to do something with. We’ll discuss the rest in person. Despite what you may or may not have heard, I’m relatively flexible.
And I like your mind.
I want you in my office. Thirteenth floor, per your correction. Penthouses are for Playboys. I’m curious about your P.
Yours,
D
Oh, do you, now? I paused, nibbled at my fingernail and began to type.
Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt
Re: Impatient (Tick-Tock)
OK. I’m coming.
P is for Porcupine.
Respectfully Yours,
Lily Dewitt
P is for Prick, but you know that.
Very well, then.
I highlighted, cut, pasted and sent what little I’d typed up. None too impressive. I bit my lip in consternation.
Hopefully, I won’t get all stuttery again. Scratch that. I promise myself not to get all stuttery again. I would channel my inner coolness I faked in the cafeteria. That’s part of me, somewhere inside, straight-up Lily Dewitt. I take no guff. I will present my plan with all kinds of confidence and enthusiasm, while not sounding overly bubbly. Like a high-school girl. Right?
What did he mean by that, anyway? My penmanship is like a high-school girl? Meh. How did he know so much about high-school girls and shoes, anyway? P was for Pervert. The more I could think of Dorian Holder as just freakazoid control freak, the easier this meeting – or confrontation – would be. As my mom used to say, when I was faced with a spelling bee or whatever, ‘Pretend they’re all in their underwear, Lily. And instead of fighting off tears, you’ll fight off laughter. Don’t forget the funny.’
Sighing, I grabbed my bag, and prepared myself to lose my first decent job.
Ah, well. It was a good run, I figured.
Then I was off to Dorian Holder’s office. The thirteenth floor. The Penthouse.
P.
The top storey.
* * *
The thirteenth floor was a euphemism for ‘gentlemen’s club’, which is itself a euphemism.
Anyone who knows from what knows there’s no such thing as a thirteenth floor. It’s straight-up bad luck. Look at any control panel of elevator buttons, whether in an apartment building, hotel, skyscraper – there will never be a 13. But Apollyon LLC did the thirteenth-floor thing with pride, though it had apparently been re-christened ‘The Penthouse’ by Dorian Holder, CEO in some covert operation.
Because he could do that shit. He could do whatever he wanted.
Still can.
The thirteenth floor was actually the thirty-first floor (see what they did there?) and last I had known was a sweet little bar with a view of the city, and a couple of faux offices in which I assumed private dances happened. Maybe a random handjob or two. Seeing as Mr Colossimo’s and his ever-changing Vice Presidents’ desks had always been next to the conference room on the nineteenth, and that I was always a sucker for water-cooler gossip, that wasn’t an unreasonable call. My poor former boss was not only afraid of climbing stairs, riding the elevator apparently stressed him to the max. If it had been me, I’d have been hanging on the top floor all the frigging time.
Anyhoo.
The People Who Matter held business meetings, bachelor parties and whatnot on the mysterious thirteenth floor, but none of the businesses in our building had ever done any office nesting, per se. Or they’d done some nesting, of course, but no settling in. Nothing wholesome or businesslike.
Must admit, I was beyond curious.
When the massive metal doors spread open, I was surprised to find that whatever was once the thirteenth had been transformed into yet another generic-looking level, sans busy cubicles. That was the transformation of the businessmen’s club? A smashing disappointment. It was as though I’d just been summoned to the headmaster’s office, which, in a sense, I had.
Why did that thought turn me on? Headmaster. Not as if I would do anything about it with Mr Holder, I thought. I mumbled ‘headmaster’ three times, and pictured Dorian Holder in what were likely to be boxer-briefs. Rather than easing my fear, my anxiety went up a notch. Danger on the horizon.
* * *
Dorian Holder’s green office door was all oaken majesty and power, looming at the far end of a narrow white hallway. All the other new offices were sterile and empty, with glass doors reflecting a ghostly image of me as I trudged down the impossibly long industrial-grey carpet. But there was no turning back. The door was, like, a million feet tall, as intense and commanding as an entrance could be. He had already got a new plaque:
DORIAN H. HOLDER
CEO HOLDER ENTERPRISES
ACTING PRESIDENT, APOLLYON LLC
The contractors had been busy. As I mentioned, nobody ever utilised the mysterious thirteenth floor for anything non-recreational, so they must’ve put all of this newness together in a week. Right behind Mr Colossimo’s fat back! Well played, Mr Holder.
I rapped my knuckles against the hard wood, feeling very much as though I were in a fairy tale, sans prince. Lily in Wonderland.
Much to my surprise, a slammin’ hot blonde, whom I hadn’t seen around Apollyon ever, ushered me in. The brand-new she-creature flashed her expensive-looking teeth while looking me up and down. Her eyes stopped at my shoes, and she sneered, ever so slightly. But I caught the scorn. I was supposed to. What was up with these newcomers and their shoe fetish? I stared down at my feet, wanting to just melt into my Steve Maddens, which had never looked more awful to me.
‘Right this way,’ she said, not sounding particularly inviting. She might as well have said, ‘Get out’. After all, I was already standing in the office. Her office. If the – I glanced at her desk.
BEATRICE COLLINS, ASSISTANT TO
DORIAN HOLDER, CEO
HOLDER ENTERPRISES
OK, then. Real original, Holder, fucking the imported secretary.
Beatrice Collins looked about eighteen, though she was surely my age, just with some surgical trimmings and tuckings. Question was, how did someone get a job like hers so young, while I seemed to be in a holding pattern? Granted, ‘Assistant’ is not the greatest title, but you could bet she made several times what I did, and could work wherever she wanted. Dorian Holder would surely give the best recommendation.
Meanwhile, my life was on pause.
You know, I went to the wrong school, that’s what. Boston College doesn’t groom one for that certain something Beatrice Collins and Dorian Holder had. That confidence, that self-assuredness,
