Layers (3 page)

“Wall, who sent you?

“Did Ryan send you?”

“Yeah, what’s going on with boss-man?”

“Yeah man, does he really have the Bird Flu?”

Pete looks at me. “The Bird Flu?”

I shrug.
Don’t look at me dude I’ve got nothin’!

The
Mob Squad
continues to shout out. It’s soon apparent that I need to buck up and be a manager––okay, buck up anyway. I clear my throat and address the squad. “Okay team, I sincerely appreciate your support or whatever this is, but you need to chill out. I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on but I’m sure it’s nothing.” Everyone gives me that deer in the headlights stare—okay I need to buck it up more.

Jill, one of my team leaders, steps forward. “Sorry Alexia, we’re all a little on edge. Something is definitely going down. Ryan’s Korea trip was cut short—the partners have been meeting daily and upper management cancelled all their meetings. There have been tons of rumors and now this.” She waves her hand between Pete and me.

I frown because it seems appropriate. “I wish that I could enlighten everyone, but like I said I’m just as clueless.”

The elevator dings, and then opens. Pete gives me a look of relief as we step inside. He hits the CEO floor button and the doors begin to close.

Just before they do, Dale stops it with his foot. I punch the
open
button.

“Alexia, this is crazy.” He pants. “I’ve been here for nine years, when security escorts you to the CEO floor, you’re either being fired or you’re…being fired.”

“Thanks. I feel so much better.”

“Sorry, I just…I don’t get it. You’re the best manager at Ryan, your department totally kicks ass. Christ, there’s a freakin’ waiting list for people who want to be transferred into RM.”

“Really? There’s a waiting list?”

“Yeah.” He says like–
duh
?

“Hey—whatever’s going on—I’ll be okay. Ryan is probably just playing with me.” Do I want him to play with me? Literally? Maybe—Okay, yes—playing with the boss-man sounds like fun.

“Yeah, maybe.” Dale sighs. “But he’s never had you escorted to his office by security.”

“That’s true.” I exhale. “Well anyway, you’re in charge until I return. Get everyone back to work before they find a rope, and start looking for a high ceiling, rafters or beams.”

“I don’t know.” Dale mocks while grinning at Pete. “This office could use a good lynchin’.”

Pete grins but it’s more of a leer than a grin—a grinler.

Dale shakes it off then steps back and the elevator doors close.

I press the button for the CEO floor and lean back.

Pete exhales. “That was just crazy.”

“Yeah.”
Shit-shitcrazy!

When we reach the CEO floor, Pete holds the elevator while I step out. We march down a short hall that leads us to the reception foyer. We then trek past Ann at reception where she gifts me with her customary
fuck you
look, and I return with my customary go
fuck yourself
look. She hates my guts because she has a thing for Ryan, and he has a thing for me. Enough said.

Just past reception there are two hallways. The hallway to our right leads to the Executive Suite, sometimes referred to as The Lion’s Den, The Tower of Ryan, The Prince Palace—and my personal favorite—The Fuck-n-Chuck Manor. The suite features a PA office, an executive office, and a studio apartment.

We take the one to our left, which leads to the Holy Grail of meeting rooms…the Executive Conference room.

Once at the room, Pete opens its glass door and we meander in. He shuffles to the middle of a table and glides out a chair. “This is your assigned seat.”

I roll my eyes. “Wow. My very own
assigned
seat.” I drop my bags then sink my ass into the soft leather of my chair. My chair is placed right smack in the middle of a crackled glass table that could seat the Twelve Apostles and twelve––no fifteen of their guests—it’s friggin’ huge.

The
Apostle
table is the only furnishing in the space; the space being your typical meeting room with the exception of a bank of floor to ceiling windows that overlook the Manhattan skyline.

The walls are painted a boring beige—I think it’s boring anyway—and they are bare except for one large mural-like painting. It’s a painting, if you can call it that, of a grouping of bizarre twisted trees. I think they’re trees. Anyway, I like art—even weird abstract art—some of it anyway. But the trees in this painting are just plain scary. Even the Lorax wouldn’t save them.

Sitting on the table in front of me is a legal pad, pen, and a bottle of water. I take the cap off the water a take a big swig.

Pete clears his throat and I look up. “I’m sorry Alexia but I need to ask for your cell, tablet and laptop.”

“Seriously?” I all but laugh.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

I sigh. “Pete I know you’re just doing your job, but it’s not happening. I’m not handing over anything. You can tell
whomever
, that you asked me in a polite and professional manner, and I respectfully refused.”


He gives me a half smile. “Okay, I’ll tell Mr. Ryan. He shuffles to the door then turns. “Alexia, I’m really sorry about all this. I’ll be right outside, if you need anything.”

“Pete,” I say with a smile. “No hard feelings.”

He nods. “Thanks Alexia, it’s good to know.” Pete walks out and shuts the door.

My gut tells me this drama has something to do with the emergency partners meetings.

Thirty minutes pass and I’m going crazy. I’m not one to remain idle. I could never be the queen bee; I’m a worker bee. I need the structure and consistency, or chaos and carnage will prevail. What the hell? Chaos? Carnage?

Ten more minutes pass and all I can think about is the freakin’ Sims audit and all the other work that is piled on my desk. I take out my laptop, turn it on and type in my password. INVALID PASSWORD. I try again, INVALID PASSWORD. I try again, and again, then the system shuts me out. Oh my God, I’m being: fired, canned, axed, expelled, dismissed—anyway you put it—it sucks balls.

