Maliciously Obedient Part 12

Madge will make you eat the b.a.l.l.s if you take advantage the text read.

"Oh, G.o.d!" Lydia groaned in anguish. "Way to kill off every single s.e.xual drop in me, Grandma."

"I think that was the point."

The room spun a not too much, but just enough. Lydia stood and swayed a bit, Matt rushing to help her. "I'm really tired," she said, reluctant to admit it but comfortable enough to do so. The twin feelings surprised her, and he smiled kindly, helping her walk to her bedroom.

A very different walk than the one she'd envisioned moments ago.

In her room, he pointed to her dresser. "Get dressed in your pajamas and I'll make sure you have a gla.s.s of water for the morning." As he stepped out, he kissed the top of her head. "You'll need it," he chuckled.

Pulling off her skirt, she rooted around her top drawer for granny panties and put those on, plus her favorite penguin-covered flannel Pjs, her feet grateful to be released from the agony of her purple-leather dancing heels. The night was shot, and some part of her had slipped out of desire to an acceptance that, oh, something. Her mind didn't work quite right as she slid between the cool sheets, her cheek loving the pillow's downy luxury.

Barely noticing Matt when he came back in, her last memory was of a kiss on her cheek and a light caress of fingertips on her forehead.

On his way out, she heard him mumble, "Mr. Decent sucks."

Chapter Eight.

Who was performing the macarena in the apartment above hers? Wait a there was no apartment above her. She and Grandma lived on the top floor. So, the jackhammer, the b.u.m b.u.m b.u.m b.u.m b.u.mpa-b.u.mpa-b.u.mpa b.u.mp in her brain was in her brain and not really outside. Someone appeared to have sneaked into her home in the middle of the night and sprayed her mouth with cotton b.a.l.l.s. As she peeled her eyelids open, her fingers prying the flesh apart, the sun attacked her with all the violence of a provoked porcupine and she realized that she was just waking up in the morning.

In bed, in her favorite jammies, shoes off and placed neatly under her bed. She could see the little pieces of purple leather from under there as she leaned over and just let her head hang down. One of her grandma's afghans was thrown over her a quite neatly, in fact a squared perfectly with the bed. She must have slept without moving, and from the way that her head throbbed she guessed she hadn't gotten up to have any water or to do anything to mitigate those three Cosmos.

How had she gotten home? She didn't remem a oh. It all came flooding back. The bar, the dancing, her hands on Matt, the way a oh, G.o.d! Maybe the Earth would swallow her whole and suck her in. Would that take away the blinding pain? Even more important, would it mean that she didn't have to go to work this morning?

Had she really done all of that last night? She felt under the afghan quickly and located her panties. They were on. Whew! It hadn't been that bad. Lydia relaxed her shoulders, her body sinking into the soft mattress. It relieved the pain for about three seconds and then it came rushing back. What she needed, right now, were three Advil, a giant gla.s.s of water, and a cup of coffee.

Water was right there, next to the bed. Drunk off her a.s.s and she remembered to do that? Not her style. Greedy for the liquid, she sucked it down, and then remembered.

Matt. He must have done that, thinking ahead to her hangover. A small, shy smile covered her lips.

No one else was here. Grandma was at Ed's house. She was completely alone, which meant that if anyone was going to help her, it had to be her. The downside of being single.

As she slid her legs over the side of the bed and rolled her head back on the bed, she lay p.r.o.ne, feet flat on the floor, arms above her, waiting for the energy to trigger her solar plexus and abs to curl her body up, to change blood pressure, to recover physically enough to even begin to plan out how she would make it to work. She engaged her brain to fire the signal to her belly to encourage her arms to move up and whoosh!

The room swam. Why did she chug that last Cosmo? What the h.e.l.l was she thinking? And at $9 each, she wasn't exactly rolling in it now. $27 for a headache. Not a bargain. Worst deal ever a because she felt as if she had made a deal with the Devil himself: Matt Jones. A deal that took away her respect, her professionalism, and a little c.h.i.n.k of her heart because as she felt for her panties again in a panic a oh good, they were there a the next thought was, why are they still there? Why wasn't she good enough to sleep with last night?

