Today has been frustratingly draining and it isn’t hard to know why. You asshole keeps rolling around in my head, reverberating, echoing, but never dying out. Never growing quiet and disappearing like any normal echo would.
Well, Ashley Miller is no normal person. I even caught of glimpse of that while listening to, what she thought was, a private conversation between her and Natalie. She is infuriating and opinionated and not in the least impressed or intimidated by me and…
And sexy as fuck.
I push away from the piece of shit desk and grab my briefcase. It's time to go home, drink a glass of wine, call over Tiffani and four of her naughtiest friends, and fuck my frustrations away. I’d heard about a new BDSM club downtown, maybe I’ll take them all there and—
The elevator door opens with a ding, and there’s Ashley. She looks up at the ding of the door opening and the look on her face when she sees me says that she can’t decide if she wants to fuck me or strangle me.
Welcome to the club, lady.
I step inside and ask, “Ground floor?” She nods once, jerkily, and I punch the button for the ground floor, the descent to the next floor punctuated by Ashley’s heavy breathing. Is she…? I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s got her eyes closed and she’s breathing in deeply through her nose and out of her mouth.
It is…
It is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Who is this Lego cursing, deep breathing, cab-stealing woman? She’s this puzzle that I want to solve, a Gordian knot that I want to untangle, but before I can ask her out, she says simply, “I’m sorry for today.” She opens her eyes and she’s looking right at me, as if she can see through my soul. “I’m sorry for what I said to you, about being an asshole, and I’m sorry for stealing your cab.”
The doors open for the next floor down, but no one is standing there. I push the button to continue our descent, and Ashley keeps talking. “But it’s true, Apollo. You’re being an asshole. I refuse to believe—”
Maddeningly, the door dings open for another floor, but again, no one is there. I make a mental note to have my secretary call the elevator repair company and find out what the fuck is wrong with this elevator.
“I refuse to believe,” she starts again, “that you could’ve met everyone and looked over all of the numbers and really figured out what we do here and who’s important to keep around, after two hours of working here. I know they call you the Wolf of New York, but even you’re not that good.”
The doors, thank god, finally open on the ground floor.
“Stop being the Wolf of New York for a moment, and start feeling some compassion,” she says quietly, with dignity. “All of those numbers you’re chopping out? They’re people. They have bills to pay and mouths to feed. Start acting like it.”
She walks away, her heels clicking on the tile. I notice a small rip up the back side of her skirt and I can’t help but wonder where it came from because it wasn’t there this morning, and then she's gone, out the front doors, the doors swinging shut behind her.
And I step out in the lobby, the quiet of the building echoing loudly in my brain, staring after her.
Fuck it. I need a drink, and it can’t be at home. I need to go to the Soho. Fuck Tiffani and her friends. I can’t do that, not right now. I need to get my head on straight.
I need to figure out what I want.
7
Ashley
Natalie and I meet up at Agave in the Lower East Side for dinner. 8 pm on a Monday night—I know, I know, we’re stupid. The Agave is going to be packed to the gills with every margarita-loving woman out there, and every man who loves women who are drunk on said margaritas.
But when I show up, Natalie is already there (she's annoyingly on time all the time; I guess not everyone is perfect, right?) and has talked the waiter into squeezing us in right away. He takes us back to a far table, a tiny thing that just barely fits the two of us, and disappears with our drink order for two lime margaritas.
“Tell me. Tell me all. You said on the phone that you ran into him again in the elevator. What happened? Did he shove his tongue down your throat? I want all the deets.”
Another waiter, in the Agave uniform of black from head to toe, slips in between us for just a moment to deliver their world-famous chips and salsa and our margaritas, and then disappears again. They’re nothing if not discreet around here.
I take a big sip of my margarita and then try to figure out what to say, what to do. Earlier, in the panic of hearing Apollo’s voice come through the speakerphone, I’m not entirely sure Natalie heard the words coming out of my mouth. How do I tell her that she may not have a job tomorrow? I may not have a job tomorrow.
“Mrs. Sanders interrupted our little—” I wave my hand in the air dismissively, “discussion—” Natalie snorts and I ignore her, “—to remind Mr. Kane that he has to decide which departments to fire before his meeting in 15 minutes."
I continue, “Natalie, we may not have a job tomorrow. How can you fire whole departments at a magazine? Which department are you going to cut? Editorial? Marketing? Or!” My voice is getting a little louder now but I can’t help myself, “Production?”
I dropped my voice and lean forward to whisper, “I think he’s going to take the company apart and try to sell the pieces for a profit.”
She sits back and eyeballs me speculatively, nibbling on her lip as she does. I’m the emotional one out of the two, while she’s the analytical one. She never panics until she has to, and there’s a small—okay, very large—part of me that wants to hear it from her that there’s no reason to panic.
“What else did Mrs. Sanders say?” she asks.