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Dymon Danger
Standing in the mirror,I’d just buttoned the last button on my vest.Looking at my watch, it wasa quarter after seven, which meant that my driver would be waiting for me in front of my building in five minutes.I grabbed mysuit coat off the islandand walked out of my closet,into my bedroom, grabbing my cell phone and wallet off the nightstand. On the way to the elevator, I grabbed mywork bag off the bar. After I unlocked the elevator, it opened right up for me.
Stepping inside, I looked at my phone to see the 200 notificationson myworkemail tab, the100 notifications on myKogNitotab, and that was just for work. I didn’t even want to look any of my personal tabs.When the doors opened, I slid my phone in my pocket.
“Good morning, Mr. Danger,”Mr. Teal, the elevator guy spoke.
“Morning,” I spoke to him, walking off the elevator.
Normally, I went out thebackdooror side doors, but they were doing some constructionwork, leaving only the frontaccessible.
“Good morning, Mr. Danger. Have a good day,” Mr. Armour, the doorman spoke.
“Morning.”
Looking down the stairs, I groaned inward.As I was makingmywayto the bottom of the stairs, that sameol’ reporter who’d been bothering me for the last four years waitedfor me. Anytime anything happened with my family, or any of my peers, she always made her way outside the building of my house or myjob.Where therewasn’t a story, shewould try to find one. Fucking herwas one of the things I regretted inmy life.I kept walking past her as she called my name several times.She tried to keep up with me, walking sideways on the concrete.
“Mr. Danger,are you aware thatone of the women that your father—”
Istopped quickly, making her trip over her feet when she tried to stop next to me.It was too latefor her to correct herself, and she went forward, stretching her arm out to block her fall.
“Ow!” she yelled out when shelanded on the carpeted concrete.“Damn you, Danger!”
“Watch your step, LaShay.” I stepped in the back ofmy open,customizedLincoln Continentalcar. “Bernard. Let’s go,” I commanded him.
Bernard walked to the car, shut my door and thenwalked around the car, sliding in on the driver’s side.He reached into the backseat with a cup in his hand. “Here’s your tea.”
Grabbing it, I took a good sip of it and closed my eyesthe minute the minute thewarm tea hit the back of my throat.He pulled into the clogged streets of New Yorkfor thetwenty-minuteride to my office.
“Whitney opened today?”
He nodded his head. “Youdoknow Tyra is going to have your head, right?”
“This tastes like a Whitney’s black tea.”
I ignored his last statement. My publicist knew how much stress I’d been under over the last six monthssince myassistant retired. She’d been working with my father and stayed with me when I took over. Her husband took ill, so she retired. I told her that she could come back whenever she got ready. She even gave me back the blank check I gave her for the medical bills, telling me that my father really took care of her, soshe wasn’t hurting for money. Since she’d left,I’ve been running through assistants like I ran through women.
He lookedat mein the rearviewmirror.“Assistant woes, still?”
Very few people could talk to me about both my personal and professional life, and one of them were Bernard.Believe it or not, he used to drive me to my private school before I wasshipped away. He was older, andI always respected his opinions about everything, even if I hardly ever took his advice. When whatever he gave me advice about blew up in my face, he never said I told you so; even thoughhe could.He was another person who could get whatever he wanted out of me.
“Yup. Noneof them have had the capacity to retain basic information. Along with their brains being a bowl of porridge, they all called themselves trying to seduce me—as if I’d ever sleep with them.”
He looked at me again. “Perhaps, you’d cast a wider net if you stopped asking for photos along with their resumes.”
“Just because I won’t sleep with them, that doesn’t mean I don’t want something nice to look at. Who wants a woman who looks like her namemight be Agatha—”
“My great-grandmotherwas named Agatha.”
My eyes widened, and my face dropped. “Iam so sorry.”
He smiled. “I was joking. You should have seen your face.”
I shook my head. “Wasn’t funny.”
He raised his eyebrows in response.“I think that you shouldcast your net wider as far as finding an assistant. Also, stop expecting them to know all the company’s history on day one.”
“No. No can do. I don’t have time to handhold. If I have to handhold, then that’s taking time away from what I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t dohand holding.To even get your application looked at it, youhave toanswer particular questions, and they lie. One chick lied about being able to use Excel. She got in my office and told me that she didn’t know how to use Excel, but she could learn and help—Me.Excel. That was the most ridiculousshitI’d ever heard, but...she didn’t lie. She didn’t get the job atDHQ,but she did get the job done.”