She propped herself up on her hands, palms flat against the mattress, wrists aching within seconds from the weight of her shoulders pushing down. She had very little head control but she needed to acquire it. And so, determined as ever, she sat to wait this one out. Sandy had taught her a long time ago that no matter how difficult something is, if you wait long enough, it will go away. If she waited long enough perhaps Matt Jones would go away. But oh, how she didn't him to.

Lydia was not a drinker. Which made the fact that she had gone out and had this much all the more telling that something was off in her world. She hadn't felt a compulsion to drink and it had been fun, but tossing back that last Cosmo as if she were steeling herself against some great travesty that she had to fight seemed so barbaric and beastly of her. The steady, painful thrumming in her neck and head was an all too visceral reminder that, for whatever reason, Matt Jones made her act like a completely different person.

It was like she was two different people.

Why hadn't he slept with her? He could have. She was willing. Even through the haze of alcohol it wasn't a desire driven solely from a bottle. Inhibitions were down, her libido was up, she could feel a literally a his matched desire. Why had he brought her home, tucked her into bed, and left? Lydia remembered the feel of his soft lips on her temple as she had faded off to sleep, the comfort of being cared for by someone who wasn't biologically obligated to do so. n.o.body had tucked her in like that since she had mono when she was in high school, her mom slaving away over her.

It felt good. It felt tender and nuanced. Matt wasn't just some guy that she could play with or learn from and move on. There was something more here, and the fact that he had the decency not to take advantage of her made her want him all the more.

The problem, though, was that she actually had to get to work in order to see him again. And that meant standing up. Any other day, that would be no problem, the action involuntary, so quick and simple she didn't think of it or pause or hesitate. Right now, what normally was a nanosecond of effort had 921 separate and distinct steps involved in moving her a total of two to three feet vertically.

She reached for her phone, which she noted had been neatly placed on her bedside table, and took the easy way out. Autodialing Krysta's number, she waited three rings and a "'Lo?"

"Did I catch you asleep again?"

"Well, it's 6:30 in the morning, Lydia."

"Can you come over and help me?"

"Ahh. Feeling a little unwell?" The teasing tone of Krysta's voice told Lydia that yep a it really had been that bad last night. She had to ask, though.

"That bad?"

"After you serviced three guys on the bar all at once a don't worry, I'm sure the video will go viral, or has already. One girl, two bartenders."

"Ha ha." Lydia's head started to explode as she actually spoke the words aloud, pushing aside the cotton b.a.l.l.s with a tongue that felt like it had last been kissed by Jabba the Hut.

"You were fine, but I a.s.sume Matt was the gentleman he promised me he would be."

"I'm still wearing my panties."

"Good. Because really he should only have one pair, not two."

Lydia was really regretting telling Krysta the elevator story. "Yeah. That's right," was all she could think to say.

"You want me to come over there and make coffee and take care of you, don't you?" Krysta's voice was flat, not rude, not disappointed. Just stating the obvious.

"Mhmm." Lydia was quickly realizing that when she actually spoke, pain gained momentum. Humming might do better.

"You can't even talk, can you?"

"Mmn mmn."

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes but you'd better have some decent shampoo over there because I'm gonna have to shower."

"Mmm." The sound she made was one that connoted 'not sure'.

"Oh, Christ, Lydia. I'll be there soon." Click.

Luckily Krysta hadn't said the one thing that Lydia feared hearing the most. You need to call your mother.

"What would Sandy do?" she muttered to herself, closing her mouth and reminding herself to stop doing this. What would Sandy do? Well Sandy, she guessed, would never have left Maine in the first place. She didn't understand it. Grandma stayed in Boston a loved it in fact a and was just as stubborn as mom when it came to making life decisions. Lydia sure understood that.

Sandy had been devastated that Lydia didn't stay in Maine with her brothers but she had no real future there. Not quite. That wasn't really true. It wasn't that she had no future there, it was that she had Sandy and Pete's future there. What they wanted. How they envisioned life for their kids. And her brothers all loved it, except for one.

She pushed the thought away. She couldn't think about Luke right now. But she was the one who got away, and the only one not living there now. She was only four hours from home and Grandma lived in the same city. So, what was their problem? Why couldn't Sandy just be happy for her?

