“As the department head, you’d think I could get access to it, but something tells me there’s something about all of us in that damn file.” He finishes his beer in record time. “And to be honest, it pisses me the fuck off. In all the years I’ve managed a marketing team, I’ve never seen anything like this bullshit. Graham Morgan had better know what he’s doing, because if not, he’s going to lose some good people over this shit. Including me.”
It’s a grim outlook, but he’s right. I nod, then wave down the server. “Another one?”
“Is the sky blue?” Sam chuckles, then coughs.
“Me too.”
Chapter Seven
Alison
I tossed and turned all night, and the little I did sleep was marred by dreams—dreams starring none other than Ben Schilling. The very attractive and muscled Ben Schilling. The wavy, dark-haired and blue-eyed Ben Schilling. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him, but sometimes our subconscious plays tricks on us. In my defense, it’s been a while since I’ve, well, done it. My last relationship ended over a year ago, and I’ve not pursued anything since. It’s been just me and my vibrator, and it’s been fine.
Yeah, it’s been great.
Mostly.
Besides, Ben Schilling is not unattractive. On the contrary, he’s quite good-looking. I’ve seen him three times, and each time my body has reacted to him. Sure, the first time it was more of a fight-or-flight reaction. That time I fought, and rightly so. The second time I was shocked to see him and my handiwork. I really nailed him. His eye was a deep shade of purple.
The last time I saw him was from his doorway of his tiny office, and I felt a little sorry for him.
Okay, I’m just going to admit it. Perhaps I was hasty. Maybe he’s not a lech. Maybe he was honestly trying to help me the other day.
But he just grabbed your leg, Alison.
“That’s true.”
Great, now I’m talking to myself.
I’d love to tell you that jabbering on to myself is uncommon, but I can’t. Ever since I made the monumental decision to start this consulting company, I haven’t slept much, and second-guessing myself has become a daily occurrence. I’m not a risk taker by nature. Quite the opposite. I’m one of the most cautious people you’ll ever meet, but when the last company I worked for shuttered suddenly, I was left with a decision: either I needed to hunt down another job that I’d probably hate, or I could follow my dreams—the dream of owning my own company and working for myself.
“And how’s that working out for you. Ali?”
All I can say is, “Not good.”
After buying the largest coffee this shop sells, The Vat, I walk the final two blocks to the subway that will take me to Morgan Financial Holdings, all the while planning out my day. It’s time to sit down for one-on-ones, and I plan to start with the support staff. They’re the part of the team who knows everything that goes on. Not only do they assist everyone at the management level but they also talk to each other. Plus, they listen; they hear things. Sure, some of it is bullshit, but every now and then, a nugget of truth seeps out.
Hopefully they’ll be able to validate or disprove the three main allegations made by the person who created the green folder. Those include whether or not there’s been overt favoritism within the department which prevented others from advancing, if leadership has been stealing ideas from support staff, and whether or not someone’s been stealing lunches out of the break room refrigerator. Okay, that last one seems a bit ridiculous, but nothing tanks morale faster than a lunch stealer. I know this from personal experience.
Those are three serious accusations, and so far, the only things the documentation has told me are some names and a few examples that may or may not be true. There’s an abundance of notations made by the author of the green folder. Lots of what appears to be verbatim dialogue between colleagues in meetings and some that seem to be one-on-one conversations. Those really don’t tell me much other than this person, the one who wrote it all out, had too much time on their hands. I’m concerned about all three issues, but the one related to favoritism can really create an unhealthy work environment. There, Ben’s name is listed several times, while several other managers, including Brendon Lang, Silvia McAllister, and Sam Ford, are also mentioned. As for the stealing of ideas, I was surprised to see that our author—assuming it’s Clive Burgess—claimed it was a manager who was slighted in this case. No name was provided. Of course.
Honestly, the assertion is vague, and I’m not sure it’s got much merit. It’s one person’s word against another’s. I guess that’s why I was hired, to check those out—and to see how well the inner workings of Sam Ford’s department are functioning. Or not functioning, as the case may be.
When I step onto the elevator, I recognize a few people from the department I’m observing. I smile but get none in return. No doubt they all think I’m here to streamline their operation. That’s fine. They can think whatever they want. I’m not about to explain that to them. Fear will help. As hard core as this sounds, people are more willing to talk if they think their job is at stake. And I need people to talk.
Once the elevator doors open, I step off and make my way around the perimeter of the floor to the hallway that houses my office. I spot a few others who work in the area and try that smile again. Only one person makes an effort: Lindsay Barker, head of social media.
When I reach my office, the door is shut. With my hand on the knob, I see movement from my left.
“Good morning, Alison.”
Ben Schilling.
My heart does a little jump in my chest as the few memories from the previous night run through my mind. I’m a little tongue-tied, “Uh, morning.”
As Ben enters his office, I turn the knob and push my door open. The first thing I notice is Clive. At my desk.
I thought Graham was going to take care of this.
“Clive.” I’m about to ask him about it when he points to my right. I look over and see a desk and chair pushed up against the wall. It’s small, about the size of the desk I used to have in high school. I step closer and can’t help noticing the chair looks like one of those from the small break room. Plastic with a straight back and no wheels.
“Uh….”
“They said if you need a computer, they’ll bring one up for you.”
I hold up my laptop bag. “I don’t need a computer.”
“That’s what I told them.”
The guy hasn’t looked up from his computer once. Not once. What could he possibly be doing that would not allow him to engage in eye contact?
I step around my desk closer to his to get a glimpse at what he’s working on, but he’s on to me. By the time I get within viewing distance, he’s on the company website.
No matter. I need to get out of here and find somewhere to work that isn’t at a miniature desk or in the same room as Clive Burgess. Turning on my heel, I step out of the office, though in search of what, I’m not sure. The word I’ve got rolling around in my head is sanctuary.
Taking a right, I step past Ben’s office. I can hear him talking since his door is wide open. Discreetly, I see he’s leaning over his desk, phone to his ear.