The P.U.R.E. Read online

  Rather than watch him suffer, I insinuated myself between them and linked my arm with Jon’s. “Sorry, Nicky. I need to have a quick word with Jon here … about some boring Anderson-Blakely stuff.”

  Nicky’s main course shrugged as I tugged him away by the arm. She huffed and narrowed her eyes.

  I only meant to rescue him from her but kept going until we slipped into Bob’s home office.

  Jon closed the door behind us.

  Somewhere in those ten paces, I forgot why I needed to whisk him not just away from Nicky but into a private setting.

  “Thanks, Gayle.” Jon hitched a hip on the edge of Bob’s desk. “I never thought she’d be so persistent.”

  My head spun a little. I’d overestimated my alcohol tolerance by drinking a third glass of wine.

  “You’re weckum.” I blinked a few times and tried again. “Well-come.” I ambled over to him, snickering at how I’d botched such a simple word.

  “Gayle? How much have you had to drink?”

  “Nosso mush.” I swayed and thrust three fingers toward his face. I changed my finger positions, pantomiming holding a thimble-sized object.

  He stood and held me by the elbows. “Maybe I should take you home.”

  I stared up at his handsome face. I had to kiss him. A distant voice in my head warned, No, no, think chica, think! Remember where you’re at, but a much louder one urged, Do it! Kiss him, here, now! Do it!

  “You, Jon Cripps, are looking very … kissy … kiss-bull.”

  Traitorous arms slid up his chest and locked around his neck. His back stiffened, but I would not be denied. My body pressed and molded to his. He relaxed but didn’t touch me.

  Neither did he step back.

  I pulled his head down to mine and kissed his lips, parting mine against his. He separated his, too, the tips of our tongues touching and curling together.

  What am I doing?

  As if I’d been stung, I recoiled and released him. A faint pink stain bloomed on his cheeks. A wash of green had to have flooded mine as nausea clenched at my stomach.

  I ran to the powder room two doors from where we stood, grabbing my purse on the way. Good thing I hurried, because I threw up as soon as the lock clicked.

  4

  Throwing up was a good news/bad news proposition. On the down side, death did a jig in my gut, its aftertaste wicked foul. It also, however, brought instant relief.

  Someone tapped on the door. “Gayle? You okay?” Jon asked.

  I hoped he hadn’t heard me retching. “Yeah. Just give me another minute.” I rinsed my mouth with a dab of toothpaste I had in my purse. A splash of cold water to my face, a fresh coat of lip gloss, and I appeared about ninety percent sober. Inside, I barely nudged the fifty percent mark.

  I emerged but avoided eye contact.

  “I’ll say our goodbyes and tell them you’re not feeling so hot,” he whispered as he took my arm. “Wait here … no, sit on this bench. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t go anywhere.”

  I looked up at him and nodded like a penitent child in a time out.

  • • •

  Jon was gone for an eternity, and I worried Nicky had snapped him up. Nothing I could do given my challenge to remain vertical and a fermented cesspool in my belly threatening to make another appearance.

  He chuckled and shook his head as he returned. “Come on, you lush. I can’t take you anywhere.”

  Leslie rushed over with a cunning smile on her face. “I hope your illness is short-lived, Gayle. Thank you for coming, Jon.”

  Wasn’t she the perfect hostess? No doubt she’d tell Bob all about my ignoble escape. He’d add drunkard to my growing list of vices.

  Kenneth and Darla Petrovich claimed the large black Mercedes parked next to Jon’s Porsche, their hostile voices ripping the fabric of an otherwise peaceful autumn evening even before they shut the doors. Clearly, trouble had checked in to the Petrovich hotel.

  While Jon drove me home, I vowed to make casual conversation, to prove my sobriety, and regain some normalcy. “Do you think Leslie and Darla are friends?”

  “Kenneth and Bob’s wives? Not at all.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Hmm.”

  “What does your ‘hmm’ mean?”

  “Nothing.” I wasn’t in the mood to explain myself.

