The P.U.R.E. Read online

  Doug leered as I carried my load and slapped the files down on the table. I countered his look with my most disdainful glare before I resumed my work.

  Jon’s eyes tracked me. I threw a glance in Doug’s direction before giving Jon an eye roll complete with a loud exhale. His frown suggested he understood trouble simmered, though I doubted his male brain had filled in all the blanks.

  • • •

  Jon and I worked controversy-free for another hour, popping in and out for meetings or research. I stood and gathered my files into my arms.

  “Need some help with those, Gayle?” Jon asked.

  “That would be awesome. Thanks.”

  Once we were alone in the file room, Jon said, “Something not quite kosher?” No context. No preamble. Typical Jon.

  “Doug cornered me in here after you left earlier today and pressed up against me.” I’d let him draw his own conclusions from that tidbit.

  “On purpose or accident?”

  I huffed. “Never mind. Just forget it. Forget I said anything. Nothing happened. I’m just in a bad mood.” I moved to another cabinet, seething because even my closest co-worker didn’t believe me.

  He glanced my way every few seconds—I guessed trying to assemble something appropriate to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after nearly ten minutes.

  “For what?” I slapped down my stack of files and whipped around to face him.

  “For giving you the impression I didn’t believe you. I do. I’m just having a hard time understanding why he’d do something so stupid. Why he’d think it would be okay, you know?”

  “Those are questions I ask myself as well.”

  Approaching footsteps halted our conversation. Doug sauntered in and leaned against a nearby file cabinet, his arms and ankles crossed. “We’re working late tonight, Gayle, so I need you to pick up Chinese in an hour. Get the whole team’s order, including Bob, Marilyn, Kenneth and Arthur. “ He cocked his head in Jon’s direction. “You can take lover boy to help if you like. Don’t waste too much time getting his rocks off though.” He smirked at each of us in turn before he left the room.

  Jon’s jaw dropped. I guessed he never expected to be on the receiving end of one of Doug’s jabs.

  “Welcome to my world. I hate him so much it’s not even funny,” I said.

  • • •

  Doug always assigned me the “woman’s-work” errands, never my peers, Tony or Jon, or Scarlett, my other team member, who had a year and a half more experience. Though a woman, she was also African American. Sexism he’d flaunt with pride—but not racism.

  Plus, I thought he was a little scared of her.

  I was.

  She had a boulder-sized chip on her shoulder and a formidable temper.

  After I’d passed around an order sheet with the menu to those around me, I went to the executives.

  Arthur sat at his desk. He smiled and motioned me inside. “Come on in. It’s Gayle, isn’t it?”

  I grinned, thrilled he remembered my name. “Yes.” Unlike the first time I met him, when he’d behaved with presidential haughtiness, his latest demeanor was downright grandfatherly. “I understand you’ll be working late tonight and will be joining us for Chinese takeout from …” I glanced at the menu to refresh my memory. “Chang’s Happy Joy Luck Buffet.”

  “Ah, yes, Chang’s Lucky Joy Happy Buffet,” Arthur said with a sly grin.

  I laughed because it was kind of funny, and I assumed he expected me to. “Do you think it’s a superstition for a Chinese restaurant to have happy, joy, luck or lucky in the name?”

  He chuckled softly. “Yes, ma’am, must be. I’d like sweet and sour pork, won ton soup, and two egg rolls.”

  “The mu shu pork is fabulous and much healthier than the fried sweet and sour pork.” As soon as I’d uttered the words, I knew I’d screwed up.

  A scowl replaced his smile. “I got a wife at home to lecture me about that kinda nonsense. I don’t need some auditor still wet behind the ears to do it too. Get me what I asked for, thank you kindly.” He returned to his work, and I skulked out in disgrace.

  What was wrong with me? Was I doomed to crash and burn before I even completed a single project?

  Moving on, I vowed to keep my lips zipped.

  Kenneth Petrovich snatched the menu from my hand and stabbed his finger on an entrée. That was it. Never uttered a single word. I took it as my reward for controlling my wayward tongue.

  Bob dashed off his selections while Marilyn took longer to contemplate her choice.

