The Deal, the Dance, and the Devil (6 page)

Figuring this out was up to me. Should I play it cool, like nothing had happened? Or should I walk in there and slam her up against the wall? Should I play it straight or straight ghetto?

As soon as the word
ghetto
entered my mind, my decision was made. I’d left the ghetto behind a long time ago.

Inside the Ferossity parking lot, I twisted the Kia down the lanes to the back, stopping in the last space against the brick wall. I was far from the front door, where I always parked.

The moment I slipped out of the car, I heard, “Hey, girl!”

“What’s up, Rachel?” though one glance at her feet told me what I needed to know—sneakers. She was dressed in her normal pantsuit, but without her pumps and with her iPod plugged deep into her ears.

Rachel pulled the buds out and eyed the car. “The Lexus in the shop?” But before I could tell her a lie, she kept on, “You busted out of the office yesterday like you were making a prison break; what was up with that?”

“Nothing.” I matched her stride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s all good.”

“Umm-hmm.” But that was all the attention she gave me, because with her arms still swinging as she pushed to burn more calories, she puffed, “I hope all this exercise is working,” as we stepped into the building.

Inside the elevator, Rachel chatted about her six-month weight-loss plan to get a man who’d already told her that he wasn’t interested. “I’m telling you, James is going to be my
birthday gift. When I do the big reveal, he’s gonna lose his mind! And then, happy birthday to meeee!” she sang.

“Or you’re gonna meet someone who will love you for you and not for what you weigh.”

Rachel smiled. “See, that’s why you’re my girl.”

“I’m just sayin’. You should have someone who knows what’s really important in a person.”

She shook her head. “You’re talking all that perfect-man philosophy stuff. But I’ll take the superficial, ’cause there aren’t that many Adam Langstons out there.”

I laughed. See, the whole world knew what I had. “My husband is pretty special, isn’t he?”

“Ya think?”

“Well, I have faith that there’s someone like him being prepared right now for you.”

“You keep that faith, and I’ll keep exercising!”

We laughed, but then the doors to the twelth floor parted and the good part of my day ended.

“Good morning,” Shay-Shaunté greeted Rachel and me.

“Mornin’, Boss,” was what Rachel said.

I didn’t part my lips. I guess my plan to play this straight wasn’t working.

“Evia? You okay?”

Now, why did Shay-Shaunté have to ask me that? Why did she have to talk to me at all?

“I’m fine,” I said, not even looking at her. I stomped toward my office, but by the time I’d taken those few steps, I calmed down and didn’t slam the door the way I’d planned to.

It killed me that I had to be there. After yesterday, anyone else would’ve quit, and it was the fact that I couldn’t that really had me twisted. Even though I wasn’t about to give Shay-Shaunté my husband, she still had control … over my paycheck. Which meant that she still had control over me.

I had to get out of this place, but I could only leave with money in my pocket. I paced back and forth, trying to devise a plan.

Then my phone buzzed. “Girl,” Rachel whispered. “Where are you?”

“What?”

“Staff meeting.”

I looked at my watch. Had I been daydreaming about making my break for that long?

I hung up without even telling Rachel that I was on my way; she knew.

When I walked into the conference room, Shay-Shaunté said, “Now we can begin,” even though her six department heads were already there.

I settled into the chair right next to her—the one that was saved for me.

“So,” Shay-Shaunté began. “Let’s do the status reports first.”

I was supposed to be taking notes, but I had a hard time focusing. I stared Shay-Shaunté down, but if she was fazed, she didn’t show it.

As the discussion moved around the table, I asked myself all kinds of questions. Like was Shay-Shaunté interested in my husband? Was her offer a way to try to get him? Had she always felt this way? Did she think her money was going to be able to take him away from me?

“Evia?”

“Huh?”

“I asked about the system for the holiday reorders.”

It took a moment for me to focus on Shay-Shaunté’s moving lips. I’d been staring at her for so long, that her face was fuzzy.

She said, “The reorders?”

“Why are you asking about that? We’ve fulfilled two rounds of reorders already.”

I guess my tone was sharper than my words, because around the table, the staff gasped. Even Rachel looked at me like she wondered why I was trying to get fired.