  “Do you know why Marilyn left so early?” Jon asked.

  “No. Did you know she and Libby lived together for four years when they went to SMU? And did you know Marilyn has a law degree from Harvard and interned at the White House?”

  “How did Marilyn end up at Anderson-Blakely?”

  “She said she needed a slower pace and was homesick,” I said.

  “Marilyn doesn’t strike me as a slow down, homesick kind of person.”

  “Me neither. Oh, and Marilyn and Leslie don’t get along at all.”

  “You were busy being nosy, weren’t you?” He lobbed a grin my way, cushioning the blow of his jab—a good sign. Perhaps if we kept our topics lighthearted, he’d overlook my drunken lapse.

  “Somebody had to, since you took on entertaining Miss Nicky Sanchez to keep her our helpful Aphrodite ally.” I gently punched his arm and immediately regretted touching him. “Way to take one for the team, Jon.”

  “You threw me defenseless into her clutches for the first half hour and at dinner too. I had no intentions of being selfless; you sacrificed me for the team.” He turned his head and smiled.

  “Poor Jon. Death by adoration. I did get you out early, so that’s good. You have to admit that. Where was my help sitting between Doug and Darla?”

  “Impulse challenged?”

  I filled in the holes to Jon’s swiss cheese–like question. “A few deliberate leg grazes, but otherwise he was tolerable.” Doug had behaved better than I had.

  “His mind must have been on something else,” Jon said before falling silent.

  Lit billboards flashed by as we drove, and I tried to steel my nerve as the silence stretched out. The elephant in the room trumpeted for attention. The kiss. My lips on his. Did I use my tongue? Oh God, I don’t even want to think about it.

  I shrank in my seat as fresh brain cells replaced their fallen comrades, the memories coming into sharper focus.

  He hadn’t resisted or shoved me away.

  I massaged my temples. “Somebody had way too much to drink.”

  “You had three glasses of wine over three hours and nothing before dinner. I’m amazed your tolerance is so low. I’m equally amazed at how quickly you seem to be sobering up.”

  “My metabolism is super freaky. I’m a cheap drunk who rarely needs coffee or cold showers to sober up.” I pondered those three glasses for a second. “How did you know how much I had to drink?”

  “You told me three when I asked,” he said. “Correction. You held up three fingers. Did you mean to hold up more?”

  “When did you ask?”

  “In Bob’s office.”

  “Oh.” Shit. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

  “I also overheard you tell Leslie you couldn’t handle alcohol well, so I kind of kept my eye on you.”

  “Well … uh, that was very … fraternal of you.” And I repaid your nobleness by slobbering all over you like a pathetic barfly.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The uncomfortable silence returned for an encore.

  “Listen, Jon, I’m … really sorry … and embarrassed about what I did … back there … in Bob’s office. I was drunk and acting crazy. It didn’t mean anything. I don’t want things to be awkward between us now.” I dropped my head unable to face him.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught him stealing a quick glance but said nothing. Determined not to babble to fill the void, I agonized during the silence as I waited for him to speak,

  “Why don’t we both pretend nothing happened and chalk the incident up to a drunken lapse by a lightweight.” He laughed softly.

  I did the same, but neither one of us sounded jovial. We’d glossed
over my behavior, and though our agreement offered relief, its strength was uneasy and fragile.

  My track record with men stunk. The few relationships I’d had since high school flamed out almost as soon as they began. I liked Jon, a lot, and couldn’t bear the idea that one day he’d dump me if we ever got involved. Worse than losing him as a boyfriend would be losing his friendship. As a newcomer to Dallas, I didn’t have many.

  Jon turned into the parking lot of my building, and I jumped out of his car with a simple thank you. No chance to say or do anything more.

  I bolted up the stairs into my apartment and pressed up against the door, listening for his footsteps.

  How stupid am I?

  We’d agreed to put what I did behind us.

  Minutes dragged before I heard his car change gears and rev as he drove away.