But why? What the hell did I do? And why didn’t my manager say—“Hey, Alexia have a wonderful vacation, and by the way make it permanent.” I could have stayed in France at the villa. Okay, not the
villa—
maybe Paris. What I’m I going to do? I’m jobless, workless, career-less. I’m just freakin’—less.

I love my job. I love my department. I love my coworkers—not all of them, but I love working at Ryan.

I lo…like, Jaxson Ryan.

I push my laptop aside and take out my iPhone. I’m overjoyed to find my Ryan e-mail account hasn’t been shut down…
yet.
I scroll through, replying to several but deleting most. I then scan my personal mail. I notice about a dozen messages from my bank that are marked “Urgent!!” Before I get a chance to check them out the door opens and Jaxson Ryan, CEO of Ryan Acquisitions, strolls in.

He tugs out a chair and folds his lanky body onto it. He exhales and gives me a weary smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”


“You look…rested.”

Rested. Really? That’s all you got?

“You look like shit.”

He cocks his head. “It’s been a long week.”

“I can see.” I raise a brow
.
“When was the last time you shaved?”

“I don’t know—three, maybe four days.” He lets out a long tired sigh. “How was your holiday? That’s what they call it in Europe, right?”

“It was…good.” I shrug. “Okay, it sucked. If Gram hadn’t insisted, I wouldn’t have gone. She sure knows how to lay on the pressure and guilt.”

“Are you okay?”
Really?

“I don’t know Jaxson, am I?”

He runs a hand through his blackish-brown wavy hair. I have no clue as to why this one simple act turns me into liquefied Jell-O. Truthfully just about everything he does turns me inside out. Jaxson Ryan is hands-down the most attractive man I’ve ever met—the poster man for the tall, dark and handsome. Lord knows that I could sit and watch him for
hours, days
—years.

Deep sigh. It’s not just his physical presence either; it’s the way he holds himself, the way he takes over a room, the way he stands and walks. You get the picture, right? Okay, Alexia stop ogling—get a grip
.

I push my laptop toward him. “I don’t think I’ll be needing this,” I say with a bite.

He closes his eyes and massages his temples.

“Headache?” I say, trying my best to sound somewhat sympathetic.

He drops his hands and opens his eyes. “You have no fucking idea.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I haven’t a fucking clue. Care to enlighten me?” I say again, with a bit too much bite.

He groans.

“Sorry. It’s just…you had
me
escorted out of my department by security Jaxson. You had
me
escorted.” I point to myself when I say “me” the second time. I don’t have a clue as to why.

“Jaxson, what’s going on? I don’t und…”

His phone rings before I can finish. He fishes it out of his suit pocket.

“Ryan.” He answers. “Okay. Yes. Thanks, Malinda.” He disconnects.

That was short and to the point—who the hell is Malinda?

“Do you trust me?” He asks while his eyes plead for a yes.

“Jaxson, I don’t understand?”

“Do you trust me?”


“I don’t kno…”

He slams his hand down on the glass table. I jump.

“Do. You. Trust. Me.?” He annunciates through clenched teeth.

Holy shit! What’s your problem?
“I want to.” I squeak.

He shrugs with disappointment.

I wanted to be able to say yes, but trust is not something I hand out and he knows this.

“Lex, I need you to trust me,” he pleads. “I need you to let things play out for a few minutes then I’ll explain.

“I’ll try,” I whisper.

There’s a sharp knock and I jump. The door opens and a stout man sporting a prominent square head and body marches in. He plops a briefcase on the table then drops down next to Jaxson. I blink. Holy Bedrock! It’s Fred Flintstone in the flesh.
Wilma!

He flips his case open and extracts a warehouse–sized bottle of hand sanitizer. You know, the huge bottle that’s taking up valuable space in your linen closet or under your bathroom sink. The one that you just can’t get yourself to man up and just throw it out.

He squirts a glob on each palm then rubs them together. He returns the sanitizer and retrieves the following items. Laptop, several files, two legal pads, three pens, one pencil, a stapler, Altoid mints, eye glasses, bottle of Evian and finally a package of disinfecting wipes.

He sets the case on the floor, scans each item then begins to place them in rows. Mints, disinfecting wipes and water on the furthest or first row—legal pads, pens, pencil, and stapler on the second or middle row laptop, eyeglasses, and files on the third or last row. What the hell Flintstone?

Just when I think the torture is over he begins to wipe each item with disinfectant. What’s next water–boarding, electric shock, the polka blaring from hidden speakers? I glare at Jaxson, pleading for an explanation—for a rescue. Is this the trust part?

He squeezes my hand and whispers, “Trust me.”

Okay, so it is the trust part.

He then acknowledges Mr. Flintstone as he puts on his glasses and gathers the files.

“Henry are you ready?”

Okay, Fred is a Henry.

He nods. “Yes…Yes I think so.”

The poor man looks like he doesn’t even know his name.

He then turns to me. “Alexia I’d like you to meet an old family friend and attorney for Ryan Acquisitions—Henry Mills.”

I lift my brow and keep my hands to myself, because it seems appropriate after his germ phobia display.

Henry nods then hands me a file. No—more like drops it in front of me. It’s obvious that I have germ cooties. With reluctance, I pick it up.

“Ms. Keith, my name is Henry Mills, I’m an attorney for Ryan Acquisitions.

Okay, been there, done that
.

“I usually work on contractual disputes.” He sighs. “But today I’m representing the Ryan partners.”