  I managed to stick to the ordering plan each time—no mention of Doug, no mention of the conversation I’d overheard and the trouble they’d all be getting into when the ink dried.

  • • •

  No one seemed to have budged by the time Jon and I returned with dinner. I moved around the room, matching food to orderer. While I leaned over the table to pass Scarlett her rice, a hand ran up my leg from calf to knee. I jerked back and whipped my head around to catch Doug straightening in his chair.

  No one could have seen him touch me.

  Hell, I didn’t see him, but he was the only one close enough.

  Fury rose within me. How, in a room full of my superiors and colleagues, could I send a message to the son of a bitch?

  I reached in the bag to withdraw Doug’s soup, but the lid popped off in my hand. I went to push it back down into place, but it wouldn’t stay secure.

  Holding his soup near the top, I steered toward ground zero, relaxing my grip until I held the bowl only by its half closed lid. With precision targeting, the lid broke off.

  “Shit! Gayle, what the fuck?” Doug jumped up as the hot soup saturated his crotch. Slimy white wontons fell onto the floor while a few noodles clung for dear life to the fabric of his pants.

  That’ll teach you, asshole.

  Everyone in the room perked up at Doug’s cries.

  “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Doug,” I simpered. “The lid must not have been on tight. Here’re some napkins. Please … let me pay the dry cleaning bill.” Heh-heh. Dry cleaning and I were a match made in hell as Leslie Turner could attest.

  I hadn’t been with Anderson-Blakely more than a few days before I’d been tapped to pick up and deliver Bob Turner’s dry cleaning. My assignment sounded simple enough and probably would have been for someone familiar with Dallas.

  I wasn’t.

  I’d missed my lunch, stopped for directions, and purchased a bag of Cheetos. Leslie, Bob’s wife, found the orange fingerprints. I never even saw them. When I apologized and offered to have the dress re-cleaned, she slammed the door in my face.

  “You did that on purpose, you little bi—!” Doug wisely bit back the last word.

  “I did not!” I exclaimed with outraged innocence. “It was an accident. I swear.”

  “You’re a friggin’ accident!”

  “Doug! Enough!” Marilyn said. “Go clean up and calm down. It was obviously an accident.” Marilyn caught my gaze and held it for a second before she turned away—but not before I detected the hint of a smile.

  Doug treated me to a parting glare while I blinked at him with mock virtue as fake as the tits on a Penthouse centerfold. He’d thrown down the gauntlet, and I’d picked it up, perhaps foolishly, but it was too late to alter the course.

  Him or me.

  I knew my odds weren’t hot when I took Doug on, but when Bob glowered and shook his head at me, I realized I had grossly miscalculated.

  3

  Saturday brought the Aphrodite “after party”—a celebration of the completion of our audit despite it not being finished. Bob, though, had already scheduled the event, and since it was at his home, he’d kept the date the same. Partying with the bosses and Doug ranked dead last on my list of fun ways to spend a Saturday night—right above testifying in court about those inventories and missing cash.

  Since Jon and I lived in the same apartment community, I hitched a ride with him. His Porsche seemed right at hom
e parked next to the large black Mercedes in the Turner’s driveway.

  Leslie, Bob’s wife, greeted us at the door with a Miss America smile and game show hostess sweep of a hand. A black sheath dress set off her immaculately coiffed blonde hair and her tanned skin. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Leslie Turner, and you are?”

  “Gayle Lindley.”

  She cocked her head to the side as she shook my hand a little too long. After a few rapid blinks, she moved on to Jon.

  “Jon Cripps,” he said with a killer smile as he, too, shook her hand. Jon made dazzling first impressions on women. I hoped his sex appeal prevented Leslie from remembering me.

  Leslie’s gaze stayed on him as she said, “Jon and Gayle. I’m so glad you could come.” She showed us where to stash our jackets and my purse. A hushed request to slip off our shoes or put on booties before treading upon her snowy white carpet followed. Barefoot suited me fine.

  “There’s a full bar and hors d’oeuvres table set up in the dining room. At seven thirty, we’ll eat dinner and enjoy live music out by the pool. You probably know everyone here or at least their lesser halves.” She tittered at her own joke, floating off in a cloud of Estee Lauder perfume to answer the door again.

