Lost in Translation

 

Time: a great engraver, or eraser.

- Yahia Lababidi

 

 

KAT

 

I nearly moaned when I felt his fingers on me.

Leaning back in my massage chair, I let my pedicurist, Joe, take me to heaven and back. It’d been a long week. My feet were beat, squeezed into red-bottomed Louboutins and walked to within an inch of their little lives. I had enough of the suits. As snazzy and sophisticated as they were, my favorite work attire was binding, barely breathable in the humid southern summer.

It felt nice just to take a weekend to myself. A relaxing one. One without headaches and deadlines and dialing the number listed for Brendon Foxx. Or rather having Laney dial it. I’d been too busy investigating the bastard.

He’d gone to Harvard, earned a Comparative Literature degree alongside Economics, and then took his talents to Wharton, where he had stepped out of its doors with an MBA. He was young, it seemed. A few years senior to me, at most. Rumored to be a bit of a wandering soul, he travelled the world and possibly whored his way through it, until finally his father, Victor Foxx, owner of the formidable Foxxhole Publishing, wrangled him back in, pushing him into leading one of his many acquired businesses.

TravelTalk was his current target, and as its new CEO, he had remained, up until now, damn near invisible. His “coming out” of sorts was planned for several weeks from now at the Literature Today national summit, and all the “Literati” in the southern half of the United States was buzzing, anxious to see the new head of the burgeoning publication. Or maybe they were just anxious to get a peek and hobnob with a family that was known just as much for playboying and paparazzi shots as they were for publishing articles of ill-repute.

The notorious Victor Foxx was renowned for his many accomplishments; keeping his dick in his middle-aged pants wasn’t one of them. And I wondered if the son was just as bad as his philandering dad. At the very least, he seemed decisively discreet, but time would definitely tell. And so would the Summit.

It would be bad form for me to not show up. After all, wasn’t I part of the Literati? I was also in charge of one of Tampa’s premier travel periodicals… and engaged in a “Dear John” letter battle with a man whose business cast a huge shadow over my own.

Two weeks of back and forth had done nothing to curtail the insults, the barbs, the absolute animosity that grew with each written word passed between Brendon Foxx and me.

It was the slowest word battle in the history of all fucking communication combat.

We mailed each other letters, refusing to speak any other way, both too petty and prideful to break a war we both believed the other had started. I remembered the first letter he’d written back. I’d almost framed it it was so scathing, so deliciously sarcastic and sardonic, and I would have… if it hadn’t been written to me.

I read it out loud to Laney when it arrived.

“Dear Katarina,

I enjoy an old-school throwback every now and again. The letters are a nice personalized touch. The problem is… this is the 21st century. Maybe that’s why your articles are so outdated. Very little innovation. I thought about sending this via Pony Express, but I doubt you could afford to tip the pony. I don’t think a shiny red apple would fit into your reportedly minuscule budget.

I appreciate the e-mails, but I thought it better to respond this way. You see, your letters are helping to line my puppy Ted’s litter bin.

We appreciate the time you’ve taken to use the ‘good paper.’

With grateful and most thankful regards,

Brendon Foxx

P.S.

Your handwriting is amazing. It’ll come in handy when you’re out of business and taking orders at the local Red Lobster. I really love that place. Best wishes… Brendon.”

The post-script had my blood boiling. I wrote the next letter so fast I thought the page might rip.

“Dear Brendon,

The only thing taking orders is you… from dear old Daddy, I hear. Sick of suckling at your father’s teat, or are you ready to be a big boy now? Because that’s who you’re playing with right now. The big boys and girls.

You have to understand… My business is my own. I didn’t inherit it. Wasn’t given it. I wore my fingers to the bone just to build it. Seems the only bones you and your father are familiar with are the tiny ones in your overpriced pants.

When you’re ready to quit sniveling in the corner and have a mature conversation, then so am I. But you’ll have to check with my secretary. My babysitting schedule is seemingly all booked up.

With kindest regards,

Katarina Khvostova”

He hadn’t liked that. It took him three days before he responded to my last letter. I imagined him sitting there, presumably in his power suit, behind his desk, putting pen to paper. He had a sharp tongue, that was for sure. Mine was sharper. But for more than the first time, I wondered what Brendon Foxx was capable of, how he led a company… what he looked like.

His last letter was still on my desk, burning a hole in my brain. I wish I hadn’t opened it yet. But I did… I read it for the fortieth time, thinking of what the secluded CEO was thinking when he wrote it—a note so inappropriate it was bordering on sexual assault.

I read it again just to be sure.

“Dear Katarina,

I’m so flattered that you’re so concerned about what’s inside of my pants. Really, I am. But just so you know there’s nothing “tiny” or “childish” about me. I am, in fact, a big boy indeed.

It’s nice…that you think you can play this game with me. In my household, we were born learning how to win, and this will be no different. Your empty threats mean less than nothing to me. And I will meet you… but on my terms. Because this is my game, Katarina. My rules.

I’ve only let you on the board because you entertain me. You seem smart enough. If you were smarter, you’d walk away…. My dad isn’t the “Daddy” you need to be worried about.

