Maliciously Obedient Part 8

Joanie wouldn't stop calling him "sir". At twenty, she was fresh out of secretarial school but came well connected, with great references and, because she was so new and eager, she was cheap. Mike needed cheap if he was going to make the cut with the quarterly profit numbers.

"You can stop calling me 'sir'," he insisted.

"Oh. Um, OK, Michael."

"It's Mike."

"OK, Mike. You're going with Diane Powell. Dom is already lined up. He will pick you up at seven, he will pick Miss Powell up at 7:30 and deliver both of you to the Elysium at eight." The sound of keys on a keyboard, rapid-fire and efficient, dotted her words.

"Thank you," he said. "So, how are the mergers and acquisitions doc.u.ments?" he asked, launching a tight formation of clipped statements that were essentially a shorthand between the two of them that she had picked up amazingly quickly. Where Gloria had seemed to be telepathic, knowing what he was going to say before the sentences even came out, Joanie still struggled. She would be there soon, and at that point he would give her a big, fat raise.

Right now, though, he was living on peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwiches, metaphorically speaking, when it came to the corporation. He had restricted his own jet use. They didn't actually own their own private jet a he just rented one. Other cutbacks had been necessary to get him to this point. He was starting to question those now that he was in the trenches. The impact of what looked good on paper but didn't work in the real world hit him as he worked on the lower floors of his building. None of it was major, though. Employees could suffer scratchier toilet paper or lower quality pencils.

But he was starting to have a conscience. A corporate conscience a the two words contradictory a about how he had handled bonus structures and promotions, his failure to fill empty positions and the blended workload on a number of people who had taken over for empty spots without compensation. The amount of complaining that took place around the water cooler, literally, was a revelation. It was also jarring because it made him wonder, back in his salad days, was he a complainer? Did he talk about the things he didn't like and b.i.t.c.h about his financial problems the way that all of these people seemed to?

In his world now, if he had a conversation with someone it was either pleasant small talk designed to kill time at a non-business event or business a or heavy breathing and moans in bed. Conversation had fallen into those three basic camps and, aside from the occasional phone call with his mom (which didn't fall into any of those categories, thank G.o.d), he couldn't fathom standing around and talking for twenty to thirty minutes about nothing but things he didn't like about his life. If he didn't like something, he changed it.

It really was that simple.

As Matt Jones, he had made the mistake on day two of saying exactly that. The cold, perplexed stares aimed at him in the coffee room forced him to add, with a jocularity he didn't feel, "Then again, that's easier said than done."

Folks had loosened up.

His disconnect made him question whether it was him or them. Numbers weren't in his favor. There were so many more of them, who seemed so helpless in their own lives, so powerless, so willing to concede that what they didn't like was a reality they couldn't change and so the only empowerment they possessed was to complain about it. A language of its own, with linguistic twists and turns that were so foreign to him and yet, these people seemed to be native speakers.

Not Lydia. He'd noticed that she would gripe here and there and then retreat, off to work. Something inside her was self-feeding, and his respect for that almost a almost a matched his attraction for her.

Almost.

"So, Gloria, is my a uhh. Sorry, Joanie."

"It's okay, sir, you can call me Gloria. I understand. You worked with her for years."

"I didn't work with her for that long, Joanie. I worked with her for four years. She was my father's secretary before that."

"Oh...oh. Umm, OK. That's fine," Joanie said, the pitch of her voice changing. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, gooseflesh spreading over his shoulders and upper arms. That was a turn on a dime. Why had sweet Joanie just a oh. Now he got it. "Not that you're a secretary by any stretch, Joanie. You have far more widespread administrative skills than a and I would never..." He fumbled. "You're an executive a.s.sistant and so was Gloria. She evolved with the job and so will you."

He heard a whoosh of a held in breath. "Thank you, sir. Uh...Mike. Thank you, Mike."

"You're welcome, Joanie. Is my tux ready?" On to safer territory.

"Yes."

"Is there anything else that I need to know about this charity event?"

"Yes."

"And what is that?"

"Your friend Jeremy called and said that he would be attending."

"Jeremy?"

"Yes, Jeremy."

