Chapter 1
Whitney slumped in front of her desk. Already, a headache was forming, and she pressed fingers into her temples to squeeze out the pain. Her computer screen glared back at her with multiple tabs open, all depicting different styles of holidays. A few of her co-workers behind her were doing everything but work – which seemed to be the bane of the Creative Department branch of their Agency in general. Their chatter and noise often distracted her at the worst of moments, and when feeling especially stressed and pressured, made her want to snap back at them to shut up.
The office environment, split into twenty individual desks with privacy barriers and a view out of the fifth-floor window onto a bustling street with muted sounds of traffic clogging the roads, gave a cramped, college classroom atmosphere. The whole thing reflected the very opposite of what Whitney thought helped encourage creativity, but since company policy banned personalization, nobody here had any choice in the layout and decorations.
“Oh! Robinson!” Natalie Glenn, all gleaming teeth and immaculately manicured nails, placed her hand on the desk, forcing Whitney to lift her gaze and pay attention. The overpowering aroma of expensive perfume slapped her in the face.
“Yes?” Whitney kept it pleasant, even though part of her wanted to strangle the living daylights out of the woman. Smart, efficient, glaringly beautiful – even when you got past the layers of make-up on her face – Natalie Glenn was the kind of woman magazines would paste on their front covers, with their big smiles and perfect hair, the kind girls would starve themselves thin to imitate. She represented the one everyone wanted to talk to in the office and went out of their way to impress and fawn over, or hold their breaths to avoid unnecessary drama.
Natalie also treated other women, for some inconceivable reason, like shit.
“How’s the hunting going? Because it looks like to me, you’re not working very hard at the moment. I’m sure you’ve had a long and busy few days, but the sooner you can find something within our department’s budget, the happier we all will be! This is an important task our boss has asked of you. I’m sure you’ll be fine, but if you think you need some help…” Natalie’s gaze trailed down Whitney’s dark-skinned arm, to the tufts of hair she kept tight in a bun.
“I’m fine,” Whitney said, smiling through clenched teeth. All the implications were there. Hurry up, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, and you’re useless. “This is one thing I’ll get organized, don’t you be sweating. You been disappointed yet?” There were other things she wanted to say as well, but antagonizing the executive of her department would be a sure-fire way to get her ass kicked out of the office, and left hunting for a new job.
Which she couldn’t afford.
“Of course not. The other holidays have been fantastic. Just checking, you know. Making sure your head is in the game!” in that cringe-worthy, peppy manner Natalie adopted with talking, as if stepping straight out the cast of Mean Girls. She gave Whitney a light pat on the shoulder, invading personal space, in that subtle, hateful way people like her did.
Keep it together, Robinson. You ain’t got time to be fuming.
“Be a moment.” Whitney pulled herself out of her chair, quickly glancing about the office. The other two black women tapped away fervently at their screens, ignoring everything else happening. Whitney pursed her lips. Tia and Gracie – though usually quite vocal, kept now mostly to themselves, creating minimal interactions and movement to avoid incurring Natalie’s wrath. Greg and Sandra were engaged in flirty conversation, with Martin coming back in to deliver them coffee. Natalie walked past them, disregarding the talk. There was the timid little white girl in the corner as well, Faith something-something, who most of the time acted as a mute. No one denied her talent, but she did seem off, with her awkward lack of socializing.
The only thing they shared in common was their need for a job.
Walking into the staff kitchen, Whitney fished for two aspirins out of her handbag, took a glass from the cupboard, filled it up then drained the tablet and water in one go. Sometimes she wished she could just flip her finger and storm out. However, her mother and father relied on the income Whitney earned. Her father couldn’t work because of an accident in construction damaging his spine some years back. Her mother needed to juggle a part-time cashier job with two small, crazy children and an ailing grandma, whom they couldn’t afford to place into care.
Really, it was just all shit. Whitney popped her third aspirin, before washing up the glass.
Right now, Whitney stalled on selecting a package holiday for her team, because she knew she would be reduced to janitorial duties. Chores included cleaning up after other people’s predictable messes, trying to maintain and fix the reputation of a company she didn’t care about, and for people, whom all the while she could joke and laugh with, tended to forget she existed – except for when they required her.
The only ones she cared about was her family. Even then, she needed to remind herself of that fact every day. Family interactions remained strained at the best of times, such as associating with her beleaguered mother, who might be too busy to sit down long enough for time with her oldest daughter, and her father, who liked to pretend he was a piece of furniture in the house on the more chaotic days.
Pacing back into the office, Whitney plonked herself in front of the computer, shoving aside a few pens and scribbled notes. A post-it note displaying: WESTERN THEME HOLIDAY – WE WANT TO IMPRESS OUR NEW CLIENT, “OUTBACK BANDITS” – screamed at her from one corner of the monitor. Other, equally distinct pink notes lay scrunched up underneath the screen, all remainders of completed tasks.
