When he did, our eyes clashed and held.
For a second, I thought he didn’t remember me. Why would I be memorable to him, after all? I was a nobody. A dark room fuck. He’d gone in there to be anonymous and only another twist of fate had made it so that we knew what the other looked like.
Then I remembered the husky British voice, and wondered if the guy I’d screwed was an Astley, but those stupid nerves of mine had me ducking my head, hunching my shoulders and darting out of the elevator before he had the chance to completely blank me.
Unfortunately, as I moved down the hall toward the Marketing section where I worked, I could feel his eyes on my back. The burning urge to turn around, to see if I was making that shit up or if he was really looking at me filled me, but I wasn’t a fool. If I did turn back and he wasn’t watching, I’d be disappointed, and if he was, then I’d be flustered and would probably end up walking into a wall.
No win either way.
As I headed into my department, I moved over to Cassandra’s desk. She was Jacquelyn Rhode’s executive assistant, and while she wasn’t a bitch, neither was she nice. She had a habit of dumping shit onto me that wasn’t really my pay grade and then claimed credit for herself. No bueno.
Still, I was picking up on more this way, learning from the inside out. If I was doing what an ordinary intern would, I’d probably be bored.
Rhode, which was how she liked to be called, was a little like Miranda Priestley on steroids.
One of the major reasons I wanted to work here was her. She was renowned in the industry for her ability to take a new author and to overnight them into the big leagues. She was also one of the ‘New York’ Rhodes so, old money. The regular kind. Not the Astley kind. But refusing to answer to Jacquelyn was her way of shoving her lineage in people’s faces.
She wore the highest stilettos she couldn’t walk in, had a temper meaner than a starving pit bull, and eyed me up as if I was a chocolate sundae.
And if a sundae had passed her lips since 1992, then I’d gladly shave off my hair. Carbs? She needed them. Desperately. Her brain was loopy from ketosis. Having worked with her for two months, I’d seen her genius at work and half wondered if that was behind it…
Didn’t they say madness and genius were two sides of the same coin?
Cassandra saw my approach and watched me move toward her.
They said men objectified women? It happened to me all the time in this damn department. I was one of the few guys in this section, and they eyed me like I was a Butterfinger they wanted to bite.
Cheeks tinging with pink at her scrutiny, I muttered, “Morning, Cassandra.”
As usual, she didn’t greet me, just barked, “She’s asking for coffee. Then, when you’re done with that, there’s a pile of reports I need you to go through—the designers are bitching about the promotional graphics we’ve requested for the Juniper Mills collection. Then there are some issues with the press release for the new Trevelyan book.”
Kyrian Trevelyan was one of Astley Publishing’s most famous authors. Every book he released hit the NYT bestseller list at the coveted top spot, but this one was catering to a different targeted audience and, as such, the Marketing staff were rolling out the promo as if he was a newbie author.
Kyrian was a renowned gay man with LGBT activist leanings but normally, he wrote suspense and thrillers, not MM romance. Twisted Love was his first foray into that genre, and as much as I was proud to be working on the campaign, pleased, even, Cassandra kept dumping the mother lode of work on my shoulders.
Not only was it not fair, it was stressful as hell. I wanted Twisted Love to do well, and for that to happen, it needed more input from the VP’s EA than the intern who was faking it ‘til he made it.
Because the Juniper Mills collection sounded interesting, and because it was a change of pace from the usual ‘pedal to the metal’ franticness, I retreated to the small break room with a nod rather than argue as I might have done if she’d given me more in-depth work on the Trevelyan campaign. Rhode, though the Marketing VP, had half the Communications department terrified of her, so they always got approval before they sent anything out first.
Plotting my mental to-do list, I went to make Rhode’s weird coffee.
She had a bulletproof espresso blitzed with butter, and topped up with fresh cream and cinnamon. Every time I made the concoction, seeing it split and the fat slick on top, I almost gagged.
I hadn’t last night though...
A small smile curved my lips as I maneuvered around the break room, crafting the coffee from hell. Seeing who I’d sucked off just made it all the sweeter.
Wondering if I could find out which Astley was in New York right now, because there were several, I decided Googling the family would be the easiest option—there was no forgetting a face like that.
Armed with the gross coffee, I returned to Cassandra’s desk because she liked to take it in to her boss for brownie points. Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t there and I heard Rhode call out, “Cassandra, where the hell is my drink?”
This was a morning for ‘no win’ situations.
If I didn’t take it in, then Rhode would be furious. If I did, then Cassandra would sulk.
The melodrama was irksome, but I preferred Cassandra’s wrath to the bitch boss so I plastered on a smile and walked into the grand office.
One day, I wanted to work somewhere like this. She had the corner office, windows on each side, overlooking a bunch of other buildings, but still, this was prime corporate real estate and she knew it.
The other walls were loaded down with the books she’d made famous, and she had a thing for African art that was just bewildering when you paired the glass furnishings with ethnic tribal masks.
“Ah, Micah,” she crooned when she peered away from her computer, a sultry smile on her lips. “Good morning.”
My return smile was awkward. She never failed to make me feel gauche. “Morning, Rhode.”
Rhode’s eyes narrowed on me as I placed her cup on the corner of her desk, on one of the coasters that were made out of tiny shells, unable to hide from the fact she was looking at different material pertaining to the book of the moment. Twisted Love.
Her nails tapped against the shiny paper. “Fucking Trevelyan. He’s a pain in the ass, still bitching about the cover. What is it with those faggots? So goddamn difficult,” she grumbled with a sniff, before tipping her head to the side and studying me as if I was a New York Times’ crossword she couldn’t solve.
Though her remark was inflammatory, it wasn’t the first she’d made about gays in my presence. To be honest, I’d stopped being shocked by it. And to be quite frank, my father had said worse when I’d come out to him. Neither of that made her homophobia okay, but what was I supposed to do?
Who was I supposed to complain to?
HR might listen if I was complaining about Terry in Accounts, but Rhode? The Rhode? Yeah, they wouldn’t do shit. I’d just end up tossed out on my ass, and I needed this internship on my resumé too much to make waves.
Seemingly unaware of my disapproval, or not even caring that her words were offensive in the extreme, she inquired, “Late night? You look like you had a little too much fun.”
For a second, I wondered how the hell she’d know that, then I registered where her gaze was—the bruise on my throat.