Getting caught reading Fifty Shades of Grey
in the parking lot at work wasn't the best way to meet her boss. A
boss she didn't know she had. A boss who now had the job she had been
waiting to apply for (and win) for the past year.
So Lydia
Charles was having a very bad day. And it was only 7:32 a.m.
Tap tap tap. She looked up, startled, to
find a pair of bright green eyes, shaded by his hand, peering in her
the window of her little red Honda Fit. He caught the book cover and
smirked. Oh, screw off, she thought, shoving her car key in
the ignition and turning it on so she could roll down the window. As
if it weren't bad enough being caught reading Mommy Porn (and she
wasn't even a mom), her last fifteen minutes of freedom before
enslavement as a corporate drone were being bothered by some
anonymous guy.
Dark brown hair with a nice wave to it and those
crazy-green eyes. Roman nose. Broad shoulders set off by one hand on
his forehead, one on his hip, making his forearms pop a bit, the
muscles from neck to shoulder joint stretching like an athlete's. It
was like looking at one of those guys on television, an actor in a
television show who you watch not for the plot, but for the eye candy
with a spark of smarts and wit. If he told her he was a firefighter
or a detective, she'd believe him. He had the look of a man who takes
care of himself because he has to in order to function well at his
hands-on job.
He works out, she surmised as the window
scrolled down. Boring business casual uniform of Dockers and a button
down shirt. Couldn't see his shoes but she guessed something from
Lands' End.
Middle management.
Which was one step above her. Gritting her teeth,
she wondered what this was about.
“Hi. Could you please move your car?” A deep
baritone voice was way too much authority gripped her gut, an
internal reaction out of proportion to his request. That voice. He
sounded like a ship's captain, or a commander in combat. Or the shift
leader at Denny's from college, the asshole who thought that he was
competing in the restaurant Olympics for every shift and expected the
moon for $2.31 plus tips.
And yet she couldn't help but begin to react, the
breathless “Yes” nearly popping out involuntarily. Holding back,
she wasn't even breathing for fear she would comply like some sort of
skittish puppy, acting in deference to the incredibly unfounded
request. Command, Demand? Who orders someone out of their parking
spot? He smiled, the tight look of a man evaluating what to say next
as seconds ticked by and she did nothing but stare at him.
Say something, Lydia. Say something.
Anything. Don't let him undermine your confidence. Why does he need
your parking spot?
“Why?” she asked, carefully cultivating a
neutral tone, one of reasonableness without too much inquiry, as if
she didn't give a fuck what he wanted but would be polite about it.
She invoked a midwestern tone, casually acquired from watching plenty of national shows, the voice of newscasters and documentary voice overs for sexual
harassment and government contract reporting requirements videos.
Perfect.
“Because it's mine.” He threw a thumb toward
the top of the skyscraper. “Head office assigned it to me.”
Not the reaction she expected. She could guess his
next move, predictable among these middle-management types, like a
real-life version of Gary Cole's character in Office Space. Next, he
would lean on the car and do that douchey “Yeah, well, I really
need you to...” spiel.
Lydia was having none of it. She might be just an
administrative assistant, the corporate equivalent of a dishwasher or
a toll taker, but two years of this was enough. A master's degree in
Gender Studies might be useless in the workplace, but here in the
parking lot it meant everything. Backing down wasn't happening. He
had no right to order her around and, by God, she wasn't going to let
some stranger waltz into the parking lot before she'd seen had her
morning coffee and kick her out of her damn place.
“Why would the head office give you my parking
spot? They're numbered.” She pointed to the sign defiantly. His
face remained neutral.
Instead of leaning on the car, he reached one
golden arm in and aimed for her right hand. Of course he was
perfectly, evenly tanned. Of course. “I'm Matt Jones. The
new Director of Social Media. And this is my numbered spot.”
Director of Social Media? “But, but, what? There
is no Director of Social Media job here. Not yet, at least. They're
announcing it soon, and – ”
He cut her off with that same commanding tone.
“It's been filled. By me. And parking,” he shook his head and
looked around with an expression of exasperation, “is a ridiculous
problem here, so while I respect your need to stay and, uh, read, I
need this spot.” Leaning forward, his eyes twinkled as he smiled,
trying to charm her, his voice shifting from commanding to smooth.
