Play with Me

“Well, then,” he says thoughtfully, drawing out the words and seeming to hesitate on something he wants to say, before he finishes with, “Good night, Ms. Miller.”

“Good night, Mr. Ward.”

Neither of us hangs up. Seconds tick by, and I think we both expect something to happen that never does. And then the line goes dead and the call is over, unfinished in some way that feels wrong where he feels right. Despite all that has happened today, I have this sense that I am where I’m supposed to be. And the last thought I have before the shadows of slumber overcome me is of when I fell backward in the elevator and he caught me.

Part Four

What just happened?

Morning comes, and I’m determined to make it a great first day at work. By seven forty-five, I am at the human-resources office. The receptionist, a rather standoffish twenty-something woman with light-brown hair, offers me coffee. I decline, and she points me to one of about ten burgundy lobby chairs. By eight-thirty, I reconsider the coffee. At nine, I am feeling antsy when a slender woman with spiky black hair and wearing a fitted navy dress walks down the hall. A curvy, very Bette Midler–ish redhead is on her heels.

“I really need to go to my desk and pick up my pictures,” the brunette insists, turning to the other woman. “They’re very personal and sentimental. Irreplaceable in every way.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the redhead says, giving her simple black dress a sharp straightening that screams of irritation. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you.”

The brunette’s back is to me and I can’t see her reaction, but she says nothing, turning and walking to the coffee machine to get a cup for herself. It is an obvious act of rebellion, a statement that she will go with her chin held high, and I am not the only one who notices. The redhead glares at the other woman for several long beats before shifting her gaze to me. “Ms. Miller?”

“Yes.” I pop to my feet, reaching for my purse and briefcase. “That’s me.”

“Actually,” the woman replies, an irritated look reddening her pale complexion, “I need to take care of another matter before we meet.”

It is all I can do not to slump in defeat. There is no apology. No real explanation. Just basically sit and behave. “Can I start working and come back later?” I ask hopefully.

“No. You need clearance from me or someone in HR first. And I’m the only one available.”

Except that she isn’t available. But I nod my acceptance—not that she sees me. She is already rushing away by the time I sit down. My attention returns to the receptionist’s desk, where I find the brunette resting a hip on the desk and the two women’s heads dipped close. The rasp of whispers I can’t make out is fuzzing up the air, and the unease of a gut feeling that I am their topic is impossible to shake.

I glance at the hallway, where the redhead has disappeared, and grimace at being left to wallow in discomfort. She did not even introduce herself to me. Note to self for my analysis of the staff, I silently say. The redhead is not a woman who makes new employees feel warm and fuzzy. If Mr. Ward cares. After last night, I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Abruptly, the brunette lifts her head, and her eyes soften as they land on me with something akin to sympathy. Oh, God. What does she know that I don’t? She shoves off the desk and abandons her coffee, heading toward me as if she is on a mission.

She sits next to me and motions to the unfriendly receptionist. “Carrie says you’re my replacement.”

I’m stunned. She’s the one who made the mess all over the desk? “I … uh … am?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “I’m Natalie. Mr. Ward fired me yesterday. Or, well, he had his bulldog Terrance do it. Bastard didn’t even have the courage to look at me eye-to-eye. I have two kids at home.” Her voice cracks, and dampness glistens in her brown eyes. “What am I supposed to do now?”

My gut twists. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

She swipes at an escaping droplet. “I’m sorry. I swore I wouldn’t cry. I didn’t want to come today, but they wouldn’t give me my severance until I did exit interviews. Two years and I was turned into a paper file in two words. ‘You’re fired.’ I just moved to a bigger apartment. Be warned. You’re about to be working for a coldhearted snake.”

“What happened? Why did he fire you?” I’m almost afraid to hear the answer.

“One of my kids is sick, and I was distracted and made an error. It made him look bad and he fired me.”

I was right. I didn’t want to know. “Because you made a mistake?”

She sniffs. “Because I made him look bad. You do not make him look bad or you’ll be gone.” She squeezes my arm. “I wanted to warn you. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.”

A shiver chases her touch up my arm, and it’s an odd sensation. Something is off. Me. Her. Mr. Ward. I’m not sure. “Can he do that?” I ask. “Fire you for simply making him look bad?”

“There’s some clause in the employment agreement about damaging the company reputation, and, let me tell you, it’s so all-inclusive that, in management’s opinion, you could sneeze in public at the wrong time and get axed. Something should be done about it, but I don’t have the strength to fight him and fight for my kids.”

I resist her claims, and I am shocked at how badly I do not want my new boss to be the same arrogant, rich, self-righteous jerk I’d assumed he would be. That my father is. That Kent is. But considering my life has always drawn precisely that kind of man, Mr. Ward being like them would be fitting. And if he is, my attraction to him will be over—or, I vow, I will seek counseling.

It’s also the start of a familiar cycle. I get wrapped in the glove of power of one of these men and then smashed beneath the shoe of their contempt.

I inhale and stiffen my spine. Not this time. Not. This. Time. “Listen, Natalie,” I say, “I can’t get you your job back, but I’ll try to get you justice. I’m a reporter. I’ll write a tell-all and expose him for what he is. But I need time to gather facts. If you have things I should look for, then call me.”