Subject: You People Are Stupid
Heron,
When we signed a six-figure contract for media and advertising management with Heron Communications, this company wasn’t expecting a block of ten a.m. commercial breaks. I need to know three things:
1. What moron books TV advertisements during The View? I don’t know about you, but my grandmother doesn’t wear designer jeans.
2. How are you going to fix this, or do you plan to cancel my contract with a full refund? Or do we need to sue, because most judges will agree I didn’t get what I paid for.
3. How many damn emails do I have to send my account manager to get a response?
Thanks,
Jesy Cho
Marketing Director, Go Boom Denim International
I push my chair away from the desk and sigh.
Apparently, Jesy emailed her account manager four times before shooting this off to me, and...
Yeah. I get why she’s upset. The moron in charge of her account hasn’t responded either.
At this point, we’re losing a client and the why doesn’t matter.
Dad shouldn’t be putting up with this bullshit. I’d can a crappy account manager on the spot.
This is first-year intern fodder. The manager only rose through the ranks because he was one of my dad’s frat buddies, too. He had no fucking idea what he was doing when he was hired, and years later, he still doesn’t.
He obviously got talked into the worst ad slot available with the station. But I saw the bill for it. That poorly targeted slot hadn’t come at a discount.
Any more of this, and HeronComm will be heading for the shitter. Jesy Cho is a mover and shaker who knows a lot of people.
I’ve had it.
I storm over to my father’s corner office and barge in without knocking—every time I do, he always yells that he’s busy.
He doesn’t seem to notice me at first.
I freeze in the doorway, taking in the scene, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing.
My father’s face is a bright hell-red. He’s screaming incoherently and shaking his fist.
A tiny blond woman cowers in the corner, next to the filing cabinet with her hands out in front of her, like she’s trying to shield herself.
Maybe she is.
I’d never seen him this mad before, bowed up like he’s about to fucking hit her.
He shakes his fist above his head, his back turned, his voice this vile hiss.
“How dare you. How dare you march in here, you street urchin, asking for more money for you and that brat? I fired you years ago. We signed a settlement!”
What is this? I study the blonde in the corner. It takes me a minute to place her, but I recognize her at last.
She was an intern here a few years ago, right after I left the Marines and came back to the family business.
Marissa. Marissa Quail.
That’s her name, isn’t it? We’re roughly the same age.
“Hey!” I snap, the only word that comes to mind.
They both turn to look at me in slow motion.
Dad frowns, his lip curled in this vicious sneer.
Marissa doubles over, frantically wiping tears from her eyes.
Neither of them speaks as my blood pressure rockets and my hand forms a fist like a hammer.
“Dad? What the ever living fuck is going on?”
Present
My eyes snap open and my whole body jerks.
I’m on the jet, I realize, the dull white noise of engines droning over everything.
It was just a nightmare, a memory I’ll never forget no matter how bad I want to.
We’re on the way home to Chicago. Sabrina sits across from me with her head turned toward me, looking right at me. Her face is hard, the disdain clear, holding another newer, sadder memory.
And I’m the shit who put it in her head.
When our eyes meet, she jerks her head away and she stares at her phone, tapping away.
Fine.
She has a right to be angry. I hope she doesn’t quit.
From the sound of things, she can’t afford to, but I really don’t want to be without an EA again. And the assistant before Brina was as bad as a vacant position.
I stare at the back of her head, wanting to run my fingers through those long brown locks again. She’s beautiful, funny, and far more fragile than she looks.
That kiss messed with my soul. So bad I spent the whole night tossing and turning in my bed, pulsing with guilt and aching with desire.
I couldn’t even sleep until I jerked off like a college kid.
Goddamn.
This was not supposed to happen for too many reasons to list.
I need to keep my EA.
I need to stop fucking up.
I need to remember who I am, and who I’m not.
Not. Baxter. Heron.
Frowning, I open my laptop and get to work.
Well, I pretend to.
I can’t concentrate, but I have to put something in front of my face to keep me from gawking. To keep my eyes off the woman who’s become my own forbidden fruit. To keep a thin line of sanity between Brina and me.
Miss Bristol, I correct myself.
That’s how it needs to stay.
13
Secret Santa (Sabrina)
He kissed my face off.
He kissed me like a cyclone.
He kissed me freaking blind, deaf, and senseless.
Then he told me to never speak of it again.
The drive back to the hotel was ice-cold silence, and he didn’t say a word on the flight home.
He no longer needs my help attending meetings either, but has no problem emailing me all times of the day. He’s just as demanding as ever, and every bit as deserving of my hate.
Every time a new request comes in, it’s hard not to chuck my phone through the nearest window.
Miss Bristol, please pick up my dry cleaning.
Miss Bristol, make another coffee run.
Miss Bristol, I’ll need you here on Saturday and Sunday.
I’m waiting for the one that says, Miss Bristol, could you kindly adjust the Earth’s tilt?
Go ahead. Call me clueless.
For a moment, out in the desert, I thought he’d actually crack and open up like a human being. I thought he had it in him to be real with me.
I almost thought—
I don’t even know. That we were equals? That I might tumble into being more than his EA?
He kissed me in a way no one ever has, leaving me a puddle of confusion and clashing feels, and then the prick pretended it never happened.
So many questions and zero answers.
I’m even second-guessing the reason why I got this job.
Did he hire me all along because he wants in my pants? Or did something about me really impress him like he claimed when he was gushing all over me for a job well done, before the infamous, soul-stealing kiss?
Or—horror of horrors—maybe I’m that bad a kisser.
One smooch and he instantly realized I’m better EA material than fuck-buddy grade.
God.
I hate this.
I hate him.
I hate that I have to wonder, ponder, and decipher some more.
All because he can’t just man the heck up and talk to me.
Maybe it’s a blessing that I don’t have to see him much these days with December grinding on toward its Christmas peak, the only break we’re bound to get. This Chicago winter rode in with a vengeance, leaving the city a slab of drab grey, howling wind, and glistening ice.