It was working. The scent of his aftershave filled
the car's interior. Musk and man and something with spice, an
expensive scent that was far too sophisticated for a guy who was one
parking spot ahead of her in the food chain at Stohlman Industries.
He held her gaze for too long, letting silence hang between them.
He was what her friend Krista called a “playah.”
And oh, how Lydia wanted to be played. She hated
herself for it, but right now Mr. Director of Social Media, a guy who
had, apparently, just gotten the job she had spent the better part of
two years trying to prepare for, was stealing her parking spot, too.
All he needed to do next was piss on her skirt and
he could achieve the trifecta of humiliation.
And a part of her liked it.
“You are telling me that HR gave you the
Director's job and handed off my parking spot?” she squeaked. The
voice that came out of her sounded foreign. Tame. Rattled. She
brushed a stray lock of her dark brown hair and wished she'd spent
more time on her appearance this morning. After a quick yoga session
she just showered, threw her hair in a quick up-do, brushed on blush
and a little mascara and tossed on her version of administrative
business casual: a loose, flowing J. Jill outfit she got off the
clearance rack and her ancient Danskins. She looked like a preschool
teacher at a posh tot place instead of an ambitious, up-and-coming
corporate do-bee vying for the Director of –
Ah, hell.
He pulled back and smiled, a look of triumph and
mischief on his face. “Now you get it. And I didn't even have to
buy you a coffee.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you seemed to be a bit slow there, and
I figured it might be caffeine deprivation. It is 7:30 a.m., after
all.” Half his mouth turned up in a grin as his brow furrowed.
“Then again, maybe I interrupted you at the wrong time during your
reading.” Biting his upper lip, Mr. Asshole Matt Jones had the
balls to hide a laugh. As if she were supposed to be embarrassed
reading Fifty Shades. As if she cared what he thought. As if she were
Anastasia Steele. As if –
“Let me clear a few things up for you, Matt,”
she announced. Finally. There she was. The real Lydia, the one who
didn't take shit like this. Attagirl. “First of all, I don't
care what HR did with the parking situation. I won't take your word
for it, because for all I know you're some creepy guy pulling a scam
on me and if I get out of my car you'll take me to your dug out hole
and lower lotion to me in a bucket, and three months from now you'll
mail dehydrated parts of my body to my mother.”
She took a deep breath and continued. “Second,
if you really are the Director of Social Media, kicking your direct
report out of her parking spot when you haven't even started your
first day of work shows such extraordinarily terrible business
instinct that I suspect you won't be around long enough to qualify
for the matching 401k funding through your precious head office.”
Eyebrows arched, now he did lean away. And cross
his arms. Staring her down? She stared right back, working too hard
to control her breath, trying not to let him see how rattled she was.
He looked like a young Anderson Cooper. But straight.
Oh please let him be straight, she thought,
then mentally slapped herself. Where did that come from?
He leaned in the window and reached for a strand
of her hair. “Sorry, babe. Chianti and fava beans aren't on the
menu. And if I were going to turn you into something edible, I
wouldn't choose a dehydrator as my electronic item of choice.” His
eyes surveyed her body, not with wanton lust or the gaudy need of a
complete jerk, but with a practiced eye, taking his time as if he
were the king of the world. As if he owned her.
As if he owned his time. And boy did he take it,
seeming to document her full breasts, her nipped waist, the soft swells over the waistband of the tight
skirt that stretched across her knees in her seat, shoes kicked off
and hose covering her pedicured toes.
She could feel him note the
seam of her panties, like a collector of fine wines, or of horses, as
if she were a specimen. The V between her breasts pinkened, her lungs
filled with the scent of his skin, as if eager to inhaled his dust,
the lines between his eyes, the light freckles on his cheeks, the
intelligence in his irises.
He was cataloging her. Taking inventory.
Until her own, defiant gaze caught his and she
realized he wasn't objectifying her. She was letting herself think
that, but what this guy, this Matt Jones, this interloper and usurper
of jobs, was really doing was appreciating her.
And that was way, way more threatening than
being demeaned.
“See you at the office and don't forget to wash
your hands when you're done with that.” He let go of her lock and
pointed at the book. Turning on one heel, he sauntered off, his tight
ass evoking rage and a swoon in her that nearly made her growl with
impotent rage and lust.
The day was not going well at all as she stewed in
her Red Car of Pain.