  I released the breath I held and turned on the lights. The semi-late hour, the alcohol and the stress of the evening had me collapsing on my bed.

  An incoming text message chimed. Given the lateness of the hour, the sender could only be one person.

  Leave me alone, Doug.

  More chimes from more messages followed.

  I had no compulsion to read them. I knew, without looking, who the sender was and what filth he’d probably written. He was the only one who’d text me at that time of night.

  I dragged myself to the bathroom to brush my teeth, stripped off my clothes, and crashed for the night. More messages followed, but the sounds faded as I drifted off.

  • • •

  The next morning, my cell indicated four text messages awaited me. I must have dreamed the chiming tones of scores of others. Only the last two were from Doug, and they were, of course, his usual shtick, full of f-bombs and lewd suggestions. Coupled with a mild hangover, his messages made me physically ill.

  Jon had sent the other two right after he dropped me off. I opened his first text.

  Jon: “Gayle, even though the kiss was a mistake, it was the highlight of my evening.”

  He sent the second on the heels of the first.

  Jon: “Please disregard my previous text. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  5

  My brief success in inching closer to Marilyn at the Turner’s party had planted the tiny hope that maybe she could help me with Doug. I didn’t trust anyone but a woman, and a woman in power like Marilyn could help me gauge the wisdom of reporting him.

  I knocked on her office door early Monday morning. “Hi, Marilyn. Can I talk to you about something?”

  She set down her pen and smiled. “Of course. Come on in and have a seat.” When I shut the door behind me, she lifted an eyebrow. She also flipped over the papers she had been reading.

  I launched into the speech I’d rehearsed in front of my mirror. “I need to tell you about Doug. He’s been saying inappropriate things to me, and sometimes he touches me. I’ve told him to stop, but he hasn’t.” Whew. I stated my problem without stumbling.

  “He’s been sexually harassing you?”

  “Yes.” I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “For how long?” She picked up her pen and found a nearby pad but wrote nothing.

  “Since the first planning meeting here in the office with you and Bob. Doug brushed up against me then. He rubbed up against me in the file room at Aphrodite and groped my leg in the conference room there. He’s also been sending me really crude text messages.”

  She leaned back in her chair before she asked, “Did you save the texts?”

  “Yes. Can I show you one so you can see what I’m talking about? It’s kind of graphic.” I removed my cell phone from my pocket and slid it across her desk. I’d already retrieved one that made oblique references to the Aphrodite audit before I entered her office.

  She grimaced before pushing my phone away. “That’s disgusting and disturbing. But it says ‘Anonymous’.”

  “I know, but I know it’s him.” They had to be from him. He’d requested a list of all our cell phone numbers—strictly for business purposes, he’d said. “I want it to stop. What should I do?”

  “Did anyone see him rub against you either time?”

  “No.”

  She set the pen down. “Has anyone else heard him make inappropriate comments to you?”

  “No. He’s not stupid. He only bothers me when we’re alone.”

  Marilyn nodded before focusing on the wall behind me. She sighed and redirected her gaze toward me. “I hate to tell you this, Gayle, but you’ve got nothing. You can certainly file a formal complaint with Human Resources, but at this point, it’s your word against his, and with no witnesses, you’ll end up hurting yourself more than Doug. I say this woman to woman, not manager to staff, you understand?”

  “What? I can’t believe this.” I flung myself against the back of my chair. The nervous knot in my stomach leaped into my throat, threatening to choke me as Marilyn’s words sank in.

  “Did you contact your cell phone company to get a trace or to block the texts?”

  “Yes, but the texts come from a different account every time. They can’t block every possible email address or phone number. The only thing I can do is get a new number and hope he doesn’t get hold of it.”

  On a deep sigh, Marilyn said, “Here’s the sad truth. This is a man’s world, and we’re the ones who must fit in, not the other way around. We have to avoid arousing unwanted sexual interest, we have to dodge advances, and we shouldn’t rock the boat unless the harassment is in-your-face offensive and indisputable. It’s not fair,” she shrugged, “but that’s how it is, especially with Doug.”