If she called Mom and said, "Hey, Mom, I went out last night and got drunk and made out with my boss, and by the way, it's the third time and he has my panties from this elevator scene that..."

Words rolling off her tongue, Lydia tried to fathom the look on Sandy's face, tried to imagine what her mother would think and do if she were Lydia. It didn't compute. She couldn't ask herself what would Sandy do? because Sandy would never have done any of this. A smile cracked the cotton b.a.l.l.s in Lydia's mouth.

That's why she was here. Because, when she asked herself that question, what would Sandy do? the answer was Sandy would never find herself in this position. Lydia did, and this was Lydia's life to live. But if Krysta didn't hurry up, Lydia was going to die from caffeine deprivation.

Fortunately, a sharp knock on the door followed by the sound of a key in the lock and a holler told her her savior was here.

"You're still in bed?" Krysta's voice cut through the room like a sharp knife.

"Yeah, I'm still in bed. You're my savior." Clenched in Krysta's hand was a telltale paper cup with a green logo on it. "Please tell me that's a double."

"It's a triple."

"Oh! Marry me."

"No. It may be legal in this state, but no. I don't marry people who give their panties to their boss in an elevator."

"You're never ever going to let me forget that are you?"

"I'm going to hold it over your head until the day you die."

"Well, if you don't give me that coffee right now, it's going to be today." The hot liquid, just the perfect temperature for taking small swallows, for infusing her brain with a much needed jolt, helped everything recede; her confusion, her thoughts about her mother, her feelings for Matt. She was one with the coffee and then she looked at Krysta and said, "Advil?"

Reaching into her purse, Krysta pulled out a bottle, shook out three orange pills and handed them to Lydia, who gulped them down in one big swallow. Now she could relax. Now she could give herself the time she needed to start this day because work a work was going to be really interesting today.

And it all started with coffee.

"Somebody got outed," Lydia's singsong voice made his blood run cold as he stepped off the elevator and looked at her in horror. His hair was dyed back to brown, he knew he was wearing the contact lenses because he'd seen himself in the mirror of the Toyota he rented as he drove to work this morning. So, what was she talking about?

"What are you talking about, Lydia?" he asked, on guard, standing close to the elevator and ready to jump back on it if need be.

"Dave," she said slowly. "Dave." Her face was radiant. She looked like a college student, a high school girl, a fresh faced ingenue who had just been handed the best news of her life. It didn't square with the half-drunk woman he'd left in bed last night. "Dave was fired. He is gone, completely gone."

"Really?" Mike had to act surprised. He knew Dave was gone, because after digging through his HR file he discovered that Dave had falsified his resume. A few quick Google searches that Human Resources hadn't bothered to do when they hired him seven years ago told him that Dave had a rather active life as an online liar. One phone call to Harvard told him that he certainly hadn't eared his MBA there. With very little effort, he'd had him completely canned and offered a very neutral reference should Dave attempt to work elsewhere a in exchange for his speedy exit. He was beginning to dig this reality television show bit. It was helping him to find all sorts of information about his company.

And then there was Lydia. "So he's gone." He leaned in, face neutral, but voice intimate. "I want to talk about you, though. Not Dave."

She blushed. "I, uh, don't know what to say. Um, thanks?" Her voice squeaked on the last word.

"For what?"

"For taking care of me."

He coughed. "That's not quite how I remember it. You, my dear, were close to taking care of me." He pointed to the office and as they walked, he realized this could be caught on camera if he wasn't very, very careful.

A crinkle in her nose as she winced made a part of him yearn to reach over and kiss her, though. Logic brain kicked in, though, and he changed the subject.

"I guess that means his job is open."

His eyes lit on hers and she went completely ice queen on him. "Yes," her jaw set a little crooked, as if tension had tightened her a little too quickly. "You're right, Dave's job is open."

Her nearly instant turn on her heel and march back to her cubicle gave him a mouth watering view of her retreat. Of her a.s.s in all its glory. Of the curves that he wished to touch once more. And then, he smiled, because he had an idea that might help everyone. Matt Jones was about to give Lydia her big break.

He followed her. As he walked around the wall of her cubicle he found her sitting at her desk, mumbling to herself and caught a few words. "Pompous...who does he think...acts like he owns..."

