Gerardo, Rebel’s personal driver, dropped me off at home last night and was waiting for me when I left my apartment this morning. He drove me to work under Rebel’s instruction, leaving me conflicted.
I don’t want to be a kept woman. Not at all. Even though I appreciate the gesture and the knowledge that I’m in Rebel’s thoughts makes the little girl inside of me giddy, I can’t help feeling a little dirty at the same time. Knowing that he and Florence are together, and considering my dancing background and our history, I feel more like a mistress than a girlfriend.
Of course, this could just be a result of my own dysfunction. It’s very possible that Rebel’s actions were done in kindness. I’m so confused.
Today is a repeat of yesterday. So far, I’ve worked straight through the morning with little interruption. Darren, of course, was on my heels as soon as I walked off the elevator checking to make sure that I was okay. I feel a little shitty knowing that I lied to him like that, but what else was I supposed to do? I could have waved my hand at my crotch and told him I was busy screwing around with the CEO of the company, but something tells me that wouldn’t have gone over well.
I’m just glad that Darren didn’t ask me about the single, hot-pink Stargazer lily that appeared on my desk shortly before lunch. I was away from my desk for only a few minutes to use the restroom, and when I returned, it was just lying there. I don’t know who delivered it, and I don’t dare ask, but a little voice in the back of my head tells me it has to be Rebel’s handiwork.
After placing the flower in a pop can filled with water, I get back to work, only to be interrupted shortly before noon when a call comes through to Jenna, and she informs us that we’re all expected on the seventh floor for an important, impromptu meeting.
My heart is racing as we ride the elevator up. Looking around at the other three, I check for any signs that they’re nervous, but they seem perfectly at ease. Why do situations like this always make me feel like I’m a little kid again heading to the principal’s office? Logically, I know I’ve done nothing wrong to warrant the ill feelings, so I guess I’m just one of the lucky people in the world to be born with a guilty conscience.
When we arrive on the seventh floor, I take a quick look around, noting that almost everything is exactly the same up here as it is on my floor. Only the furnishings here are a lot nicer. The floors have a classier, neutral beige carpet, and front and center is a large, marque-style, curved reception desk with a Plexiglas inlay across the front. Even the ferns look happier.
Huh.
We’re instructed to follow the buxom brunette behind the desk down a short hallway to a room labeled “Conference Room 1” on a nice, shiny gold plaque. When she opens the door, she does it with a smile, and we each enter the room single file.
I take in my environment in a single sweep. There are no windows here, only mat gray walls. There’s a credenza on the wall to my right with a pitcher of water and several glasses, and there’s what looks like a pull-down projector screen mounted above it.
The table that takes up the middle of the room is massive, made of blonde wood topped with two fanciful baskets wrapped in white organza, and has several men and women already seated around it. As soon as I see the redhead at the head of the table rock back in her chair, the reason for my nerves suddenly becomes clear.
And some people claim they don’t believe in a sixth sense? I’m calling bullshit right here and now. This is proof that a person, average or not, can sense the presence of evil.
“Ah, here’s our winning team now,” Florence says with a toothy smile. However, when she sees me enter the room, dead last, that look dims to a mere flicker filled with resentment and ill will. “And the new girl,” she adds, her voice laced with disdain.
“Come on in, and have a seat.”
My gaze leaps away, tracking the sound of that voice. It lands at the source, and good Lord, I think there’s been enough excitement in the last two minutes to send me into cardiac arrest.
Rebel’s blackened gaze smiles at each of us as we select our seats at the table, growing even more intense when we both realize something: the only chair left is the one directly to his right. Fucking bastards. My coworkers, however unwittingly, have placed me right next to the man I should be staying a million miles away from. I’d wonder if they did it on purpose if I thought they knew anything about the two of us being together.
But they don’t, and I guess I should be thanking my lucky stars anyway that I didn’t get stuck sitting next to the devil in the blue dress. No joke. Florence is wearing a very sleek, very professional blue-wrap dress that falls beautifully over her fit body. Can I possibly hate her any more than I already do? Apparently, yes.
“First order of business,” Rebel states, calling everyone’s attention to his end of the table. “We have a new client coming on board. You may be familiar with her products, especially the women at this table,” he says, looking at me and Jenna specifically.
“She has made a small fortune developing specialty bath products, including hypoallergenic soaps, lotions, washes, shampoos and conditioners, et cetera, et cetera, and she wants us to help build her company up to its full potential.”
Rebel’s command of the room makes me completely forget about Florence and my hatred for her. I am absorbed in his speech, already on board for this project and thinking of all the possible avenues we can go down, the designs I can come up with, and how I can be an asset to him and this company.