  I wanted to scream. “What year is this? Arousing unwanted sexual interest? I’ve done nothing more than breathe the same air as him. Why is this jerk’s word better than mine? His reputation is well known. Even Scarlett warned me about him.”

  “His word is better than yours because he’s a man. He’s been here longer. You’re brand new, and your reputation has suffered a few … bruises.” She extended a finger from her fist as she rattled off each excuse. “The biggest reason of all—he has an indulgent mentor who has taken care of this sort of thing for him before.”

  That had not been the kind of high five I wanted.

  “Before?” Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.

  “Yes. Before.”

  “Son of a bitch. Excuse my French.”

  “Yes, he is, and you’re excused.” A wry smile made a brief appearance.

  I slumped in my chair. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “Get witnesses—lots of them. But not a co-worker you’re romantically involved with since his credibility would be impaired.”

  “I’m not dating anyone here.”

  She dropped her chin, brows raised and regarded me with an air of disbelief. “Someone mentioned you were.”

  I sat up straight again.

  “Word of advice. Don’t mix work and romance, especially given your current situation. You’ll kill your case in a heartbeat.”

  “I don’t know who told you anything, but I’m not dating anyone right now, let alone a co-worker.” I hoped my denial hadn’t come off too Bill Clinton–esque.

  “Okay. You get my drift then about the witnesses? As independent as possible, preferably male, and preferably multiple sources.”

  I blew a puff of air out. “I understand you.”

  “Don’t let this get you down, Gayle. You’re a valuable employee. He might give you grief while you’re on the Aphrodite audit, but he’ll probably stop once you move on to your next project. I can try to keep you from being assigned to his jobs in the future.”

  I stood to leave, my sense of impotence greater than upon my arrival.

  “Remember, he has no power to get you fired unless you give it to him—something you should never forget. Come talk to me anytime, even if you just want to vent, okay?”

  A photo on her side wall distracted me as I nodded. I walked over to examin
e it more closely, scanning the women’s faces as I tried to find Marilyn’s.

  “Is this your sorority pledge class?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She took the spot to my side. “This is me.” She tapped on the far right side of the photo in the front row. Her hair was shorter, and she wore hardly any makeup. I might not have recognized her had she not pointed herself out.

  I smiled at her. “You look much better now. I like your hair longer.” Why’d I say that? She’ll think I’m rude.

  “Oh, here’s Libby.” Libby Jameson stood next to Marilyn in the photo, Marilyn’s arm around her. “Wow, this woman is familiar too. Is this—” I tapped the face of a woman in the row in front of them.

  “Leslie Turner. She was Leslie Dalrymple back then.”

  “Small world, huh?” I said.

  “Too small.” She returned to her desk and sat down.

  I took that as my cue and headed for the door. “Thanks, Marilyn, for listening and for the advice.”

  She’d buried her head in her work before I even opened the door.

  • • •

  When on our home turf at Anderson-Blakely, Jon and I worked in adjacent cubicles outside of Marilyn’s office. He lifted his head when I emerged.

  I shook mine.

  Doug had pinned a snide note on my seat back reminding me to update my time on the budget report. Notes he put his name to were never polite, but neither were they inappropriate. He knew his public boundaries well.

  I collapsed in my chair and dropped my head into my hands. How did Marilyn get wind of a rumor I was dating a co-worker? I assumed she meant Jon since he was the only man I spent any kind of time with at work or otherwise. We didn’t hang out outside of the office, except for the occasional Friday night happy hour and the Turner’s party, but those were work-related too—sort of. Had someone seen us enter Bob’s home office, or had Doug spread lies?

  Whatever. Screw it. They were only rumors.

  Thirty minutes later, rustling, like a jacket sliding on, came from Jon’s cubicle.

  “Lunchtime?” I grabbed my purse to join him. We almost always ate lunch together if we both happened to be working in the Anderson-Blakely office.