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“You did well in there, Elle.” Franklin smiles at me as he drives. “I knew my feeling about you would be right. You know, you could go really far at this company as long as you know how to play the game.”
“The game?” I repeat.
He nods. “Yeah. You know. Fit in, don’t make waves, that kind of thing.”
“Oh yes, of course,” I agree.
I’m not entirely sure what he means by that. I mean, why would he think I would make waves? Does he think I would be someone who is confrontational with their co-workers? Or does he mean … something else?
I hope it’s not the last one, but I have a feeling in my gut that tells me that’s precisely what he means. That he means when he touches me inappropriately, I should keep my mouth shut and suck it up. I can’t help but think of what Falcon said about him paying women off to keep them quiet about his unwanted advances, and I know in my gut that there’s something off about him.
As much as I keep trying to tell myself it’s in my head, that I’m paranoid, I know it’s not the case. He’s definitely old school, a member of the old boys’ club that says it’s perfectly okay to treat women however the hell you want, and if they complain, to label them as trouble causers, and put the blame for everything back on them, trying to convince them they wanted it, or they were giving off a vibe, or some other bullshit.
I feel my stomach roll as Franklin turns on his blinkers and pulls off the main road onto what is more of a dirt trail than a road.
“Where are we going?” I ask quietly.
Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere for you to not make waves. Somewhere where this creep will touch you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it without getting sacked. Something you half agreed to when you decided not to make waves. Fuck.
The prospect of getting fired from my first real job in my first week is horrible, and I feel overwhelmed by it, but if he thinks he can touch me and I won’t say a thing about it, then he knows me a whole lot less than he thinks he does. I want this job, but I don’t need it, and that’s the difference between the other women he’s abused and me. I can and will talk, and if that means I get labeled as a trouble causer, someone to avoid employing, well so be it.
“To meet a client,” Franklin replies.
I glance at him, surprised by his answer. To meet a client? Out here? He sees me giving him the side eye, and he grins, an unpleasant grin that makes me shudder.
“Why? What did you want to happen?”
“Nothing,” I say firmly. “I was just surprised when you turned down here. I didn’t realize you could get through. I thought it was a dead end.”
“It is a dead end,” he agrees. “All that’s along here is a run-down old farmhouse. But as it turns out, the owner of a small but lucrative firm has just bought the farmhouse to renovate. He asked us to meet him out here so he can go through the house afterward and see what needs doing. He didn’t have time to go back to the office, and this was the only time I could fit him in.”
The explanation sounds just plausible enough that I relax a little. It’s unorthodox, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Sure Franklin gets a little too handsy sometimes, but it’s one thing to hold his hand on my arm for a second too long or to touch my knee when he talks to me and entirely another thing to bring me out into the middle of nowhere and rape me. I can’t believe that’s where my mind went.
It’s not entirely my fault that I’m paranoid around Franklin though. He still has this way about him that makes me uncomfortable—a way of saying one thing, but clearly hinting at another. And the worst part is, I think he knows it. Sometimes I catch him looking at me in quiet amusement, and I’m always reminded of a cat looking at a mouse as it starts to play with it before it goes in for the kill.
We move along the dirt road, and I’m conscious that every time we hit a bump in the track, my breasts jiggle noticeably beneath my shirt. I can feel Franklin’s eyes on them without having to look at him.
His gaze tells me this meeting isn’t entirely innocent, and I’m not sure what to believe. I hope he’s telling me the truth, that a client will be waiting for us at the end of the road, but I’m not entirely convinced there will be. I have to be sure though. I can’t just outright accuse Franklin of lying when I have no real idea if he is or not. What would I even say if I made that kind of accusation and there really is a client waiting for us at the end of the road? Sorry? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t cut it.