In the next nanosecond, all eyes turned to Shay-Shaunté. Like everyone was waiting for her to take me down.

“My question was”—Shay-Shaunté spoke so softly that everybody leaned in closer to hear—“is everything in place to assure the accounts that anything they need, they will have immediately.”

Okay … so the first question I hadn’t heard completely, and being taken by surprise may have been my excuse for snapping. But this time, I was aware of what I was doing.

“I’ve been doing this job for six years, Shay-Shaunté. Everything’s in place—just like it always is.”

It was a wicked, lopsided smile that she passed to me. “I know how long you’ve been working here, Evia.” She paused and stared with a look that turned me cold. “So, are you ready to answer my question?” She paused. “Is everything in place to assure that shipping will continue without issues?”

Though she’d made me a bit nervous, I stared right back. I didn’t know why I was putting myself through this—if this turned into a battle, Shay-Shaunté would win.

“Yes.” That was as much of a surrender as she was going to get from me.

She didn’t wait for further explanation. She’d forced me, she’d won, she moved on.

After that, it was easier to concentrate. My notes were diligent; Shay-Shaunté wasn’t going to catch me not paying attention again.

She said, “Now, let’s move onto marketing.”

Bill Lewis said, “Obviously, it’s too late for this year, but the one thing major accounts keep asking is if we can give them a
campaign—especially with the combo-packs—with more of a Christmas feel.”

Shay-Shaunté shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. This is a hair-care company. I’m not doing anything special for the holidays beyond red packaging.”

“I’m just telling you, Shay-Shaunté,” Bill said, holding up his hands, to reinforce the fact that the question wasn’t coming from him. “Just passing on requests. And it’s coming from most of the major accounts.”

Resting her arms on the table, she leaned forward and looked each of the department heads in their eyes before saying, “I will shut Ferossity down before I bring Christmas into this company.”

The staff twisted like they always did when Shay-Shaunté went on one of her anti-Christmas rampages. Not that anyone could call her a scrooge—the best part of working at Ferossity was that we all received a paid vacation the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Everyone loved Shay-Shaunté for that, but she was definitely nobody’s Santa Claus. She was right—she never brought Christmas into the company: there were no Christmas trees, no ornaments, no change of the Muzak … nothing.

During my first year at the company, I asked Shay-Shaunté if she didn’t celebrate Christmas because of her religion. She told me that she had no religion—I took that to mean that she was an atheist. Still, sometimes she went too far.

But it was her company. If she wanted to shut the whole thing down because an account asked for Christmas packaging, I’d say go at it. I just wanted her to wait until I found another job.

“One last thing,” Shay-Shaunté said. “Evia, how are we coming with selecting an intern from Howard University?”

This time, I answered her. “Fine.” But I didn’t say anything more; my attitude was still showing.

Shay-Shaunté smirked a little, shook her head, then said to the team, “It’s a wrap. Let’s make today a great one.”

I was the first to push back my chair. Even though I usually mingled with the others over the continental breakfast spread that Shay-Shaunté had at every meeting, I rushed out of the room like there was a fire behind me.

At my desk, I threw down the notepad. I was still pissed, but now I was mad at myself. Why was I acting this way?

Before I had a chance to think about it, there was a knock on my door.

“Come on in,” I said, knowing Rachel wanted to get the scoop on why I was acting like I needed medication.

My plan was to just give her the great excuse—PMS.

But it wasn’t Rachel.

I didn’t say a word when Shay-Shaunté stepped into my space, closed the door, then slinked across the room, every curve showing in her formfitting black catsuit.

“Obviously,” she began, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

I kinda shrugged, kinda nodded.

She went on, “You have a problem with me; what is it?”

Oh! She was gonna play it like that? Well then, I was gonna give it back the same way.

I said, “You know what my problem is.”

Her half smile was back as her arms crossed. “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t like the way you came at me.”

“About what?”

“About my husband.”

She nodded, like she was glad I’d finally played my card; glad that I’d put the king of my heart on the table.

