Time machines are soooooo underrated. If I had one and was given one chance to go back in time and fix anything I wanted, I would go back to the moment Greg announced those g*y prejudice credit union shops and say no.
(Yes, I know I’m supposed to say I’d go back in time and kill Hitler or stop the burning of Joan d’Arc, but I’m kind of shallow right now.)
No time machine. No giant sinkhole to swallow me up. Not even a psychotic cat who can pee on James’ foot and give me a reason to escape. Only—
Declan.
He walks into the meeting and gives everyone a gracious smile with frozen eyes so cold you could use them in a camp cooler for a long weekend and still have cold beer.
“I apologize for being late. I was detained.”
“You make it sound like you had no choice, son,” James says with a low chuckle. Andrew and Declan share a look that reminds me of Amanda and me, minus the lip biting and grimaces.
“It felt like it,” Declan growls.
James leans back, clearly in the catbird seat, and it’s dick-waving time now. “If you’re going to run the entire marketing department for an international corporation, you have to accept that some cultures handle the standard business lunch quite differently.” He shoots Greg a knowing wink.
Greg winks back like a drag queen with a stuck eyelash. “Quite differently.” He’s trying to fit in, and I know that, but my sympathy lies with the women whose faces are pressed flat against the corporate glass ceiling, with a stripper’s pastie-covered ni**les smashed on the other side of the glass as we all try to pretend there’s nothing to see here, folks.
“Is this ‘business lunch’ an issue that all marketing professionals need to deal with?” I keep my voice as even as possible, but even I detect the officiousness in it. Amanda gives me a sharp look, while Greg rubs his mouth like there’s something in there. His foot, maybe.
Declan’s in the middle of pulling files from his briefcase, but as my voice fills the air he moves more slowly, lips twitching. Aha. I nailed it. I’m not jealous—whatever “standard business lunch” and “some cultures” are code for doesn’t matter. I’m imagining strippers as a side dish along with sixteen-ounce medium-rare tenderloins and the dripping butter sauce for their lobster being poured over augmented br**sts on a stage.
James and Declan share a long look. Declan gives a nudge of his head, in deference or—perhaps—to allow the old man to make a fool of himself.
Either way, it’s about to get real.
And it just got a lot colder in here.
“I would say that all vice presidents of marketing who work with a variety of international clients will eventually be taken on a more…salacious expedition at least once or twice in a career.” James’ cocky smile looks like a caricature of Declan’s. “The higher you fly, the greater the lengths you go to please a client and close the deal.”
Greg looks a bit sick. I’m his closer. What does this mean? Do I need to cultivate a taste for pole dancing?
“What about a female vice president? Would she be expected to attend a…” I bite my words off carefully and spit them out in slow, snappy chunks. “…sa-la-cious ‘standard business lunch’ experience, which, I assume, means hookers and blow.”
Andrew is taking a drink of water and does a spit take like something out of a Jimmy Fallon clip. Most of the water in his mouth lands on Amanda’s cle**age across the table, which makes her jump to her feet.
It is so much easier to take on the client’s asshattery than to deal with the subtext in the room, and James is giving me fabulous fodder for my self-righteous streak. Way easier than dealing with that tight-chest feeling about losing Declan, who has managed to avoid eye contact with me.
“I hardly think you’re in a position to comment on salacity and business relations, Ms. Jacoby.” James’ eyes are those of a hawk, coming in for the kill. “How was that helicopter ride, son?” He doesn’t look at Declan. His eyes are entirely on me.
I have a choice as all the oxygen in the room disappears, along with any hope of a relationship with Declan, or of an ongoing career for me in the bigger Boston corporations. I can back off and go home and cry and eat pint after pint of ice cream and suck down Hot ’n Sour soup like it’s about to be banned like Sriracha sauce, or I can stand up to the big bad CEO who decided I’m an ant and his words are a magnifying glass in a nice patch of sunlight.
“Dad.” One word. Declan’s single word is a nuclear bomb. The heat coming from Declan’s anger can keep a small village in Greenland warm for the winter.
“Oh, please, Dec. The driver and the pilot told me. It’s not as if she’s really the lesbian that people on that Twiterlicious thing are saying.”
Andrew’s wiping his face with a handkerchief and offers one to Amanda while giving her a speculative look that I’d normally pay way more attention to, but I’m in the middle of soul death, so I’m kind of distracted. Where’s my Mom with a good butt plug story about now? I’d even welcome Agnes and Corrine’s nonagenarian cat fights.
“Good play, Ms. Jacoby.” He leans forward on the table. “I know from Declan’s glowing descriptions of you that you’re about as g*y as I am poor. That tells me you held on to your assumed identity quite thoroughly so that you could perform the function assigned to you by the client.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Declan’s voice could cut diamonds.
“It means she’s the perfect candidate for corporate espionage.”
Chapter Two
Greg’s turn to do a spit take. “Is that business guru speak for mystery shopping these days?”
James laughs. How can the man laugh when he’s managed to alienate and/or piss off every person in the room except for Andrew, who appears to be trying to decide whether to be alienated, pissed off, or to ogle Amanda’s low-ish-cut silk blouse?
For the record, his penis appears to win.
Family trait.
Wait a minute. James knows I slept with Declan in the limo and in the helicopter, and what the hell, let’s throw in the lighthouse part, too. He knows about the credit union mystery shop and me and Amanda. He knows about Jessica’s Twittergate mess. What the hell doesn’t this man know?
“No, Greg. Corporate espionage means I’d like for Ms. Jacoby to be assigned to evaluate The Fort—”
Amanda’s sharp intake of horrified breath makes Andrew perk up as her chest lifts.