Page 20 of Latte Girl
BirdofPrey
Jordan
“Sitdown.”
My father points towards one of the low stools in front of his desk. I take a seat and I’m forced to look up at him. I know the setup is deliberate; his high-backed leather chair raises him far above anyone who sits down in the stool, so that he looms like a hawk overitsprey.
Just a few minutes ago my head was spinning from the feel of Hailey pressed against me, from the smell of her, the way she trembled under my touch. Now, though, I’m weighed down by the frustration and anger that sit heavy as rocks in mystomach.
“You’ve been here over a week now, Jordan. I want to talk about yourperformance.”
I grit my teeth, braced for a barrage ofcriticism.
“I’ve had a few people keeping an eye on you, and asked them to speak with your team,” he continues. “There have been...comments. Ludo hastoldme—”
I cut him off. “If Ludo told you anything aboutmeand—”
My voice dies in my throat when I see the expression on my father’s face. His ice blue eyes narrow to steely slits, and when he speaks, he uses a low voice that’s threatening enough to raise hairs on the back ofmyneck.
“Donotinterrupt me when I amspeaking.”
He pauses for a moment, then leans onto his elbows and folds his hands under his chin. “Ludo has told me you’ve had a strong start. Your team has been exceedingly productive since you arrived. While I’ve been given some details on what it is you’ve done to gain theirrespect—”
He stops and raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to interrupt him again. I grip the edge of the stool but staysilent.
“I quite frankly do not care what you do, so long as it means you get your job done and get it done well. There are still doubts within the company about your ability to handle the role. I will not stand to have my son seen as a spineless imbecile, and if this is the way you have chosen to assert yourself, so be it. I expect you to continue giving me the same sort of results. You know what’s at stake if youdon’t.”
He flips open a file on his desk and starts to read, signaling that I should go. I get up, blood pounding in my ears, and he calls out to me just as I’m about to openthedoor.
“Oh and Jordan,” he says, eyes still on the file, “your mother will be glad to know you’re doingwellhere.”
Mom...
The word is a gust of wind rushing through my mind, overturning scattered memories that shift in and out of focus as I make my way to myoffice.
The padding of slippers coming down the stairs. A soft hand ruffling my hair. Thin, silk-clad shoulders hunched over the bathroom sink, shaking with sobs. Thehospital...
I slam a fist against my office window. It’s too late to fight it, though; the memory washes over me, dragging meunder.
Everything in the waiting room seems distant, the voices around me sounding tinny, like I’m hearing them from the bottom of a well. Dad is arguing with a nurse a few feet away. He’s shouting and waving his arms, a blur of motion in the corner of my vision. I’ve never seen him so out of control. I hunch over and rest my head between my knees, fighting the urge to throw up. I’ve felt the burn of bile at the back of my throat ever since the doctor called us aside and told us to expect theworst.
I turn away from the window, swallowing down the same acrid taste as I did that day, the same one I feel rising in me every time I relive thosemoments.
I sit down at my desk to steady myself and start to clear a few papers away. I find my folder of app designs and flip through the pages, looking at all the logos and log in screens. I’d only ever shown them to a handful of people, design school friends I cut out of my life as soon as I found out I’d be working here, but everyone said theyweregood.
I drop the folder into my briefcase to take home at the end of the day. I don’t even know why I brought the designs here in the firstplace.
After I finish clearing the desk, I open up a spreadsheet and spend the next few hours plugging in numbers, compiling a report I need to hand in to Ludo tomorrow morning. I notice a few errors in the data and check to see who was responsible for getting ittome.
Letting out a sigh, I shoot Tod Rochester a message asking him to come to my office. He knocks at the door a few minutes later and I tell him tocomein.
“Jordan!Bossman!”
“Hello, Tod.” I gesture for him to bring the spare chair over to my desk and have a seat. “I just wanted to go over this spending data yougaveme.”
I point out the issues and give him some corrections on what he’s been doing wrong. His tanned features look put off by the criticism, and he starts running a hand over his spiky,gelledhair.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, boss,” he says, one knee bouncing up and down. “Won’t happenagain.”