The answer to giving a good impression to a western themed range of clothing meant something simple – a ranch holiday of some sort. A summer camp, a company retreat where the employees would have an excuse to wear the clothing and to indulge in the lifestyle offered. Whitney had never been to a ranch before. A city girl to her bones, the only experience she had of ranches stemmed from movies, which usually had happy-go-lucky heroines, or centered on horse-racing.
Most of the staff would expect a nice, casual retreat, maybe with a spa and the opportunity to enjoy nature.
Whitney wondered how they would feel if they got treated to a real “western” themed holiday. Grinning to herself, she browsed through Google, rifling through the many options. Imagining someone like Natalie hauling out horse muck amused her to no end. Of course, they would just refuse outright something that required heavy duty effort, so she needed to keep searching for something fun and engaging, promoting team-building exercises, and therefore boasting of how wonderful their company was to allow such things to happen.
Twenty minutes later, she still hadn’t settled on anything. The headache by now had receded, leaving her with an exhausted, deadened state of mind.
She clicked on a sponsored ad link for a North Dakotan ranch.
“Brook Valley Ranch,” it read. “Owned and operated by the quiet billionaire Jack Brook, who has had the ranch in his family for several generations.”
Whitney scoffed. Quiet billionaire sounded like an oxymoron in itself. Still, the image looked good. It had horses, farm animals, nature trails, offered horseback riding experiences, activities such as hiking and rope-work, and even had options to fly fish and visit a western themed town. The big focus shone on the horses and an exclusive breeding program for the racing sport.
Scrolling through the images, admiring the beauty of the North Dakotan environment, she landed on a picture of the billionaire himself. A calm, gently smiling man glanced to the side, hands gripping the reins of a huge chestnut horse. Curious, Whitney enlarged the image, studying the photo in more detail. Her fingers drummed the side of her desk.
She had to admit; he was annoyingly handsome. Light skinned, blue eyes, sandy brown hair with more than a hint of beard and sideburns – he graded up there with her mental list of attractive men. The billionaire status didn’t intimidate her. She didn’t resent wealth. She disliked the attitude that came with it, and the assumptions that tagged along with those who didn’t have the same fortunes in life to make it high. Whitney saw none of the attitudes in the manner he examined his horse and clutched the reins, in the small smile on his face, the relaxed way he leaned with his body. The horse as well, with ears flicked forward, enjoyed his presence.
Hmm, Whitney thought. She scrolled through some more pictures, stopping at each one that captured Jack Brook, scrutinizing him more thoroughly.
A twinge of excitement stirred in her stomach when she read that he liked to get personally involved with the people visiting his ranch. Wouldn’t mind meeting this guy in person. Do they do package deals? She hunted eagerly for the deals, knowing that the cheaper the offers, the better for the company, and the more likely Natalie would pass it to the boss who would then accept. It wouldn’t hurt for Natalie to have eye candy, either. Whitney checked if they had tour buses or whether they were required to carpool, printed out the details, and strode up to Natalie. If she sent it as an email, it might get overlooked in the flood the executive usually received.
“Here. This one looks good.”
Natalie, who had sat down to frown at the papers on her desk, glanced up. “Oh? Let me see.” She held out her palm imperiously, showing the underbelly of her leather strapped watch.
Whitney gave the executive the papers. She had deliberately printed out a fetching picture of the billionaire, letting Natalie grope over the image with greedy eyes. It didn’t take long for her to deliver a curt nod. “Hmm. This one does sound good. I’ll give this to Richard. If he approves, we can start the arrangements.”
You mean I will. “Yeah. Good to me. Anything else you want done?”
“Yes. You’ve an hour left. Help with some of these papers.” Natalie indicated the pile.
“Sure.” Whitney took a quarter of the stack and walked over to her desk to start sorting through them. Natalie headed off, holding the Brook Valley Ranch paper with a smug smile.
Pretty certain she’ll jump the boss’s bones to have a chance to meet that one, Whitney thought.
A moment after Natalie left, Tia called out from her seat, elbow on the desk, hand threaded in her long dreadlocks.
“Hey, girl? What you do to make her leave in such a hurry?”
“Check it out. It’s gonna be our new holiday, sure as. Brook Valley Ranch.” Whitney tapped her screen. She noticed the others in the room leaning over their privacy barriers. Martin, Greg, and Sandra had stopped chatting to each other to eavesdrop.
Both Tia and Gracie left their chairs to come and glance at Whitney’s screen. Gracie winced as she saw some of the activities the ranch offered.