"Jeremy is attending?"

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Mike. Yes."

"Is he taking a date?"

"He didn't say." Finding an a.s.sistant who could really meet whatever business, personal, professional needs he had a of course, keeping it within ethical and decency bounds a was something that his father had always warned him would be harder than he ever imagined. He thought of Lydia and her feeling of underutilization and underappreciation and it led his mind to Dave.

"Joanie, could you pull the HR file for a guy named David Crawford? He's my director of communications. I'd like to check out everything that might be in his personnel file. Just have it delivered to my office, or, uh..."

"If it doesn't violate confidentiality, I can scan it for you and send it to you as a PDF and you can read it on your smart phone. I added the PDF reader app for you."

"Yes, I noticed that earlier looking at a different PDF. Thank you." And that's why Joanie was something more than a secretary; she took the initiative. Gloria had been fabulous about taking care of whatever was put in front of her and taking care of him emotionally, especially ushering him through his father's death. Yet Joanie had promise and initiative and so did Lydia. He wanted to make sure he didn't crush either.

"I will get that to you, Sir...Mike. Is that something you need before the charity ball?"

"Nope."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Go home, Joanie."

"I will, uh a Mike." Click.

Why would Jeremy go to an autism fundraiser ball? It's not that Jeremy wasn't involved in philanthropic inst.i.tutions a they both had been since they made their money, but Jeremy wasn't the type. This would be a room filled with over-Botoxed women and portly men who made more money than G.o.d but had no one to spend it with. To spend it on, certainly a but not to spend it with.

He expected this to be a three drink, rubbery steak, polite golf clapping two hours and Diane...she would be arm dressing. Tux candy, just someone he would take because she was "high society" and his face would get in the newspaper and a who knew? Maybe it would bolster Bournham Industries.

Whatever appeal dating women like Diane had held for him had died. Matt Jones had seen to it that a that part of his life held no appeal and Lydia had hammered the nails in that coffin.

Ironically, what he really wanted to do was what Jeremy did. He suddenly had a vision of himself hiking the Appalachian Trail, hanging out on a hammock on a beach in Thailand, going on a three month sailboat cruise through the Fiji Islands and the South Pacific.

Living.

None of that had ever mattered to him, even when Jeremy had begged and pleaded for him to join in the pleasure of roaming, itinerant and free. Tasting the local flavor a literally, when it came to Jeremy a wasn't on his bucket list. At best, he had spent a few summers camping and hiking and having fun, and those now held greater appeal than they had even a week ago. It must just be the stress talking, the craziness of having so few weeks left to meet the target goals for profit expansion, to get his stock orders and to walk away from Bournham Industries as a billionaire. That was the clincher.

In order to win, he had to lose. This would be a battle with the board of directors. If he lost, he retained control of his company. If he won, he sold it in a private sale to...well, he wasn't sure to whom, but he ceded control. Or the IPO went through and Bournham became public.

Control wasn't his for this event a the next three hours would be spent in blinding, blistering, boring, bl.u.s.tering social pain. He dulled his ears and dulled his eyes and thanked his hairdresser for making him look like Mike again. Michael Bournham would be on the press stage, blinded by flashes and video cameras and more, and he had to pretend to like it.

Fake it to make it became increasingly, outrageously difficult when he could touch something so authentic, so real, in Lydia.

Later, in the quiet of his apartment as he slipped into his tuxedo a which had indeed been freshly pressed and dry cleaned and ready to go a he had expected to feel more in his own skin with his hair and his eyes back. What he found was that he was searching for Matt Jones in the mirror.

Buzz! "Sir, are you there?" It was Dom using the intercom system.

"Yup."

"Ready to roll, sir?"

"Ready to roll, Dom. Let's go." As the elevator descended, he stared at the buffed, stainless steel backs of the doors and thought of his body pressed against hers in that elevator, the scent of arousal inches away, pulling him anywhere but here.

J. K. Rowling must have been at a high society charity ball when she came up with the idea for dementors. A silent scream pounded through Mike's head as he felt the life force of all goodness, happiness, flow, excitement, and exhilaration being sucked out of every pore. Diane clung to him as if he were her subst.i.tute for caloric intake.

