“I’m Scotty from the mailroom. This is for you.”
He crosses to my desk and holds the envelope out. Now I can see that it’s an inter-office memo, with a grid on the outside to indicate who the contents are for and who they’re from.
On the From section, printed in precise block letters in blue pen, are the words OFFICE OF THE CFO.
Surprised, I glance up at Scotty.
“If you need to return it, just call down for a pickup. We’re here from six to six.” He waves and walks out.
I unwind the string from the butterfly clasp holding the envelope’s flap closed and pull out a single sheet of paper from within. On it is a note hand written on corporate letterhead.
Ms. Sanders,
Thank you for your diligence this week. I appreciate your excellent work and hope you’re happy in the position.
If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask me for it.
Yours,
Cole McCord
Flabbergasted, I sink into my desk chair and read the note over and over again, slowly shaking my head in disbelief.
Thank you? Appreciate? Yours?
Everything about the note is extraordinary, but the sign off is a mind fuck of colossal scope. Is it “Yours” as in a shortened version of yours truly, the professional, traditional sign off to a business communication? Or is the omission deliberate, meant to signify something more meaningful, as in…I’m yours?
He could’ve said “Sincerely.” He could’ve said “Regards.” He could’ve said “Fuck off into eternity, you devil-tongued harlot” but instead he said “Yours.”
He started off with thanks, appreciation, and hopes for my happiness, which are astonishing enough. He followed that up with an offer to assist with anything I need, along with a please instead of his typical barked order.
He also said I should ask him for whatever I need.
Not Simone.
Not HR.
Him.
I look up and around, half expecting to see him lurking around a corner, laughing at my shock, having a joke at my expense. But it’s half past five on a Friday, and the office is empty.
I stare at the letter again, but now I’m frowning. Why the hell would he send a hand-written letter in the first place? Is his email down? Is his phone broken? Did he want me to appreciate his penmanship? And I’m still tripping all over that mysterious “Yours.”
What the hell is going on?
Grabbing a blank piece of paper from the printer, I dash off a letter in response.
Mr. McCord,
Thank you for your thoughtful note. I appreciate your concern, your feedback on my performance, and also your offer for assistance.
Please be assured I have everything I need, and the position is to my satisfaction.
Sincerely,
Ms. Sanders
Then I call the mailroom and tell them I have an inter-office communication for the executive suite that needs to be picked up immediately.
Scotty shows up five minutes later. He takes the envelope and tips it to me on the way out.
I sit at my desk, wondering if I should stay or leave. What’s the protocol when you’re waiting to hear back on a mysterious missive sent by the guy you fucked like you were possessed one night at a hotel before you knew he’d be your boss?
What’s the time limit? Ten minutes? Ten years?
I don’t have to wait long, however, because Scotty returns mere moments after he left bearing the brown kraft envelope and whistling. He sets it on the edge of my desk.
“Hi again! Last run of the day. Should I wait?”
“I’m not sure yet. Can you hold on a second?”
“Course. I’ll be right outside. You let me know if you need me to take anything back up.”
“Thanks, Scotty.”
As he ambles out, I remove the sheet of paper from the envelope. This time, the note is much shorter. It’s written on the back of the one I sent.
Ms. Sanders,
I’m gratified to hear you’re happy in the position. Please note, however, that your signature is incorrect.
My signature? What is he talking about?
When I turn the paper over and find out, I gasp in horror.
I didn’t sign my name Ms. Sanders, as I thought I did.
I signed it Ms. McCord.
Because clearly, I’m the world’s biggest idiot with a gold medal for achievement in self-sabotage.
Like a teacher marking a failing grade on a student’s test, Cole circled the error in red pen. My embarrassment is a boiling cauldron filled with flesh-eating piranha that I dive into headfirst.
“Scotty?”
He pops his head around the corner of the door frame. “Yep?”
“I don’t have anything to send back.”
“Okay. Have a great weekend!”
I know my weekend won’t be great, it will be filled with regret, self-criticism, and enough whiskey to drown ten grown men, but I smile anyway. “Thanks. You too.”
The moment he’s gone, I dig my cell phone from my purse and text Chelsea that I need to meet her for a drink somewhere as soon as possible.
Four seconds later, she texts back the name of a Mexican restaurant in West Hollywood I haven’t heard of, along with a MapQuest link.
I tell her to order me a drink if she arrives first and run out the door.
Cole
It’s pure chance that I see Shay getting into her car in the parking garage. As chance seems to enjoy meddling where she’s concerned, I’m not entirely surprised, but I have to admit that it’s me who takes over from there.
I follow at a safe distance behind her white Acura as it turns onto Wilshire Boulevard and drives west.
Do I know why I’m doing this? No.
Am I going to keep doing it? Yes.
I’m not superstitious, but somehow, it feels right to watch her navigate through rush-hour traffic. I don’t know if she’s on her way home or somewhere else, and I honestly don’t care. All I want is a glimpse of her as she gets out of the car at her final destination. A glimpse of that hair, that figure, that confident walk.
Sincerely, Ms. McCord she wrote, officially driving the final nail into my coffin. I sat staring at that name written in her pretty, feminine handwriting and got hard.
Whether calculated ploy to fuck with my head or innocent accident, it had the same effect. The small but manageable obsession I’d been nursing exploded with a bang into a giant, rampaging lust monster.
I pictured her lying underneath me in my bed at my house wearing nothing but my ring and a hazy smile of satisfaction.
An impossible fantasy, but the lust monster didn’t care. I sent a short note back to her, then locked myself in the toilet and jerked on my hard dick until I climaxed, groaning her name.
It’s a good thing the executive suites have private bathrooms.
She makes a right turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I follow. She makes another right onto Robertson, then a sharp left into the parking lot of a building with a huge painting of a calavera wearing a sombrero on the side and a sign declaring Margaritas! in red neon lettering.
I cruise slowly past, watch her park and run inside through a side door, then make a quick U-turn and park in the alley behind the restaurant.
Entering through the kitchen, I walk past stainless steel baker’s racks and bus boys up to their elbows in dirty dishes in soapy sinks until I enter the main part of the kitchen where the cooks are. It’s busy, with at least six stoves operating at once and a dozen voices shouting over each other in Spanish.
Bypassing them, I find the manager’s office and walk inside without knocking.
A big Mexican man in his early thirties wearing a sleeveless Dodgers T-shirt sits at a desk too small for him, sweating in front of a computer screen.
His muscular arms are inked shoulder to wrist. His thick neck is tatted with scenes from the Bible. Hidden underneath his shirt are more tattoos of his daughter’s face, quotes from scripture, his former gang affiliation signs.
From the heavy gold chain around his neck dangles a crucifix.
He looks up at me and breaks into a grin.
“Lobo! ?Como estas, cuate?”