Page 6 of Latte Girl
The man lets out a smoker’s laugh and pounds me on the back a few more times, making my spinal cord feel like it’s being slammed into my chest. “That’s right, son. Better not call me unclearoundhere.”
Ludo, or as I was raised to refer to him, Uncle Ludo, is my dad’s most trusted employee, and has been working for the company since before my dad took it over from my grandfather. He smokes about a pack a day and always smells like a mix of nicotine and pastrami. He’s also head of the finance department I nowworkfor.
He leans towards me and drops his voice to a conspiratorial level. “Did you get a load of that coffee girl?” He glances over his shoulder towards the catering table and lets out a low whistle. “The girl they usually send is something to look at, butthisone. That’s a piece of work I wouldn’t mind taking back to myoffice.”
He straightens up and gives a raspy chuckle, once more subjecting my back to a round of poundingabuse.
“I don’t even drink the pansy shit they pour out of that machine. I just ordered a drink to get the chance to talk to her. And look at her. Thejugson thatthing...”
I work to keep the cringe off my face as I tune out the rest of what Ludo says. I don’t know what disgusts me more: the fact that Ludo just said the word ‘jugs’ or that he used it to describe the girl from thelobby.
My father’s entrance saves me from having to give Ludo an answer. The room goes quiet as he takes his seat at the head of the table and launches into a description of the company’s recent achievements. His voice dips and curls around the words of the speech like a calligraphy brush, and I have to admit that there’s a reason he’s run the company so successfully all these years; when he talks, peoplelisten.
Unless a stunningly beautiful woman happens to be intheroom.
She appears at Ludo’s shoulder with his ‘pansy shit’ drink, then leans down to carefully place the latte on the table, while Ludo probably eyes her ‘jugs.’ I don’t actually see him do it because I can’t stop staring at every detail of her face, at the curve of her cheek and the swoop of hereyelashes.
She straightens up and her eyes shift towards me. They flit to the side when she finds me staring and then come back to meet me gaze, dancing around like waywardbutterflies.
Dancing around like wayward butterflies? What the fuck? WhoamI?
“...Jordan Knox, our new junior manager of finance. Jordan is a recent and distinguished graduate of the MBA program at Penn State’s Wharton School of Business, and has gained a reputation for himself completing several internships in major companies across the country. Jordan, as many of you know, is also my son. He was raised the Knox way and has a promising career ahead of him here at Knox Security. I’d like to invite him to say a fewwords.”
My throat goes dry as everyone turnstowardsme.
* * *
Twenty minutes later,I’m standing in the centre of my father’s office as he sits behind his desk, cool eyes focused on me. The words coming out of his mouth hit me like falling icicles, hard andsharp.
“...and if you think I’m going to let you make a fool of me and this company, you are sorely mistaken. You know the terms of your being here, and what’s expected of you. My department heads are already questioning whether or not you deserve your position. I did notspend twenty-five yearsand tens of thousands of my own income for you to stand with your mouth flapping like a fish when I ask you to complete the simple task of introducingyourself.”
My fists are balled at my sides. “Yes, sir,” I answer through clenched teeth. My entire body is screaming at me to shout back, to defend myself, to hurl a paperweight across the room, to just do something, but my eyes stay glued to thefloor.
“Now get out of my office and go doyourjob.”
I turn and leave, willing myself to have the guts to slam the door. Instead, I pull it closed behind me, letting go of the knob so slowly that it doesn’t even make aclick.
Back in my own office, I slump into my chair and listen to the blood pounding in my ears. A chill runs through me. As a child, my nanny always told me that meant someone was walking over yourgrave.
I’m walking over my own grave, I think to myself. This office, this whole building, feels like the inside of acoffin.
Then something shifts under my desk, right next tomyfeet.
“Whatthefu—”
