With that, I turn away from him and head back towards the bathroom — not to relieve myself. Simply to splash some cold water on my face, and hope to God that Tommy doesn’t see the blush I have on my cheeks.
He doesn’t even have to be doing anything at all, and that big, overshadowing frame — those large, soft eyes, even softer lips — it all overwhelms me. Calling him my boss, that also affects me in a way I’m surprised by. I didn’t think I was one of those people. I didn’t think I got a turn-on of using titles and stations as attention builders. But with Tommy? It seems to fit.
It takes all I have not to start using my time in the bathroom to fantasize about just that. About him “being the boss” of me really and truly, not just in the title or an insinuation. Taking me as his, regardless of what Ms. Vanacore has to say about it.
Chapter Fifteen
Tommy
The next day, I start my morning the way I have for the last couple of years of my life. I arrive at the office and take the elevator up to the legal aid’s floor. Despite landing a job as an associate lawyer to the head of the new legal department, Ms. Vanacore, yesterday, my work in the legal aid cesspool isn’t finished.
Like a bad relationship, it comes back to haunt me, make busy work for me, and just when my life is starting to look up. In order to make my official “move” up to the upper floors, I’ve got to clear out my desk and my files from the fifth floor and leave my desk open for another poor sap. Someone who’s no doubt been “promoted” to my position as an unofficial “head” of the legal aids.
The elevator bings open on the floor too soon for me. I’m inundated with the smell of this place — sweat, cheap cologne, and desperate, flimsy dreams of advancement. The minute I step out of the confines of the elevator, my single brown box clutched to me, the eyes of my fellow legal aids fall on me. Women more than men, though there are a few hyenas who immediately smell blood, my recent success, and come to shit all over it.
This is, after all, Cubicle Hell. More like Cubicle Purgatory, since, once you have a desk here, you’re not likely to get a desk higher up. Most of us legal aids are like report-writing mules. We write all the legal documentation, procedures, and whatnot that the CEOs don’t have time for. We are like the slush pile, but for corporate offices.
A guy named Ben, with heavy-style long hair and beads all throughout that long hair, comes up and says, “Finally get fired?” For all his hippie, peace-and-love vibe — something he only offers the ladies — he’s an asshole.
I looked right at him. “No. Promoted, finally, unlike you, Ben.”
Ben gives me a look of surprise, but it’s not warm or happy for me. It’s mocking and jealous. “Oh? And with whom?”
A young woman with blond hair, and ridiculously, perfect frosted nails walks by. “Ms. Vanacore. I heard she finally found someone, and I’m assuming that someone is you?” She looked sideways at me like I’m a pile of dirty laundry, not a human being. She grimaces at my wrinkly, frumpy suit. “I can’t believe she would hire you looking like that. You look like a reject bin at the Goodwill, not someone who needs to be working for one of the partners.”
And you look like a faker bitch than Barbie.
Out loud, I say to her, “She did hire me. As much as that surprises you, clothes are not everything. Brains count for something. But you would know that if you had enough brain cells in that head of yours.”
The young woman with frosted nails walks away, scoffing.
I hurry over to my cubicle and began packing things. As I do, I notice Ben following me. The rest of his “clan”, other guys who fit into the hippie/hipster subculture around here, follow him as well. They crowd around me like the bunch of hyenas they are. Each one of his friends has some kind of health food drink with them, by the distinctive cups.
“I doubt your brains got you that job, Tommy,” says one of Ben’s posse. I believe his name is Orion, Aura, or some new-age thing like that.
I ignored his suggestive tone and keep packing my things. Thankfully, there isn’t much. But unfortunately, it will be enough to keep me here for a while. Long enough to be fucked around with.
Another guy chimes in. Not from the click of Ben’s, but from across the way. He has a crew cut and bleached hair. He’s got a fake tan too, which is stupid. Especially since we live in a part of the country that gets more than enough sun. “Ms. Vanacore? I heard that boss likes to use her assistants and not just for paperwork.”