He suppressed a grin and cleared his throat so he didn't scare her. She whipped around, her hair flying through the air and then floating over her left shoulder as she tipped her face toward him. "Oh." She went from the vulnerability of her true emotions to the mask of professionalism. "Yes, Matt? What can I do for you?"

Oh, what can you do for me? he thought. "Uh, so...Lydia, with Dave gone, who is technically in charge?"

She bristled. "That would be you, Matt, until we have a new director. And above the Director of Communications we have Senior Vice President for Communications and Marketing."

"I see." Mike knew that that woman was perfectly capable but also out in San Francisco doing a multi-million dollar pitch for a new client. "Well, then, if I'm technically filling the position, I would like to ask you to continue your work on the romance project."

The look on her face told him that this was the last thing she expected. "You...do?" she asked, her voice filled with incredulity. "But...why?"

He shrugged. "It's a good idea and it deserves to be tried out."

She recovered quickly. "How far do you want me to take it?"

They stared at each other, their breathing labored as he felt his skin p.r.i.c.kle, his hands tighten, holding back from doing what he wanted to do which was take things very, very far with her. But in terms of the project...

"Uh, that's a good question. I would have to look at the budget to see what we can approve but I think we're definitely looking at having you spend considerable work time on creating a full pitch, on contacting some of these bloggers, and video bloggers, and small eBook outlets, and the larger authors and smaller publishing houses you were talking about. Get them together to talk about some package advertising deals."

She stood and smoothed her sweater over the swell of her hips, and where her hands were a all he wanted to do was replace them with his. When she swallowed, he wanted his lips on the pulse at her neck and when she smiled he wanted to taste the way that her lips felt right now.

"Thank you," she said. Her body leaned forward and then she halted herself, as if she were going to touch him. "Thank you. I appreciate the confidence." Eyes narrowed as if she had a question she was about to ask, but then thought better of it. Instead, she added, "Can I email you some questions to bang out the specifics?"

That's not what I want to bang out, he thought. "Absolutely," he said, his mind warring with his solar plexus, with his thrumming heart, and with hands that were a little too untamed for his needs right now. "Absolutely. We'll talk." The words came out choked. He felt a cognitive and emotional dissonance that made it difficult to continue and so he didn't, instead cutting the conversation off in mid word and walking away to find a stairwell to pound this out.

"I don't know," Lydia hissed into her phone, curled up in the supply closet. This was the last place that she wanted to be but it was the only quiet, dark little cubbyhole that she could find anywhere. Her office was teeming with too many people and the bathroom a lord! a the bathroom was gossip central. If somebody heard her in a stall whispering into her phone they'd a.s.sume she was pregnant or being cheated on or had some sort of a disease.

So, supply closet it was. The problem was that the room seemed infused with Matt's scent. The darkness was reminiscent of his hands on her, his mouth claiming her, and the room seemed to get smaller and smaller, shrinking to envelop her and take her over even as Krysta screeched, "What do you think is happening, Lyd? Do you think he's trying to screw you over?"

I think he's trying to screw me, she thought, then took a deep, careful breath before answering with her actual mouth. "Umm...I don't know. The idealist in me wants to think that he recognized a good idea, that he respects my intelligence, and that he wants me to explore this option to see if we can get the higher ups to sign off on it, and this is my ticket to becoming a director."

"And the pessimist in you," Krysta answered for her, "says that he just wants to get into your pants, steal your idea, take credit, and run away."

"Pretty much," Lydia said.

And then Krysta said the words that no one really wanted to hear, including Krysta. "Just like Dave did."

Ouch. What Matt didn't know was that Dave had come to the company years ago as a fresh- faced, just as unctuous and oily, upstart. In a position that was then called Communications Coordinator, and that he quickly got renamed and recla.s.sified to Director of Communications.

Dave hadn't worn his wedding ring when he had first started at Bounrham Industries. It wasn't until after he and Lydia had gone out a few times, always to quiet, dark little places that were twenty blocks away from work, that he just had to share with her a these little gems deep in the city, far from prying eyes.

It wasn't until she had come perilously close to giving herself to him, not so much emotionally but physically, that she had found out he was married.