miss Brigham” had put the spook on my assistant, then I could only imagine what Miss Khvostova would do to him. Or maybe to me.

But I’d never backed down from a challenge.

I took the letter from David’s hand, suppressing a smile. “That’ll be all, Mr. Daniels. Thank you for your help.”

The small man turned on his heel and practically ran. I stared down at the envelope curiously this time, flipping it over. It was addressed to me. And only me…it said.

Khvostova sure had balls, and from the sound of it, so did the rest of her organization. That was some scare she had put on David, putting the little Fonzie-look-alike into a frenzy. I didn’t quite understand. All this fear, threats for a little lunch date?

What did Katarina Khvostova really want for me…?

Okay, I could admit the shit: David was the nervous new guy, a Journalism major fresh out of undergrad that always looked as if he were going to wet his pants, but this was something else. He was practically hopping with anxious energy, a feat that had only gotten worse the more he was around me, the more letters came in from the Khvostova woman.

Truthfully? I did suspect that David was indeed gay. I wouldn’t go as far to say the guy was fucking in love with me or anything.

Just nervous—the way that I made most male-loving organisms nervous. At the very least, all of the mammals.

And it wasn’t conceit… It was fact.

I’d been aware of my attractiveness for some time. Most women (and girls) weren’t immune. Once they saw me, they almost immediately wanted me, for whatever reasons women really crave men. They’d go out of their way to please me. Promises of sex were nothing new, and I knew if I really wanted, I could drown in the amount of pussy that was thrown my way, cum for the rest of my life off the blowjobs that were offered every time I looked a woman’s way, every time I moved… every time I smiled.

And then I’d open my mouth… That made things worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

I had the kind of voice that made women melt, made panties twist on their own. It had been described as a mix between George Clooney with a hint of vintage Rock Hudson, possessing the swagger of a Fortune 500 executive… and the sheer physical prowess of an athlete.

Born to rule. Bred for greatness. That’s what I was reminded of every single day of my life. And my father never let me forget it…

The only person who really didn’t seem to give two shits about any of that lived five hundred miles away from me… and almost ten years in my past. I felt a familiar tightness in my chest at the thought of her, experiencing the squeeze that came every time I thought about the one summer that I couldn’t make last… and the woman I’d left behind in it.

Her name was on the tip of my lips when the envelope in my hand slipped out of it, falling to the floor. I bent to pick it up, finally deciding “What the fuck…”

What could reading one little note hurt, anyway?

I sliced open the encasing and began scanning over the handwritten letters. Her print was immaculate, the script short and decidedly not sweet.

“Mr. Foxx, this is my fortieth attempt to reach out to you. I’ve resorted to snail mail. Our offices are mere blocks from one another, and yet it seems that we two busy people cannot seem to  find the time to have lunch or coffee. I’d like to rectify that. Soon. I am really eager to meet with you. I have concerns, ones that pertain to both of our businesses. It is vital that we talk. In person, if it pleases. We both see how well conversing other ways is working for us. Notwithstanding… I wouldn’t want to resort to burying your building under all of my postage.

Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Katarina Khvostova.”

I nearly dropped the note again. My fingers were itching. I was sitting on the side of my desk as usual, but suddenly felt as if I needed to take a seat. A real one.

Because… well, damn. That letter was something fucking else. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been talked to like that, let alone via handwritten text. I should have been angry. I should have been livid that of all the things to do to a seasoned CEO in the same business, Katarina Khvostova had gone right for the jugular, threatening to rip it out with her promises of “burying me under postage”—essentially asserting her dominance as she wrote in, not asking me to meet with her.

But telling me.

That took some huevos grandes to talk to a Foxx like that… Not to mention me. But I was more intrigued than irate. Obviously nothing was “small” about Katarina’s potatoes, and the itch in my hands subsided as soon as I put a pen in them.

I rounded my desk, taking out a sheet of paper, feeling my pulse jump two beats. My heart started to hammer, a first in this new office, this new position. Despite everything else I had going on, this was the most exciting task I’d taken on all day.

I wet the tip of my pen. I started writing back.