Damage Control

“I have to go. I’ve got something to handle for Shane.”

“Yes,” I say, wondering if that something has to do with ballplayer Brody Matthews, which seemed to distress Shane this morning. “Sorry,” I add, when she’s still looking at me expectantly. “Go ahead.”

“Good luck with Senior,” she says, hurrying away.

Luck isn’t likely to help me with Brandon Senior, I think, walking toward the door with no real plan as to what I’m doing. Remembering everything I did last night, it seems the controlled, planned, calculated person I was not so long ago with the name Reagan is gone. Entering the lobby I wave to the receptionist, and oh the irony of her chomping on bubblegum after my comment about such behavior resembling Brandon Senior.

I stop at her desk. “Is Senior in yet?”

She chomps, then answers with, “He was here when I got here,” before chomping some more, and I can’t take it.

“You might not want to chomp that gum while on the phone. I hear Senior dislikes it.”

She pales. “Oh. Yes. That was bad of me on the phones. Thank you.” She turns to the trashcan, and I start down the hallway to the left, which leads to the alcove and my desk. It guards Senior’s office, but no one is here to guard me this morning. Clearly, he’s feeling rather spry today to be here so early, which really isn’t in my favor.

Rounding the corner, I find my desk looking as neat as when I left it last night, while Senior’s door is thankfully closed. Letting out a sigh of relief at the momentary reprieve that gives me a chance to prepare for the storm ahead, I walk to my desk and sit down. I stick my purse inside my desk, then remove both of my phones and stick them in my top drawer. That’s when the door behind me opens, and I instinctively stand, expecting Brandon Senior, but instead, his wife walks out.

“Emily,” she greets me, and always stylish, her shoulder-length dark hair is a dramatic contrast to the pale pink dress she’s paired with sleek knee-high boots.

“Hello, Mrs. Brandon,” I reply, wondering how she can be Shane’s mother when she looks like she’s forty-five years old at the most.

“Maggie, please,” she says, stopping in front of me. “You’re making me feel old. And we’re friends now.”

“Maggie,” I repeat, not sure what to make of her now or ever.

“We have so much to talk about,” she says, and I’m pretty sure the spicy scent I smell is her husband’s cologne, though it’s not at all familiar. “How about another lunch? Would tomorrow work?”

I’m not sure if this means I still have a job and I’m invited into the game, or if she doesn’t know I’m possibly about to be fired. “Yes,” I say. “Great. As long as I don’t have anything work related to stop me.”

She gives me an all-knowing smile. “I’ll make sure you are free. I’ll meet you here at one. See you then.” She walks away and my intercom buzzes.

“In my office, Ms. Stevens.”

I grimace, certain that bubblegum chick told on me and is not to be trusted. Hardly anyone in this place can be trusted it seems, which is all the more reason Shane needs me here.

“Ms. Stevens?” I hear again.

“On my way,” I say, heading to the door, when it hits me that maybe leaving my phone behind when my brother could call isn’t such a great idea, though I don’t know what I’d do if he chose right now to finally contact me. Still … Turning around, I grab it from my desk, place it on vibrate, and then stick it under my blouse in the band of my pantyhose beneath my skirt. With a calming breath, I return to Brandon Senior’s door, and open it.

Entering it, I find him sitting behind his massive half-moon-shaped wooden desk, his fingers steepled on the sleek wooden surface, but rather than looking at me, he is sitting with his head is tilted downward, his eyes shut, and oddly, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I’m here.

“Mr. Brandon?” I ask, and his head jerks up, his eyes fluttering a moment before they focus on me. Good gosh, is he in pain?

“Shut the door,” he orders, and there is a hint of rasp to his voice, and for a few moments, I forget the manipulator he is and see a dying man who is also Shane’s father.

I do as I’m told, sealing us inside together, and he motions toward the high-backed leather visitor’s chair I would have claimed anyway, but that is part of control to him, the tendency to dictate the actions of others. My stepfather was this type of person. In some ways Shane is as well, and I don’t really know why it doesn’t bother me with Brandon Senior the way it does others in most cases, but not now. Right now, Senior is still that dying man.

Crossing the room, I sit down in front of him. “Hi,” I say, because “good morning” really doesn’t seem appropriate considering how red his cheeks are at a closer view. He’s having a bad cancer day and trying to hide it. I’m sure of it.

“Ms. Stevens,” he says. “This conversation is going to revolve around conflicting words and actions.”

“Obviously we’re speaking of last night.”

“Obviously. Words and actions. Your dots do not connect.”

My mind races, and I wonder why I haven’t practiced answers to these questions. “I know I told you he was using me…”

“Yes. You did.”

I quickly decide to be as honest as possible. “I consider myself a strong person, but your son. He’s a weakness.”