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“Knock, knock,” I say, rapping on the metal frame of the cubicle’s opening. “How’s it going?”
“Can I help you? he sneers, even as his eyes drip down my body and climb back up to meet my eyes. It’s the most demeaning thing I think I’ve been subjected to all week. It’s a rare ability to make me feel both objectified and like a bothersome gnat at the same time, and I’m fighting the urge to filet him with a snappy comeback that’d leave him bloody on the floor.
Okay, maybe I would do Brandon before Mark by the tiniest of margins. But if it were just me and them and we had to repopulate the world . . . well, we had a nice run. But the dinos died out too, so I’d call it the Circle of Life and welcome extinction by wandering off to enjoy my last days alone in peace and quiet.
And here I was, this close to telling him what I just heard, potentially saving him a bit of embarrassing drama, but his attitude evaporates any goodwill I might’ve felt for the man.
I imagine telling him, “The Guinness Book of World Records is downstairs. They said they wanted to put you on the cover for being the biggest dick with the littlest dick in history. Should I tell them you’re available?”
Even imagining that scenario, complete with his gaping maw of shock at being called on his shittiness, helps me control my tongue. I plaster the most obviously saccharin smile I can manage on my face, fully intending it to be more threatening than congenial.
“You had an envelope delivered,” I tell him, pulling out the FedEx package. “Just bringing it up.”
I hold it out, intentionally a bit out of reach. He leans forward to snatch it from my hand, leaving behind a stinging papercut on my palm as the little flappy bit in the back rakes across my skin. He ignores my sharp inhale of pain as he rips the flap open.
I stand there in shock, owed an apology but quite sure I’m not going to get one as he pulls the stack of papers out. His finger tenderly traces the signature on the front page.
That’s the only reason I notice it . . . Layla Franklin.
Wait. Layla?
As in The Layla?
Got Mark on his knees, beggin’ darlin’ please just a few moments ago Layla?
My mind flashes back as Mark mentioned a contract on the phone, now that I think about it. It didn’t even register at the time. I guess I was thinking a contract for an apartment or something? I mean, it fit with the lovey-dovey sappiness of his tone of voice.
Or hell, maybe a contract killer to take out Brandon, for all I know. Mark’s never struck me as the kind to do any type of wet work himself.
But this is . . . different. Especially with a Layla also sending something to Brandon. The daisy chain of Mark sending something to Layla, and Layla sending something to Brandon makes my head whirl with possibilities.
Oh my, Layla. What game are you playing at?
I try to read a bit more of the cover letter, looking for a clue about what the double-timing Layla could be sending Brandon, but I only see the blue of the logo in the top center of the page. It’s a geometric line drawing of a triangle with the initials TRE inside.
I lean forward a bit more, which garners Brandon’s attention. Like a skittish kid busted doing something wrong, he slaps his hand on the paper, looking up at me in exasperation. “Excuse you. Is there anything else?” he snaps.
“Oh, uh . . . no,” I reply, melting back some. “Have a good day.”
I go back downstairs, and as I ride the elevator, I try to figure out Mark, Brandon, and this Layla Franklin. Even the last name is new information, but I feel certain the Layla who calls for Mark and Brandon and the Layla who sent that contract to Brandon are one and the same.
I move the puzzle pieces around in my head.
Layla calls for both Mark and Brandon. Stephanie and I feel pretty sure that’s romantic in nature, but the contract angle might make me reconsider that. Especially with the corporate cover letter to Brandon.
I seriously doubt she’s sending love notes on fancy-schmancy embossed three-color ink letterhead.
Reaching the front desk, I whisper to Megan and Stephanie, “My office, now. Team meeting.”
Megan and Stephanie look scared, like I might bite their heads off. That fear only grows when the phone rings and I growl as I grab it, “Fox Industries. How can I help you?”
I listen and then press the buttons to transfer the call quickly, slapping the phone back down. Megan and Steph are worried when we get to the back, and I turn to face them. “Okay, we have a situation. I just saw and heard some shit upstairs that has me worried.”
