Page 32 of At Her Pleasure
She gave him a really? look. He grinned before he stepped off the running board. “Saving lives, Mistress. Don’t want any distracted drivers out there.”
Rolling her eyes, she hit the button to raise the window. As she put the truck in gear, she suppressed the idiotic urge to wave. Instead she drove away without taking the second look she wanted, though she did pull off a covert glance in the side view mirror.
He was still watching her. It stirred pleasure within her, but it was mixed with uneasiness. He’d picked up that she was lying about doing CNC, and how his needs meshed with hers made it possible he understood the reasons.
Yet she’d decided to do it, and he’d agreed to be the bottom for it.
It wasn’t a big deal. Tomorrow, she’d tell him she’d thought about it and decided no. But for tonight, she’d think about all the things she could do to him, his beautiful body and captivating mind, if she could inflict whatever she wanted on both.
* * *
She decided not to go home. She went into work. She kept a change of clothes in her truck, since it wasn’t the first time she’d spent the night somewhere else.
Thomas Rose Associates was housed in a three-story, ten thousand square foot home built in 1860 in New Orleans’ Garden District. It had been designed by Henry Howard, the same architect for the tourist magnet Corn Stalk house.
She took a shower in the full bath on the third floor, where her office was, and used her bag of toiletries to do her make-up and hair. She decided to wear Mick’s shirt open over her sleeveless fitted shirt and charcoal gray slacks. No, she wasn’t doing the girly sniffing thing. Not exactly. She let herself have a passing whiff, to remember more acutely the taste of his sweat on her lips, the musk of his climax, the heat of his skin.
When she went into her office, she examined the voodoo doll Mick had given her again. She remembered Cissy’s crooked smile, the vaguely out of focus eyes that still seemed to see so much.
On her desk, Cyn had a several stress toys. One was heart-shaped, given to her by Sy as a joke. The other was a voodoo doll. She could put her thumb on its stomach and make the rubber eyes pop out, back in, back out. A good stand-in for customers or others she might actually want to squeeze until their eyes popped. She put the skateboard doll next to it for company, packed away the thoughts about it that would interfere with productivity, and got to work.
She reviewed each project team’s progress, sending them direction for adjustments and course corrections. She verified she had what she needed for her client meetings and follow-ups today, and for the rest of the week. When she heard movement below and coffee smells wafted up, she saw it was seven o’clock.
Leaving her office, she headed down the spiral front stairs to the kitchen break area. Through the crescent-shaped window over the front door, she could see the long armed ancient live oaks that embraced the building. During the spring, the azalea bushes were so heavy with blooms one had to look to find green leaves. Benches, fountains and statuary were scattered over the black iron-fenced grounds. The more outdoorsy staff enjoyed working in those spaces. When Cyn glanced out her own front facing window, she’d often see Vera there on her laptop.
The five-woman executive team had their offices on the top floor, while the project and sales teams occupied the first and second. The foyer was a spacious area containing a large reception desk. The staircase curved along the right wall.
The colorful Dianne Parks painting behind the desk depicted the French Quarter in bold colors. Carriage horses patiently waiting for passengers, street players and vendors scattered around them, historic building facades in the backdrop.
As work environments went, it was pretty top notch. When she thought of how she’d gotten here, Cyn always felt incredulity, combined with an irritating little poke from Fate. See? Without my twists and turns in your life, where would you be? Since she was in a reasonably good mood, she didn’t tell it to fuck off.
Cyn had been working in a dealership as a service manager. Her boss had called her into his office to ream her for not overselling services and padding maintenance visits with things the clients didn’t need. He didn’t care how much long-term or new business that lost them. People smart enough to know they were being screwed didn’t hesitate to post reviews complaining about it.
When he dismissed that, saying short term gains kept them employed, she told him he might be okay with treating people like shit, but she wasn’t. He’d fired her. “Get the fuck out.”
When she marched through the waiting room, head held high, Ros had been sitting in it, dressed in a tailored business suit that likely cost six months’ rent for Cyn’s ratty apartment. Her silver and white Jimmy Choo heels would have caught any woman’s attention, while her legs would snare any man’s. Her expression suggested she’d caught a good bit of the exchange. Cyn managed a barely polite nod when their eyes met, but kept going.
A few minutes later, while Cyn was waiting at the bus stop, Ros rolled up next to her. “I decided to take my business elsewhere,” she said. “I assume you have a place you’d recommend?”
Cyn gave her a wary look. She was in a pisser of a mood, but before her tongue could get her into trouble, Ros added, “I’d also like to talk to you about a job. Will you join me for coffee so we can discuss it?”
Ros had taken them to a diner she liked. The owner had personally come out of the kitchen to tell her about the specials. “We have a good BLT today.”
He was a handsome, bullish-looking man with tawny skin, dark eyes and a good smile. His short hair was dark and thick. “Are you making it yourself, Fernando?” Ros asked.
“You know I am.”
“Then that’s what I want. But you’ll be the one to bring it to the table.”
A light smile played on his lips, his brown eyes heating. “Of course, ma’am.”
After the waitress brought them coffee, Ros took a sip before she spoke. “I’m from New York originally. I recognize a Jersey girl when I hear one. How many jobs have you had since you came to New Orleans?”
“Six.”
Cyn’s lack of degree, and probable inexperience in whatever kind of work Ros did, meant a job offer would be entry level. Cyn was fine with that. She’d proven six times how fast she could rise in the ranks. To get hired, Cyn had learned to adapt to her audience. If Ros had a concern about the number of jobs, Cyn would spout some convincing bullshit about how she’d been trying to find her niche, broaden her experience base, to bring her best to the job she really wanted. Blah, blah, blah.
Most potential employers didn’t want to hear the truth about why she was fired as often as she was hired. And up until now, what the job was hadn’t really mattered, beyond being legal, keeping her fed and off the streets, and bringing the usual futile hope she’d be dealing with fewer assholes like the prick who’d just fired her.