  Marilyn stood at the bar, her back to me.

  In the living room, Nicky and Jayna sat, chatting. Behind them stood Scarlett.

  Nicky squealed Jon’s name and scurried toward us, attaching herself to his side. I left him with a wink and headed in Scarlett’s direction. Her husband, James, I recognized from photos—a huge man with a thick neck and a bawdy laugh.

  Tony, another of my coworkers, and his girlfriend made it to Scarlett’s side just after I did. “Howdy gang,” he said. “I’d like to introduce you to my date, Jillian. Jillian, this is Scarlett and Gayle, and I’m assuming this fellow here is with Scarlett.”

  “Why do you assume he’s with me?” Scarlett asked with one eyebrow cocked. “How do you know he’s not Gayle’s date?”

  I smiled at James. He winked at me. Scarlett must have told him all about Tony even if she’d never told Tony about James.

  Tony sputtered, likely trying to offer a reason other than ‘because he’s African-American like you’.

  “I must have shown you James’s picture before, right Tony?” Scarlett showed him more pity than I would have.

  “Yeah. You did. One day at lunch.” He darted his gaze from James to Jillian, who squirmed almost as much as Tony.

  I peeked over at Jon and Nicky. They held identical beer bottles, and Nicky’s hand rested on his arm as she hee-hawed over something one of them said. I doubted it was that funny, whatever it was.

  Marilyn and Libby stood close together, engaged in a bubbly conversation. I thought Marilyn saw something worthy in me, and I wanted her as a mentor. She’d had a meteoric rise at Anderson-Blakely, earning the job of Senior Manager in less than five years. The two women smiled as I joined them.

  “Libby, have you met Gayle Lindley yet?” Marilyn asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” Libby said as I extended my hand. “Very nice to meet you, Gayle.”

  Cosmetics and other girly topics dominated our chitchat. I tried to be charming, but the real warmth, the real smiles and friendliness remained between Marilyn and Libby.

  “How long have you two known each other?” I had to ask.

  Libby giggled. “Marilyn and I go way back—to our college days at Southern Methodist University, in fact.”

  “Libby and I were housemates for four years,” Marilyn said as she cast a sidelong, almost wistful glance at Libby.

  “What year did you guys graduate?”

  “What’s it been, Libby, eleven years already?”

  Libby nodded.

  “You’ve only been with Anderson-Blakely for five years. What did you do before?”

  “Oh, this and that. Everything and nothing,” Marilyn flipped her hand as if it were no big deal.

  “She’s being far too modest, Gayle,” Libby said. “Marilyn spent three years at Harvard Law, then two years interning at the White House.”

  “Wow!” I was all the more determined to crawl under her wing. “Why’d you go into auditing and not law or at least tax accounting? And why leave DC? That sounds like such a cool place to work.”

  Marilyn smiled, but her eyes conveyed a different emotion. Regret?

  I’d probably asked too much already.

  “Working in politics wasn’t my style,” she said. “I needed something … a little less dramatic, a little slower, and I wanted to come home.” She smiled at Libby.

  The focal point of her smile angled away before moving down to her feet and returning her attention to me. “Gayle. You don’t have a drink, yet. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “Thanks, Libby, but I’ll wait a bit.” I turned for one-on-one time with Marilyn just as the hostess for the evening’s command performance joined us. Leslie had come over right when I wanted to talk to Marilyn more about her work in DC.

  “Gwen, surely we can tempt you with some wine or a cocktail.” Leslie said. “If you’re a teetotaler, perhaps a Coke, juice or tea?” She wore a mantle of politeness, but I reminded myself she was still the same woman who had been rude to me because I was a nobody to her.

  “I’m good. If I start later, I last longer, otherwise I’m likely to fall asleep or embarrass myself since my alcohol tolerance is ridiculously low.” I chuckled and shrugged.

  She gave me a crisp smile that, like Marilyn’s, stopped short of her eyes. Without an ounce of sincerity, she asked Marilyn, “How’s everything going for you?”

