I am feeling naughty, but it’s not the spritzers. It’s the power. His defenses are down and his confidence is up, and I could make anything happen right now. I could tell him my condo is right around the corner, confess that I’ve thought about him while I touch myself in bed at night. That idea is practically lesbian porn for this future business leader of America. I could get him back to my place and compromised within a few minutes.
Or I could hit RECORD on my phone as we walk and ask him whether the mournful receptionist is a good lay and whether her breasts are as nice as they look under sweaters. He’s drunk enough to brag about it, and then I’d have him under my thumb, his job and his marriage in danger.
Really, I don’t understand why people don’t record more conversations in life. Is there any downside?
But I don’t need to work that hard this time around, risking animosity and accusation. And I don’t need to put my current relationship on the line by letting this boy wonder touch me. He deserves a much lazier approach.
Rob doesn’t sway or stumble as we walk back toward the office, but he looks confused whenever he stops talking. Not that he stops talking much. He carries on loudly, talking about his wife, of all things. How great she is. How beautiful. The trip she took to India to learn advanced yoga and meditation. How much she loves cooking. He brags about the blog she hosts on positivity.
She sounds like a goddamn nightmare, but she does have a great ass, I’ll give her that. I’ve been to her Instagram, and she’s definitely positive about how she looks in pink Lululemon pants.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Rob practically shouts.
“Oh, please do,” I prompt.
“Savannah might be pregnant. She’s taking a test tonight. She’s been taking the vitamins for months, laying off wine. Just in case.”
“Wow. That’s cool. But you have to get sperm involved too. The vitamins alone won’t do it.”
“Yeah,” he answers, his eyes bright with some far-off vision. Then he shakes off his joy and frowns. “What?”
“Nothing. Congrats. Sounds like everything is really lining up for you. And you definitely deserve it all.”
“Thanks, Jane.”
“My pleasure, Robert.”
“It’s Rob,” he corrects absentmindedly for about the fiftieth time this year.
“I know.”
When we reach our building, he pushes the glass doors open with way too much force, and one of them clangs against the discreet rubber stopper with a gong that echoes through the atrium. Faces turn. He doesn’t notice.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” I say as he moves toward the elevators. “I need to piss like crazy.”
He wrinkles his nose at the crude words. Savannah would never say anything that gross. She’ll make such a great mom.
I give Rob a little wave and head toward the lobby bathrooms. “See you in a few!”
I take my time. I pee and wash my hands. Check my teeth for lunch remnants. Reapply the crimson lipstick. Smooth down my dark-brown bob. Then I dab a little moisturizer on my hands and slowly rub it in. The meeting starts in thirty minutes, but I’ve already prepared, so there’s no rush. In fact, I pop back outside to grab a coffee.
I’ve worn my power suit today, not that Rob noticed. It’s dark charcoal gray, nearly black, with a subtle red pinstripe that matches my mouth. The skirt is knee length and tight, hugging my hips and pointing the eye down to my scarlet heels. I feel like the queen of the world as I ride the elevator back up with my mocha latte and all the notes I memorized last night so I wouldn’t need to write them down.
The meeting starts in five minutes. I log into Google Docs using Rob’s name and password. All that teamwork we put in together means I know all of his passwords. Well. There’s only one. He uses the same one to access his laptop and unlock documents and log into Google. It’s Rob#1in2017.
I’m not kidding. He could at least update the year every once in a while.
“Jane.” Rob is leaning against the doorjamb of my office, a coffee cup in hand, his eyes bleary. “Did you get those last numbers on district budgets?”
“Yeah, I’ll just chime in when you get to that part, no problem.”
“Great.”
He dips back into his office to grab his laptop. I leave the first page of notes for the meeting intact so everything will look normal for Rob when he opens the document; then I handwrite a few critical details on my notepad before deleting pages two to four of the shared document. Rob is heading down the hall when I log him off Google and stand up to join the fun.
Here we go!
We met the client before, but this time there’s a whole team of people in attendance, faces open with possibility. I shine as bright as I can, shaking hands all around as I’m introduced as one of the lawyers helping with this project. I glow with friendliness.
Rob, on the other hand, is glowing with whiskey fumes. It’s not a subtle alcohol, and I can see eyes dart toward him as he weaves in and out of the gathering. Jesus Christ, Rob, it’s 2:00 p.m. on a Thursday! Control yourself!
He shakes every hand in the room before taking a seat near the two partners in attendance. I fade into the background at a far corner of the conference table. I’m dressed to impress, sure, but no one likes a woman who shows off. So I become modesty incarnate, zipping my lips and smiling benignly at everyone and no one. I fade the way I used to watch my best friend fade, making myself smaller and easier to swallow.
But Rob’s glow intensifies, blooming from his pink, flushed cheeks. “I guess I’ll start things off,” he booms, his too-loud words shaking my eardrums as they settle over the table. “It’s great to finally meet everyone in person after all those email exchanges.”
The two partners glance at each other before turning to stare at Rob. Why is he taking control of the meeting?
One of them clears his throat. “Yes, welcome, everyone,” he says, his words half the volume of Rob’s as he steps in. “Let’s get down to business. As you know, you asked us to put out some feelers about additional buyers for your imported supply of premium chicken products after your success with the state prison system. What we’ve found is that the contract possibilities are incredibly promising . . .”
The partner continues his spiel, but I’m focused on Rob. He dabs a drop of sweat from his temple as he stares at his open laptop. Frowning, his eyes creased with concentration, he keeps trying to scroll down on something on his screen, but it doesn’t seem to work.
I watch him click a couple of things and then click and click again. Another sweat drop forms and a wave of shivery pleasure laps at my gut, easing higher until my nipples tighten.
“Rob?” I hear someone say, and he and I both realize at the same moment that he’s been asked a question.
“Uh,” he replies. “Yes?”
“Rob, the numbers.” It’s no longer a question but a demand. The partner nearest Rob, Jeremy Browning, who’s distinguishable from the other silverbacks by his retro black-rimmed glasses, is turning nearly as pink as Rob now. He must be breathing in Rob’s whiskey fumes. A vein in his temple begins to throb, slowly but surely. Approachable glasses aside, Jeremy is known for his quick temper.
“Right,” Rob finally says. “The numbers. As you know . . .” That’s all he says, As you know . . . , instinctively repeating a phrase used moments before by one of his bosses. That’s his whole shtick. Mirror the partners and make junior associates do the real work.