She preened, scanned, surveyed, and critically a.n.a.lyzed the room to determine the exact number of people to make eye contact with, where they ranked in the room in terms of power, prestige, and impact, and ignored anyone who didn't compute.

It made his b.a.l.l.s ache. Mind muddled, as the speakers droned on and on, he reminded himself that it was a good cause, an important cause. The research money would help children, would help families, would help society and that these stuffed shirts were the very people whose wallets needed to be cracked open. If nothing else, these over-exfoliated, over-polished, over-ent.i.tled, under-conscienced, pompous, hollow beings were the ones who needed most to contribute to humanity. Even if it was just through a checkbook.

Diane quickly ignored him. He was a tool, a device. Once people had seen her with him, that was it. Clinched. Her reputation secured by a check box that said viewed arriving with Michael Bournham. He wouldn't have s.e.x with her tonight. Just about every other time they'd gone out a and they'd only gone out five or six times now a she'd bowed out sick or invented an early morning deadline and frankly, Jeremy was dead on. It was like f.u.c.king a toothpick with b.o.o.bs.

Her enthusiasm for securing her spot at the top of the heap of humanity did not spread to the bedroom. If there were anyone less s.e.xually engaged, he didn't know where to find them. He had used s.e.x toys with more presence and personality.

Biding his time, this would be mercifully quick as long as he survived it. As long as he could slog through the ever-deadening process of watching people do good. Of watching people pat themselves on the back for doing good and of watching people who were at the top of the capitalism ladder redistribute tiny increments of their wealth for the sake of a named wing, a plaque, a bench, a gene.

And then he saw her.

Lydia.

Callie had begged Krysta to come and help with registration and the live auction for the autism charity ball. None of the offerings really appealed to Lydia. Borrowing someone's private jet for five hours wasn't high on her list of priorities.

"That'll go for $25,000," Callie explained. She was Krysta's identical twin, though people didn't seem to notice. Where Krysta was soft and big, with long ringlets framingher face, Callie was a half inch taller, with a marathoner's long, lean look. Her hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style. The two had the same coloring, but that's where the similarity ended.

Callie's son, Kyle, was an adorable, if anxious, toddler. Throwing herself into every part of project-managing his condition, Callie had a.s.sembled a team of speech therapists, occupational therapists, behavioralists, Early Intervention specialists, and had become involved in the autism charity a all in the four months since Kyle's diagnosis.

"$25,000!" Lydia shouted, shocked.

"Too bad a date with Michael Bournham isn't on there this year," Callie said, nudging her. They all knew she found him hot, hot, hot, the pictures in People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly always drawing a double-take from Lydia.

"How much does that go for?"

"Someone told me a night with him in Paris sold for $55,000 last year."

Lydia whistled low, a sound of amazement. "d.a.m.n. So selling my car wouldn't get me anywhere close?"

They all laughed. By the evening's end, Callie predicted, nearly half a million would go into a special research fund to understand more about the genetics of autism. Her eyes teared up as she talked about all of the ways that research was helping already. Words like "mitochondrial disorders" and "methylation" and "PET scans" and "cerebellum activity differences" went in and out of her head as Callie rattled off a near-encyclopedic understanding of the intricacies of the condition.

"Kyle's really lucky to have you," she said, reaching out to hold Callie's hand. The act seemed to make Callie freeze, then melt.

"Thank you," she rasped, wiping tears carefully from the corner of her eyes. "It's a lot to take in." She fanned her face. "Can't cry! Can't cry," she repeated, and Lydia instantly understood.

"Sorry!" Squeezing her hand once, she let go and got back to business. Registrants came in and, if bidding, were a.s.signed a number. She and Krysta were only here for an hour or so, and she hoped she wasn't underdressed. Callie had said "ball gown," so she and Krysta had hit a bunch of vintage thrift shops in Cambridge last week, Krysta settling on a long, black, flowing chiffon number paired with a loose silk coat, while Lydia went for red.