  “Everything’s great.” Marilyn matched Leslie’s feigned politeness. “Her name is Gayle, by the way, not Gwen.” She took a sip of her drink but held Leslie’s gaze.

  “Your home is gorgeous,” I said to break the crust of ice that formed.

  “Thank you … Gayle. Would you like a mini tour?”

  “I’d love one.”

  Marilyn escaped to the bar, where Libby stood speaking with Bob.

  As Leslie turned to lead me through the living room, we nearly collided with Jon and Nicky.

  Jon directed an SOS glance my way.

  “Leslie’s giving me a tour. You guys want to join us?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Jon said far too eagerly for a straight guy.

  “Me too!” Nicky echoed.

  “House tour if anyone wants to tag along!” Leslie’s announcement went out to the whole room.

  Our group swelled with the addition of Kenneth and his wife, Darla, plus Scarlett, Jayna, and others. After a few introductions, we headed upstairs.

  The Turners had nine-year-old twin daughters, who had bedrooms fit for the princesses they no doubt were. One room was pink, the other lilac, and each boasted hand-painted murals on the walls. The girls were conveniently at a sleepover, but there were plenty of pictures of them to serve as proxy.

  A third girl’s room belonged to Bob’s sixteen-year-old daughter from a previous marriage. With its elegant knick-knacks and artwork and the notable absence of anything teen, it would have more aptly been described as a guest bedroom.

  Leslie next led us to the master suite.

  Only in my dreams could I have imagined a bedroom so large and a bathroom so grand. It could have been lifted from a Texas bordello with its deep red walls and gold accents. Everyone except Kenneth ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over it. He seemed more interested in peering into the odd nooks and crannies than in the room itself.

  Typical detail-oriented accountant, probably checking to make sure the walls are at precise right angles.

  “What do you think of this suite?” Jon whispered in my ear.

  “I’m wondering where the ceiling mirror is.” I hadn’t noticed him make his way over to me until he spoke. “Where’s Nicky?”

  “Checking out the bathroom. She’s never seen a bidet or a multi-station shower before. Please help me get away from her.” His forlorn expression would have won any woman’s he
art.

  I chuckled and patted him on the arm. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll protect you.”

  Leslie shuffled the group into an adjoining home gym, where cardio and weight machines took one side with a wall of mirrors and ballet barre on the other.

  “Did you know Leslie was a prima ballerina?” I whispered to Jon.

  He coughed, covering a chuckle.

  Leslie spoke fondly of the room as we lingered. No sooner did we start moving than Nicky latched back on to Jon.

  I shrugged from where I stood on the fringe of the group after he mimed a tragedy mask. He’d survive until I could save him after the tour.

  I backed up to lean against the oversized treadmill with its TV screen—bigger than the one in my living room.

  Something small and sharp dug into my heel. Recoiling from the spot, I spied a shiny gold object wedged between the mat and the baseboard.

  I scooped up a man’s cufflink. I didn’t know men still wore them except with formal attire—which, thankfully, no one had worn to Bob’s party. Gold with diamonds, it had to be worth more than what I earned over several months. I laid it on top of the stereo as we finished with a quick peek at Leslie’s office, a home cinema and the laundry room.

  • • •

  At dinner, Leslie seated Doug to my left and Darla to my right, and what matching pillars of social joy they turned out to be.

  Darla asked me if I played tennis, and when I said ‘no’, she turned and spoke for the entirety of dinner with Bob who did.

  Libby and Leslie sat across from me. Libby tried to include me in the conversation, but Leslie unfailingly steered the topics to those that excluded me.

  I exchanged a few ‘poor me’ looks with Jon as Nicky all but cuddled up next to him. A Texas gentleman, Jon would never intentionally be rude to a woman.

  Doug brushed his leg against mine more frequently than accidental, but less than I expected. Passing him the coffee pot, I said, “Whoa, heavy and hot. Hope I don’t spill any.”

  The leg grazes ended.

  That marked the high point of Doug’s and my next to nothing conversation and left me with my sole dinner companion—my wine glass.

  By the evening’s end, Nicky had tried her predatory best to cut Jon off from the herd. She’d isolated him and begun prepping for a Jon feast.