Silly rabbit. Tricks aren’t for kids…

Best,

Brendon Foxx”

It was a throwing of the gauntlet. Brendon Foxx was doing everything he could to let me know who he was, to remind me of how powerful the Foxx family had been. He was assuring me that he could crush me. And even the way he signed his name, the telltale use of his first and last, showed he wasn't above rubbing it in my face.

He was a Foxx… and Foxxes got what they wanted. Always. If Brendon was anything like his father, he was undoubtedly a delicious looking devil. Sophisticated. Unscrupulous. And suited in more money than the law allowed.

I could just picture him now…

I imagined the shine of his cufflinks, the cut of his undoubtedly tailored shirt. I pictured what his profile might look like, and all of a sudden, a vivid vision of my unwanted pen pal settled in my mind—a made-up montage of a man that not only knew how to handle money, but a Mont Blanc pen as well.

The thought of his presumably large fingers wrapped around a pen, feathering strokes of ink across the envelope in my hands, sent a shiver across my shoulders, and I soaked in the sensation, letting my imagination play as these visions in my mind grew darker. Wilder.

His penmanship was powerful, broad—strong. The stroke of his pen showed signs of strength that had to exist in other ways—with his business, in the boardroom… beneath his power suit.

I felt like I could see everything—a present that wasn’t real. A future that didn’t exist. Him. Me. Finally meeting. Putting the pens down, our hands and fingers splayed across the papers on his desk. Confronting each other, face-to-face…

I experimented with the movie of him in my mind as I paid for my pedicure, padded my way to the nearby postal office and found myself still fixated on that imaginary face—a face I hadn’t even seen.

The devil lay in the details… and I explored every one of them. One-by-one.

Was his face soft? Lean or strong? Did he have the strong prominent nose of a Greek God? The dark brows of a Sicilian? Maybe he had the blue eyes of a California surfer… I wondered if he was bearded… clean-shaven, maybe. Did he grow a goatee? Or did he possess that distinctive stubble, that fine sheet of facial hair that drove women wild, that pricked so pleasurably when touched beneath the fingers, along the cheek… between the legs…

I tapped the edge of my pen between my teeth, considering the possibilities. Toenails finally dry, now finished with my lunchtime tasks, I slipped my feet back into my tall heels, strutting to the office. I was still in the middle of my daydream about Brendon Foxx’s face when a far-away screeching shattered the fantasy, making me stumble on my feet as an alarm overhead flashed bright lights just as my elevator reached the office floor. The blaring grew louder as Laney stormed into the hallway, her face frantic, her hands moving fast as she shooed me towards the stairs.

Her pretty face was as red as her shiny, collar-length hair.

She grabbed for my arm, pulling, damn near dragging me as other employees followed closely behind. Shocked, I allowed myself to be driven away from the elevator doors. In fact, I had no choice. My senses were shattered, overwhelmed by the constant wailing in the air. I followed dutifully, heading towards the stairwell  as the noise of the fire alarm and stamping feet filtered through each square foot of space, sending sirens shrieking across each floor we staggered down. We descended the steps without stopping.

Once we made it to the lobby, I turned towards Laney, an exhale falling haggardly from my lips. I was exhausted, spent. The mail in my hands hadn’t made it past the first hastily taken floor, and I was sure I had chipped one of my freshly painted toes.

“Dammit, Laney. You almost pulled my arm out of the socket! What the hell is going on? What kind of damn drill…?”

Laney shook her head, strands of her silky bob flying sideways.

“It isn’t a drill.” And then I could feel the shudder on her skin, the shivers from the hand that was still touching mine. Dozens of workers scattered their way from the stairs, and as I met the stare of my secretary, I noticed the same look on everyone else’s face—the same apprehension. Soot covered the shoulders of some of my own employees, and their clothes were strewn as they filed out, one-by-one, passing the police officers that were heading in our direction towards the danger.

Danger…

And then it dawned on me. The drill. It was real… The looks on every single employee’s face told me it was, which meant the alarm must have been, too… and I’d been stupid not to see it. Not to see that there was a fire happening in my building. With my company. On my floor.

I grabbed every single one of my employees I could get my hands on, head counting, literally making sure that there were no men, or women, left behind. I corralled them to the center of the lobby like they were my children…because in a sense, they were. I had trained them up, raised them in the publishing world and would eventually let them go. On to bigger jobs and better wages, if they had to. But for the time being, the ten people who stuck by me through thick and much, much thinner were almost as much of a family as my own. I hugged and shook every hand I could get my fingers on, ignoring the smell of fear that still drifted all around us, sifting into our business clothes and the cloudy air.

Two hours later, the firefighters and officers that had been en route gave the “All Clear” and it was only ten seconds later that it occurred to me. The letter. Brendon’s note.

I’d left it behind... On my floor. With the fire and smoke.

It was ruined for all I fucking knew, and if that was the case, I now would never know what Mister California-Surfer-Maybe-Sicilian-Could-be-Greek God wrote in the note. And I wondered why I cared. Why it mattered.

I hadn’t even met the man. And for fuck’s sake… he was affecting me the way no man had in nine years…