“Oh naw. I ain’t doing none of that. Me? Horseback riding? Probably crush the poor thing sittin’ on it.”
“You're not that big,” Tia said, giving Gracie a raised eyebrow.
Whitney smirked. “Don’t worry; I'm sure they’ll get you a big and sturdy stallion. Just how you like them.”
“Ha. Ha.” Gracie took the mouse, clicking through some of the pictures herself. “Well, no wonder. That kinda rich white guy running the ranch, course Natabitch wants this.”
Faith, in her corner, stifled a giggle.
Greg and Sandra were at their desks now, apparently googling the same thing. Martin stood behind Sandra’s chair, slurping coffee.
“I actually think this is pretty cool,” Sandra said. “Goes with the whole Western theme style. And there’s a rodeo? Wow. You picked a good one, Whitney.”
“Don’t I always?”
Sandra nodded. “And I have got to say. Guy’s a total hottie.”
Gracie clicked her tongue. “See? All them white girls be crawling over him like rats.”
“Oh, shut up with that bullshit,” Sandra said. “Don’t have to be white to like him. Come on; you have to admit he’s dreamy.”
Tia shrugged. “Guess he’s aight.” She pinched her fingers together and grinned at Sandra’s expression. “Fine, you get this one.”
“I don’t like him,” Martin said, taking another gulp of his drink. “You girls are just doing that because he’s got deep pockets and has that whole champion horse breeding thing.”
“Sure.” Tia caught expressions with Sandra, and both women rolled their eyes. “Cos I mean, that’s the only reason we like men, right? For the money and the pedigree?”
“Kids, please,” Whitney held up her arms to placate them. “We should be working. And I’m only saying that now 'fore we start an argument.”
With the potential office fire successfully diverted, everyone in the workplace gradually got back to personal task management. Whitney flicked through the documents, organizing them quickly, before taking another quarter stack from Natalie’s desk.
Natalie returned a short while later, without the printed advert, heading straight to Whitney, who had just finished with the second stack of documents.
“He approves. It’s in the budget. I’ll send an invitation list to everyone in our department and see who we can expect – they’ll have a two-day notice – then you can start the arrangements. Is that clear?”
“Yup. Sounds good.”
“Excellent.” Natalie lifted her fingers to her throat. The long, red painted nails scratched at a phantom itch. “Make sure it’s all sorted by the end of this week. We certainly don’t want to miss the chance to have this holiday together, do we?”
“Nope.” Whitney switched subject, suppressing once more her mounting irritation. “Here’s your sorted papers. I did over half.”
The executive nodded. “Place them on my desk will you? Thanks,” she said, without lingering for an answer, prowling off to her desk.
Whitney sighed inwardly. After acquiescing to Natalie’s demand and snatching the last half, since Natalie was apparently busy constructing the email to forward to the Creative Department employees, Whitney reserved another glance at Jack Brook.
This image showed him in a checkered red and black button shirt, with ripped jeans and sturdy leather boots stained with mud. With one hand, he held the reins of a small, dappled gray horse. With the other, he pointed at something outside the frame of the picture for a little girl, saddled up and wearing a helmet several sizes too big for her head. She grinned, displaying a gummy mouth.
Although staged, Whitney found herself admiring the picture. The advertisers knew what they were doing with the sleek photography offered. Whitney appreciated good art. Her job needed tasteful photos for the adverts and logos of the clients they took on, so she understood the working mechanics of well-placed imagery. Showing someone of such extraordinary wealth covered in muck like an average, hardworking person, entertaining a little kid – Whitney wouldn’t be surprised if over ninety percent of the people who visited the ranch were women.
She traced a finger over his cheekbone, where the light was absent. Again, the thought popped into her head. She hoped to have the chance to meet this man in person. Something else fluttered as well; a shimmering of hope and piqued interest. As if on automatic, her mind began playing through scenarios.
She imagined meeting him. Would she be shy, and he confident? She settled on confident. That fitted with the fantasy better. Maybe… maybe he would be helping her saddle up a horse. She could be struggling, and he would step up to assist, offer to show how to tie the straps properly. Maybe their hands would brush, and they ended up exchanging a shy smile.
Or, he would take her to a secret location only he knew about, and they could lie there in the grass of the valley, laughing about something, and then accidentally stare at each other for a few seconds too long. Then, his gaze would flick to her lips, and back up to her eyes, betraying the desire inside. Their faces, in that moment of revealed attraction, would bend closer together, as if a magnet had pulled them from afar to touch.
Whitney grinned, feeling herself become lightly aroused. The salacious thoughts safe in the confines of her mind, Whitney closed her eyes for a brief moment. The office grew too hot and stuffy for comfort. Snapping the stream of thoughts before they became too detailed, she refocused back onto the last chunk of her duties, before wrapping up her job for the evening.
