“I’m on the schedule,” I tell him, “but look, something’s kind of going on and I might need to have someone cover me. Is that all right?”

“Paulson, after everything you’ve done for me, I think you’ve earned another night.”

“Thanks,” I tell him and shake the hand Martin hadn’t touched. “Oh, by the way, Wilks…”

“Yeah?”

“Lesson ten: Never give your sous chef a night off when he asks. He can't be trusted.”

He has no idea how to react, but seems to take the lesson in good humor. Of course, when he tries to weasel out of giving me the night off, I gently remind him that not only did he already authorize it, he shook my hand.

I leave him with, “Lesson six: Handshakes are how you get what you want and make sure you hang onto it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turn around and there she is, leaning against the pole of the stoplight on the corner.

This shit’s got to stop and it’s got to stop now, before it has a chance to escalate.

“Wrigley,” I say as I approach her. “What are the chances that you’d just be standing here at the exact moment I’m walking by?”

“They’re pretty good, I would imagine,” she says, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Have you gotten your head out of your ass yet?”

“Nah,” I tell her. “It’s warm and cozy in there if you don’t mind the smell.”

“Clever,” she says humorlessly. “You know, it is common courtesy not to dump the woman you just started a relationship with, even if she tells you to explore things with someone else.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing,” I tell her.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, blowing her next drag in my face. “What makes you think that?”

“Way too convoluted and, you know, dripping with crazy.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little fucked up how often men call the women in their life crazy?” she asks. “If every woman who was called crazy was actually crazy, I’m pretty sure we’d have a lot more axe murders.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Only what’s due me,” she says.

“And what is due you?”

“Do me,” she says. “I get tense as shit if I don’t have a good lay and you, my dear, couldn’t have ducked out at a worse time.”

“Just find someone else,” I tell her. “That’s never been a problem for you before.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re casting some kind of weak ass moral judgment on me for enjoying sex,” she scoffs.

“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’d have no room to talk. It’s a serious suggestion.”

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else right now,” she says. “That may change, but as for right now, I want to fuck you.”

The small group of people waiting for the light to change takes a step or two away from us.

“I’m very flattered,” I tell her, “really, I am. But I’m seeing someone else now. You’ve got to move on.”

“That option’s really not on the table at the moment,” she says. “By all means, screw your roommate to your heart’s content, but don’t pretend like you’re the saint in this conversation.”

“I don’t think either one of us is ‘the saint,’” I answer. “You don’t really think you’re going to get me to cheat on Leila with you by stalking me, do you?”

“I’m not stupid, Dane,” she says. “I’m just planting seeds.”

“What does that even mean?”

She flicks her cigarette into the group waiting for the light. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. Without a nod of acknowledgement for her crassness, she starts walking away, turning back just long enough to call out, “Sooner or later, they always figure it out!”

Chapter Nineteen

Exaltation with Just a Pinch of Denial

Leila

It’s my last day at the office and nobody but Annabeth could give a crap.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Kidman did offer to go down on me as a going away present. The mental picture makes me vomit a little in my mouth, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

Right now, I’m a little over halfway done with Atkinson’s final laundry list of menial tasks. I just finished walking his lucky ferret—yeah, the man has a ferret which he not only considers lucky, but actually brings into the office whenever there’s an important meeting—and am now on my way to see if I can, “figure out what the hell is wrong with that fax machine.”

I have absolutely no skills with anything technical like this, but my feeble attempts should buy me a good half hour before he finally tells me to just call maintenance.

I tried calling maintenance first once when his monitor started flickering.

That was the day I found out that Atkinson, though otherwise intimidating, screams like a girl when you get him really, really mad.

Tonight is going to be Dane and my second attempt at an actual date.

After he told me what happened with Wrigley outside his new executive chef’s building earlier today, though, it’s apparent that we’re going to have to get a little creative.

That is, if this interminable day ever comes to an end.

After fifteen minutes spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax machine, I decide to give up a little early and let maintenance deal with it.

My next stop is to collect the third page of Atkinson’s last memo from everyone on this floor and replace it with a new copy.

I’m not doing this because there was some sort of new policy or significant change. I’m doing this because in line thirty-six—that is, fourth paragraph from the top, second sentence—he inserted a hyphen where it didn’t belong.

The offending pair was “boiling-over.”

Never to fear, though, soon everyone will have the copy which rightfully has the phrase as “boiling over,” and I am perfectly confident that no one would ever have noticed. Even if they did, I am certain nobody would have cared.

As I look at the clock, though, my mood lightens.

Only a few more hours and I will forever be free of this cluster fuck.

(I think Dane is starting to rub off on me.)

I hand out the third page of the memo to everyone in the office, making sure to collect the old versions. Atkinson will check my work when I’m done.

This is not speculation.

Kidman’s is the last one, and I motion to Annabeth that it’s time for the fireworks.

She creeps to the side of Mr. Kidman’s doorway. I knock and let myself in.

“Mr. Kidman,” I start, “Mr. Atkinson has asked me to replace page three of today’s memo. Do you happen to have it handy?”

“I’m sure I can find it here somewhere,” he says. “You know, I think I must have tucked it down the front of my pants. Why don’t you be a dear and help me pull it out?”

“You know,” I tell him, “I saved your page for last. Would you like to know why?”

He straightens his tie and says, “Because you’re finally ready to get that raise?” he asks. To ensure there’s no miscommunication, he grabs his crotch.

“No,” I tell him. “I saved yours for last because I finally did something that I really, really should have done a long time ago.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I learned the finer points of your particular severance plan and contract with the company.”

“Oh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Apparently, it’s a pretty standard document. I talked to one of the lawyers here, just to make sure—”

“Wait,” he says, “how did you get access to that?”

“I’m an intern,” I tell him. “I work with important papers all the time. Anyway,” I continue, “it turns out that you only get severance if you’re not fired for cause. While it is true that whoever drew this up gave you a lot of latitude regarding what constitutes cause, in section 18c of the agreement, it clearly states that sexual harassment, as it is against both state and federal civil law, is cause for immediate termination, forfeiture on your part of severance rights, profit-sharing, and about ten other things I didn’t really take the time to look over.”