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“We’ve made quite the mess, haven’t we?” I ask, looking down at our half-exposed bodies.
“Yes, we have. Hold on a sec.” Bishop pulls up his pants, and then presses a button on his key ring. The trunk pops open. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he informs. I look out of the window to see what he’s doing, but the windows are foggy. I can’t see shit. I hear the trunk close and Bishop returns inside the car. He hands me a clean, white hand towel. “I keep a few extra towels in the car for when I work out at the gym.”
“Thanks.” I wipe my wet zone dry and watch him wipe down the long dong that turns me out each time we’re together. I want to say something to him, but no words come to my mouth. As usual, he breaks the ice.
“What are you doing for lunch today?”
“Nothing. It’s Thursday so I’m not going to the gym. I’ll probably grab something from the cafeteria and eat at my desk.” I hold up the towel by the corner. “Where should I put this?”
“Ahhh, let’s see.” He looks around as if searching for a bag, but his car is totally spotless. “Leave it on the floor. I’ll get it. You should join me for lunch across the street at the Westin Peachtree Hotel. The restaurant has great food and we can finish our conversation.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ve always wanted to eat at the revolving restaurant, but just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Cool. I’ll meet you there at noon,” Bishop confirms as he completes tucking his shirt into his trousers. He points to my towel. “Hand me that.” I raise it by the corner and hand it to him.
“Connie, you touch it like it’s poison. It’s just me and you,” he jokes, exiting the car. I hear the trunk open and shut. He returns to my car door, reaches inside, and guides me out by the hand.
“Come on, we should get upstairs, but let me wipe this down first.”
I look at my watch, eight-twenty-five a.m. Shit! I’m late. Even though my witch of a manager is out of town on business, she always leaves her secretary in charge of employees’ time in and out of the office.
“Bishop, I gotta go. I’ll see you at noon.”
“Bet. Just give the hostess my name when you get to the restaurant.”
I leave him wiping down his backseat and make a mad dash for the elevator to the lobby. I stand in front of the main elevators to go to my office, and goofy-ass George appears and has the nerve to approach me.
“Connie, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just getting inside? Where’s Bishop?”
“I don’t know. Excuse me, please.” I gladly step onto the elevator to get away from him. I see him turn and yell, “Bishop, man, where have you been? I left you in the garage thirty-five minutes ago.”
The elevator doors close, ending my tolerance of his annoying voice. I enter onto my floor and luckily, my boss’ secretary is away from her desk. I rush to my office and partially close the door. Just as I log onto my computer, the secretary knocks on my door, asking a made-up question about the Harrison contract. I know she’s taking a head count.
I watch the time elapse, counting down to twelve when I am to meet Bishop for lunch at the Westin Peachtree. There is so much work to do, but I need a break. My manager, Ms. Collins, should know better than to overwork her staff, whether she’s here or not. She’s not the nicest boss I’ve ever had, eit
her, always demanding and controlling. She gives micromanagement a whole new meaning with her stringent ass. I wish the heifer would leave and never come back. But that’ll never happen. She’s a partner and gets much respect at Clark and Howard. They say she’s hell in a courtroom and I believe it too, ’cause she gives me hell every day.
I hope my eleven o’clock meeting for the Barron account doesn’t run over. An hour should be enough time to negotiate the final terms of the contract.
I look at the conference room clock again and I’m irritated that Mr. Barron wants to haggle over one small detail about the verbiage around license renewal. I do all I can to meet the needs of the Barron Group as well as Clark and Howard’s terms and conditions. Finally, at twelve-fifteen, Mr. Barron agrees to sign the contract. I give the final drafts to the paralegal to type up and return to me by close of business today. I return to my desk, grab my purse, and head to the elevator.
I anxiously wait for the elevator to descend to the lobby level. I rush out the front doors of 191 Peachtree and race across the street. I hope Bishop is still at the Westin. It’s twelve-twenty-seven. I know he’s probably gone, thinking that I’m a no-show. But I’ll go check just to be sure.
The hostess greets me with a friendly smile and I ask for Bishop Thomas.
“Right this way.”
The hostess leads me to a table alongside the large, wide window. Bishop stands to greet me.
“I thought you weren’t gonna come. What happened?”
“Closing the Barron account took longer than I anticipated. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“No harm, no foul. Are you hungry?”
