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“If you think he’s cheating, I repeat—dump. His. Ass.”
“You’re almost up to a dollar.”
“Mia!” Gabby knew she was trying to irritate her.
“I need solid proof before I confront him.” Mia produced another pouty face that was hard to resist. “I need you to do this. His secretary is on maternity leave. It’s only a temp position, so it’s not like you’d be lying that much when you leave after a week. He’s been talking about how all the applicants have been horrible. He’ll hire you on the spot. I know it. Like you said, one week. That’s all I’m asking. I need to know. Then I can dump the lying, cheating, scumbag for sleeping around on me.”
Gabby gulped the rest of her drink, wiping her hand across her lips as if she gained a mustache from the sweet red wine. “How do I let you talk me into shit like this?” She groaned. “Yes, I know, I now owe a dollar.”
Mia screamed in delight, grabbing Gabby around the waist. “You’re the best bestie ever.”
“Fine, bestie. One week. No more.”
“Yes! I knew I could count on you. His name is Champ Holloway.”
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”
* * *
Gabby saton a nice plush black couch, bouncing her leg out of tune to the mellow music playing overhead. Something you’d hear at a symphony. Not that she ever would attend that sort of concert. She’d fall asleep from boredom. She’d take a rock concert over a symphony any day.
A new song, just as light and melodious as the last, started to play. It was annoying music. If she did get the job—a big if—she sure in the hell didn’t want to listen to this crap all week. She’d go out of her ever-lovin’ mind. Give her a crazy upbeat song, and she’d be good to go. It’d get her in the mood to work and do the best damn job she could.
She still didn’t know why she caved into Mia’s pleading. This was insane. This problem could be rectified by simply talking to the man.
Mia and men. Problem? Of course. There was always a problem when it came to Mia and men. She didn’t know how to talk to them, how to have a normal, “let’s have a nice relationship” sort of talk. Although Gabby shouldn’t judge. She didn’t know how to have that talk either. Her relationships were fleeting, at best. Nonexistent, at worst.
When it came to the man department, she and Mia swung out every time.
She met Mia in the hallway of their elementary school. Third grade rearing its ugly head—in her eyes, anyway. She was new to the school. Not the best way to make friends by insulting her choice of dress, but Mia hadn’t seemed to care. She shyly smiled, pushed up her glasses that were too big for her face, and said, “Do you want to sit by me at lunch?” And as they say, the rest is history. Twenty years later, Mia’s suckering her into going undercover to see if her boyfriend was cheating on her.
Well, hoping to go undercover. There was no guarantee she would get the job. She’d have to use her wily skills of negotiation. She could do this. Shewoulddo this. Mia was depending on her to find the truth. That was her job. Finding out the truth. When it came to Mia, if she asked, she always came through for her. That’s just the kind of friend she was.
“Ms. Stileano, this way, please. Mr. Holloway will see you now,” an older lady with black as night hair—Gabby knew for sure she colored it recently to cover the gray, it was so bold—said with a nasally voice.
“It’s Stileano. Like Still-ano. Not Style-ano.” Gabby stood up with a bright smile. She hated it when people said her last name wrong. She always corrected them. Most people screwed it up, making her have to correct a lot of people. She always said it with a smile. It usually didn’t matter. People always took offense. It was her last name for goodness sake. She should be the one taking offense. Not the other way around.
Of course, in good order like it normally happened, the older woman took offense and pursed her lips in a thin line. “This way. Mr. Holloway is a busy man. He doesn’t have a lot of time.”
“Of course.”
They walked down a long hallway where they came to a set of double doors. The older woman pulled one open, walked through, and didn’t bother to hold the door open for her. She had to rush ahead a few steps to grab the door before it slammed in her face.
The fast movement made her stumble in her high heels. The damn things. She hated wearing high heels. Yet, she managed to stay upright and not fall flat on her ass. The last thing she needed to do was embarrass herself or sprain an ankle.
She told herself to let it go, to not let the woman get to her. If this didn’t matter so much to Mia, she would’ve marched right back out of this place. Judgmental bitch. What did she have to judge about her?
Was her outfit not professional enough? Did her pants have wrinkles from sitting so long? She swore she waited longer than she should’ve. She arrived ten minutes early because she hated being late for anything. Or maybe Miss I-dye-my-hair-terrible was having a bad day.
She would never work at a place where she’d have to deal with someone like this. Sure, she dealt with some unruly, uncaring coworkers at her other job, but she loved that job. She knew she wouldn’t love being a secretary. This would test her patience. She hated being a secretary at nineteen, and she didn’t think her opinion had changed at twenty-nine.
Think of Mia. This is all for Mia.
A desk sat to the left, clutter-free, except for a small computer on the corner and a container full of pens and pencils right next to it. Another plush black couch sat kitty-corner to the desk. A small table filled with several magazines and a nice orchid plant sat next to the couch. A few paintings adorned the walls that captivated her attention. She wasn’t into art, but she could appreciate fine art when she saw it. Most were of buildings at unique angles. One really caught her attention. Splashes of color, like someone took a brush, whipping an array of colors onto the canvas. It spoke to her. It felt like her life sometimes. Different colors, different directions. The splashes indicating the many derails life held for her.
God, when did she get so deep?
She smiled brightly when she saw the older woman standing by another set of double doors, her hands on her hips and the impatience clear on her face.