*****
Two days later, Natalie Glenn forwarded her the email with the responses of those planning to attend the annual staff holiday retreat. Whitney, sat at home in her cramped bedroom, scanned through it on her laptop.
Robinson,
Here're the responses. As you can see, twelve out of eighteen employees have signed.
Since the retreat has limited space, I think it would be best to stagger out the holiday. Group A will go for week one, Group B for week two. Separated the men and women to avoid any potential scandals and because there are different courses available. Men will probably want strenuous activities. You know the agenda – roping, racing, raucous drinking games and manual labor. Women get the relaxed package – the hot stone massage, some hikes, and some horse riding/training.
Making it clear as well that we’re attending this wearing our new client’s clothing brand. We need to have designated photographers to snap away at the events to use for promotional advertising.
Good first impressions are a must.
Group A:
Martin Ruthers
Gregory Seal
Timothy Borland
Craig Matterson
Peter Flores (Photographer)
Group B:
Natalie Glenn
Faith Saunders (Photographer)
Sandra Hill
Tia Willow
Gracie Smalls
Alexandra Holding
Whitney Robinson
I’ve sent you the link on Facebook for the two package holidays. Start tomorrow.
Natalie Glenn.
Whitney rubbed her finger over the laptop touchpad, examining her Facebook for Natalie’s message. Confirming the two sent links, she then pulled down the screen.
Organizing could wait. Tempted as she was to start the process now, at this moment in time, if she did make any calls, her voice would be drowned out by the shrieking of the two children downstairs.
Grandma’s voice came wailing through the woodwork.
“Quit that racket! Play outside! Don’t be needing that kind of noise when I’m resting!”
The kids, as usual, feigned deafness and ignored Grandma’s reedy voice. It now sounded like they were smacking things on the carpet, likely their toy trucks or animal figurine collection.
Whitney left her small, cramped bedroom, scattered with remnants of objects and clothes collected over the years, walking down the stairs and passing through the purple bead curtains that led into the kitchen and living room, to see her father reading a newspaper, noise canceling headphones shielding his ears.
The five and seven-year-old kids were smashing their trucks against each other repeatedly, motions increasing in speed and violence until Whitney was certain one of them would injure the other in spectacular fashion. “Brats, stop that now, ay?” She grabbed Trey, the youngest, by his green lantern shirt and tugged him away. Tyrone protested, trying to close up to his brother to continue whacking their trucks together, and Whitney stepped between them. “No. No. Stop. You gonna hurt yourselves like that. What if Trey loses a finger? You hurt your arm? Play nicer, don’t hit your brother, no –”
Whitney continued working on calming them down. Her father raised his newspaper higher, not wanting to get involved. A twinge of disappointment settled in Whitney’s gut. Although she expected the action, she hated it every time he did so.
“But we were playing ACCIDENTS Witnee, the cars were having ACCIDENTS –” Trey squealed, waving his fire-truck around.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Whitney attempted to tug the truck out of his hands, making him sob and cling onto it for dear life. Tyrone watched the unfolding debacle with the morbid fascination of a motorist passing a crash site. Trey grabbed onto Whitney’s loosened hair, tugging the curls, letting go only when Whitney flicked him on the nose and picked him up by the waist. He kicked and wriggled like a fish, even as grandma continued hollering from above;
“Quit that racket! Quit it! I’m tryna sleep!”
“Da, you’re supposed to be watching them, makin’ sure they don’t kill each other! Da? Da?”
Great, Whitney thought, as her father refused to place down the newspaper and acknowledge what was going on.
Trey calmed down ten minutes later, after Whitney finished ham and cheese sandwiches, making them look squished up and messy as if they had been caught in an “accident.” Tyrone wanted the same thing, and Whitney sat there in bemusement as the now quieter children munched away on their ruined “car crash” sandwiches. She had switched channels on the television, which had been displaying a random news channels, to a children’s documentary on domestic animals.
Ma still had two more hours left of work before coming home. Whitney eyed the list of ingredients prepared by the oven – tomato sauce jars, garlic and onions and peppers, with defrosting minced meat placed on top of the microwave, out of reach of the kids. Ma’s spaghetti would be a real treat for tonight. Whitney slavered at the thought of tasting it. Although Whitney was perfectly capable of cooking herself, her mother, Aniyah, always insisted on doing the family dinners – and would get upset if Whitney made something for herself instead of having room for the meals.
Whitney found it easier in the long run to either assist Aniyah or let the woman have her way. She loved her mother, of course. But sometimes being here felt restricting.
With temporary peace in the household war, Whitney rested her head on her elbows.
The ranch holiday couldn’t come soon enough.