China red, in fact, with a scalloped neck, three-quarter sleeves, and a red pashmina for her arms and waist. Paired with red leather pumps and some fake diamonds, the dress worked just enough to pa.s.s here. No way would she ever really fit in; some of these women wore jewelry worth more than the cost of her parents' house.

Costume jewelry from the Central Square Salvation Army would have to do for Lydia.

"Lydia," Krysta said through her lips, trying not to move her mouth. She sounded like a drunk ventriloquist. "Your boyfriend is here."

"Matt?"

Choking on a laugh, Krysta nearly shrieked. "So now he's your boyfriend? You are hopeless." She waved her hand toward the ballroom. "No. Bournham. He's here," she said nodding in the same direction.

Silver, short hair. Shoulders that his jacket embraced perfectly, the cloth lining his muscles as if poured on his body. His back was stiff, and he held a praying mantis on his arm. Oh a no, just an underfed socialite. They all had arms like eleven year old girls.

If he turned around, she would melt into a wet, p.u.s.s.y-goo puddle right here, right now. Any part of her skin not covered by the sily fabric of her dress turned pink, hot from just beinging within hearing distance of the man. If he pivoted, even gave her a glimpse of his profile, she would surely o.r.g.a.s.m on the spot, go blind from shame, and live out the rest of her life with a sly smile on her face as she told the story.

And then he did.

Without question, the very last person he ever thought he would see at this event was Lydia, who stared him dead in the face right now from just far enough a distance as to make it safe to stare back as Michael Bournham. Heart racing, hands flexing and itching to touch her, he took a deep, slow breath in through his nose, steadying himself. Diane's hand on his arm suddenly felt like an insect's dead appendage compared to the vision before him.

Luscious. Radiant. s.e.xy.

f.u.c.kable. And oh, how. The red dress, lush, painted lips, her hair pinned up and off her neck. When she bent over to pick up a piece of paper, then tipped her head up to smile at a registrant for the auction he wanted to pummel the man she beamed at, for that smile should be his. That mouth should be for him.

And him alone.

He could practically smell her, throbbed with need to taste her, and all he could do was to maintain his face in a mask of neutrality, not daring even to twitch lest he reveal his animal nature underneath.

Ravaging her on the marble floor was not an auction item.

If it were, he would donate millions for the privilege.

Out of the office, she seemed more alive, softer and feminine in a way that work life didn't allow. His gut tightened, back going ram-rod straight as he fought to maintain control, to be a slab of granite, to show no emotion. Stealing glances at him, she lifted her hand to tuck an imaginary tendril of hair behind one ear, the gesture one of flirting, testing the waters to see which eyes would alight on her.

Rock-hard and throbbing, he needed to release himself in her, to grind and drive this insane sense of arousal and ownership deep into her pink warmth, to hear her cry out his name a his real name a as if he were the only man alive.

But he couldn't. Walking across that room and taking her mouth, hand snaking up her dress to feel her fire would reveal who he was. Would ruin his plan.

Would end ten years of ambition.

With a single kiss.

Elevator memories plagued him, intrusive thoughts that pinged in his head, behind his eyes, looping until he was half mad. The feel of ripping her panties down her legs. Sinking his fingers into her soft curls, then her warm, wet p.u.s.s.y. How she'd responded, so alive and writhing, that he a "Michael," Diane said, dragging over some state senator he vaguely remembered, shaking him coldly out of his reverie, the interruption like being slapped with a dead trout. "I won't need a ride after all. It turns out that Joe lives in my building."

Her affect was one that he had seen before. It was a tone that said I'm doing you a favor.

Oh, Diane, you really were.

"That's fine, Diane. You go have fun." He leaned in and whispered in Joe's ear, "Toothpick with b.o.o.bs."

Eyebrows shooting up, daggers coming out of her eyes, she snapped, "Did you just say something about my b.o.o.bs?" Faux offended and searching for the drama, her voice ticked up just enough to capture the turned ears of Diane's true cla.s.s, the cla.s.s of desperate socialites.

He turned on the charm. "What I said, Diane, is meant to stay between two gentleman." Nudging Joe, he shot him a fake wink. Joe was a swarthy Italian guy, late 20's, looked like a model and had a name that generations of Bostonians knew.