Page 2 of Synced to Us

“You may one day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dennis shrugs, his boney shoulders lifting in a tailored suit, but no matter how much he gets his designer threads taken in, even the most experienced tailor couldn’t flatter a body with limbs too long for a torso.

“You heard Larry talking about the portfolio manager opening before he lost his cool,” Dennis says. “I saw your eyes light up. Don’t get any ideas. I’d like to remind you, in a super friendly and respectful way, of course, the position is mine.”

My shoulders tense. “Let the most talented analyst win.”

“I mean it, Dee. Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” I check my watch, unconsciously tapping my foot along with the movement. I shouldn’t have given Dennis a minute, never mind five. “Look, this has been educational, but I have to—”

“I know about you.”

My eyes flick up from my wrist.

“I know about you,” he repeats, “and I have no problems telling Larry, the guys, and all our most pious and conservative clients, including your latest account, what you used to do.”

My heart kicks against my ribs, but outwardly, I force a blank stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, Dee, don’t pretend to be stupid.” Dennis chuckles, resting a hip on the table and crossing his arms. “It’s not a good look on you. A prospective client I was trying to bring in recognized you. Does Harvey Mickleson ring a bell?”

It does. Sort of. He was a one-time thing, a pharmaceutical owner who was a bit too BDSM for my tastes. I ended it and Harvey wasn’t happy. But I held firm and he never spoke to me again. Plus, I wore colored contact lenses with Harvey. A wig.

I try to keep the surprise off my face, but I had no idea Harvey was so pissed off with me that he memorized my freaking bone structure and was willing to out me to a coworker.

Dennis says, “Did you never think your past would come back to bite you in that sweet, round ass of yours? An ass, if I’m not mistaken, that’s been exposed quite a few times as a lady of the night—”

“Shut up,” I spit out. Vitriol coats my voice before I can stop it.

“Wow.” Dennis cocks his head. “I thought a woman like you wouldn’t be so ashamed.”

“Embarrassment is the least of what I’m feeling. This topic is none of your business. Have a good day, Dennis.” I head to the door. “I’m hoping mine won’t include you in the rest of it.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

My hand pauses on the door’s handle. The conference room is a fishbowl. Clear glass walls are all that separates me from the hive of activity in the cubicles. The movement of bodies rushing and heads bobbing as money is secured, traded, and watched as a dotted line. I’d been in one of those honeycomb hovels and was only recently upgraded to my own office. If I look slightly to the right and count ten doors forward, my name on a plaque would shine in the horizon.

“One phone call,” Dennis says. “That’s all it’ll take.”

I take a breath. Then two. My eyes never leave the subtle flash of a brass plate. “You can’t do this.”

“I have every belief I can since I doubt you listed whore on your resume when you applied here.”

“Watch your mouth,” I hiss over my shoulder.

Dennis chuckles. “Here’s where you have it wrong. I’m the guy in control of this situation. All you gotta do is politely decline when Larry offers you the promotion to Portfolio Manager. You do that, I’ll act like this conversation never happened.”

Until the next time he wants something I scraped and crawled and bled for. It’s lazy bastards like him who think they deserve the world simply by thinking they’re bolder than others.

I turn toward him one last time. “I’m afraid that won’t work for me.”

“Oh? You have another, equal-salaried job lined up?” Dennis raises a brow. “I figured you were here to smack your forehead on a glass ceiling, not job surf.”

I bristle but keep my tone level. “You don’t want to mess with me, Hodge.”

“And why’s that?” Dennis checks his cuticles for no reason other than to feign boredom. Those manly nails are pristine because he forces his assistant to book him morning manicures at seven a.m. once a week, yet tells the guys he’s finishing off his mornings with a blowie from his latest nightclub conquest.

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