“We have a very talented department in the four of you, and we know that you put all of yourselves into each and every project you’re given, but I’m about to ask even more of you. The reason you’ve been asked here today is because we’re putting together a two-person team that can be fully dedicated to this project. Whatever you’re working on now will be handed off to the other two to finish. This is a team effort, I can’t stress that enough.” Rebel looks each of us in the eye, making sure that we understand the weight of his words.
“Who here can do this for us?”
I take a second to think about the website I’m building and the time I’ve already put into it. I hate the idea of turning it over to someone else who will put their own creative stamp on it, making it no longer mine, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to pass this opportunity up.
My hand shoots into the air.
I register the derisive snort from the opposite end of the table and choose to ignore it. Rebel’s gaze drops to me in approval, and he slides one of the decorative baskets toward me before lifting his attention back to the others in my group. I don’t turn my head to look, but I get the feeling that the dead silence in the room and his growing disappointment means that I’m the only one volunteering for the job.
“Anyone else? We need two people for this project,” he repeats, watching each of the people seated next to me expectantly. “Fine,” he says finally. “I guess that means I’ll have to enact the draft. Jenna, you’ll be heading up the project with Miss Hart.”
She makes a sound of protest, triggering Rebel’s temper. “I have a lot of work to do,” she complains. “Work that I’m not just going to hand over for someone else to finish and take credit for.”
“I understand that you would like to see those through,” Florence speaks up, her nose in the air and her tone firm. “But as Mr. Scott has explained, this is a team project that needs two people. You all had your chance to weigh in one way or the other, and by remaining silent, you’ve waived your right to protest.”
Damn, but I almost like her right now. The way Florence just took command of the situation, backing Rebel without a moment’s hesitation? I can’t not admire her for that. It takes a strong woman to sit at the head of a table like she is.
It galls me, but I think I’m starting to see why he likes her.
Ugh, yuck. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Jenna issues a few more complaints, ranting about injustice and unfairness and a few other nesses that I don’t care to listen to because, at this point, she’s really beginning to get on my nerves. Whatever happened to being a team player? I bide my time while everyone at the table hashes out the details and smooths ruffled feathers, and then we’re all standing as Rebel dismisses us.
Keeping my eyes forward, I tell him discretely, “Thank you for the flower.” Glancing up, I catch the odd look he’s wearing and wonder what I said to put it there. Was I not supposed to mention it, or wasn’t he the one who gave it to me? We’re moving through the door now, so I don’t have time to ask the questions now weighing on my mind.
“My driver will be waiting for you after work. He’ll take you to my apartment. Wait for me,” Rebel whispers as he sees me out the door.
Is he crazy? That’s the last place I want to go, and just where in the hell does he get off thinking he can order me around? I can’t even tell him what I think about his idea because as I step into the hall I see Jack Donnelly waiting outside.
Jack’s standing with his hands folded together in front of him, and when he sees me, a smile splits across his weathered face. “Josephine, it’s good to see you again. How are you?” he asks as he moves in to embrace me in a familiar and affectionate hug.
Ahead, I look up to see a couple of my coworkers glance back to see who I’m talking to. Jenna’s brows pull together in a disapproving frown before her hair flips back into place, and she continues marching away, her basket swinging by her side.
“I’m good,” I tell Jack as I gently extract myself from his arms. “How have you been? How’s Holly?”
“We’re both doing very well, thank you. But I have a feeling I’ll be singing a different tune in, oh...about five minutes,” he grins, lifting his wrist as though he’s checking his watch.
“How so?”
He pats my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough.” He gives Rebel a knowing look, one that I read to say he’s entrusting him to fill me in later. Little does he know, Rebel and I aren’t that kind of couple. Hell, we’re not a couple at all. I wonder how Jack would feel about me if he knew that I wasn’t with Rebel in the same capacity as we were in Maine. Would he still feel warm and compassionate toward me?
I doubt it. I’ve found that people’s loyalties fall just short of their feet in most cases.
Blinking, my thoughts clear, and I realize I’ve just been standing here in the middle of the hallway looking like a dolt. Thankfully, the time span is much shorter in reality than it is in my head as Jack is just taking his seat at the head of the conference table, filling Rebel’s spot.
Rebel continues to stand in the doorway, watching me with that dark stare of his that seems to see right through me.
“I should get back to work. Excuse me...sir,” I tack on. Rebel’s nostrils flare at the title and, with a soft smile, I give him a subtle tip of my head and turn to catch up with my coworkers. Only to find that they’ve left without me.
Well, crap.