She said, “I was only making a business offer. You refused. It’s over. So why are you upset?” She paused. Now her eyes were smiling, too. “Unless you and Adam plan to take me up on—”

“No!” I shouted, not caring who heard me.

“Then, why the attitude, Evia?”

“Because …” I stopped and tried to think of how to finish that sentence. “Because …” I didn’t know what else to say, because really, I didn’t have a reason for all of this—except that my feelings were hurt.

“Look,” Shay-Shaunté began. “I’m a businesswoman. I make deals. I’m used to winning a lot and losing a few. I’m never offended either way; it’s all about business. But I am sorry if I offended you.”

Now why did she have to be all grown up and professional? I guess that’s what separated billionaires from the rest of us folk—emotions never got in their way.

“We need to get this cleared up, Evia, because if we can’t work it out …”

So much for the soft, professional touch. Not that I could be mad at her after the way I acted.

It was all good, though, because I’d said what I’d had to say. But she was right, too; the offer had been made, was declined, and was now behind us.

“It’s worked out,” I said. “I’m cool. I just needed you to know where I stood.”

“Good. And now you know,” she pushed herself up from her chair, “where I stand.” She seemed to tower over me.

I watched her stroll away, all grace, all slither. At the door, she turned around and winked. It was startling, shocking. And it made me think. About wolves in sheep’s clothing. Then my thoughts went deeper—to the Garden of Eden. And I asked myself, Before the fall, didn’t snakes walk upright?

Chapter 8

I
HAD THIS
V
IRGO THING GOING
on; I was a stickler for time. But not even being a Virgo could help me beat my girl, Tamica. It was her flight attendant thing—she was always at least fifteen minutes early to everything. So when I walked into Rumors, I spotted Tamica, sitting at a booth, already sipping on something and flipping through some kind of brochure.

Moving closer, I saw that Tamica was wearing one of her smart suits, as we called them. For the last three months, whenever my girl wasn’t thirty thousand feet in the air, she was looking the part of the corporate executive she suddenly longed to be.

“Hey, girl!” I said when I got to the table.

“What’s up?”

“Just you.” I gave her a hug, then slid into the booth across from her. Glancing down at what she was reading, I said, “Howard University? Really?”

“Well, I decided that it might be difficult for me to just
walk into corporate America without any experience. I was thinking maybe I should get my MBA.” I nodded because I wanted to be the supportive friend. I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to be the honest friend.

“Howard has a great program.” Tamica flipped through the brochure. “And since it’s right here, and I’m a D.C. resident, it should be easy to get in.”

“So, Howard, huh?” That was all I was going to say. I thought about adding that even if she did follow through, and even if she did get in, did she really want to compete with all of those twenty-something-year-old bodies and brains while she was trying to find herself?

“To Howard.” She raised her glass, giving herself a toast. “This is gonna be it. I can feel it this time.”

The short-skirted waitress joined us and jotted down my request for an iced tea. Then she asked, “Do you want to order now or wait for the rest of your party?”

“If we had good sense,” Tamica started, “we’d order now. No tellin’ what time Brooklyn will show up.”

The waitress stood still, frozen, trying to figure out if she should stay or walk away.

I directed, “Just bring my tea. We’ll wait to order.”

“So, what’s new in your life?” Tamica asked. Before the question was fully out of her mouth, she had directed her attention back to the brochure. As if she already knew that whatever I had going on was boring, because out of the three of us, I was the most stable, the most dependable … the most boring.

But that was before I’d been offered five million dollars. I’m sure that trumped anything going on in Tamica’s and Brooklyn’s lives combined.

Still, my response to Tamica was, “Absolutely nothing’s new.”

Tamica didn’t even look up. If I wanted conversation, I was going to have to turn the subject away from me. “So, how was Paris?”

She shrugged. “It’s my route, it’s my job, it’s Paris.” She sighed, as if I not only had a boring life, but I also asked boring questions. “Are you sure you want to wait for Brooklyn?” Tamica asked before she downed the rest of her wine. “Ain’t no telling how long that’s gonna be, ’cause you know how the first lady do. She’s so important”—Tamica rolled her eyes, completely unimpressed—“that only her time matters.”