"Let's make a deal."
He pulls back into his own seat, lowering the music as he evidently plans to go on a long explanation. I'm left quivering in my seat like a chump, adding further insult to injury as I discover my inner degeneracy breaking through. I can't resist. I glance down at a place where I shouldn't, then quickly return my gaze to his eyes. My mind is wandering a million different places it shouldn't.
"You give me your number and every, say, Friday, we go out and watch a movie together?"
Despite the offer, it feels as though there's a mile of distance between us right now. I'm left wondering what's in this for him. If we're at a movie, we can't exactly chat. There's no information to trick out of me or scandalous activity to get up to. Is it possible he just likes movies?
I awkwardly grab my phone, ready to type in his number. My head hangs low as anxiety riddles my body. When he recites his number, I call him and see if the number works. It does, and his ringtone sounds loudly. It's the signature WHITEOUT jingle from their commercials. If I had my head on straighter, I'd call that move arrogant.
He picks up the call and smirks.
"It's a date."
---
"Rodger Dapple sent you this? Oh, fuck."
Only one day to edit a 30 minute documentary made for television? Unheard of. I knew I was about to be sent garbage. I skip through it, entirely unimpressed by everything playing out on the laptop screen before me.
"It's only the first draft, he's just trying to identify the feel of what we're going for," my assistant attempts to remain positive.
I shake my head before sipping my morning coffee. It took two days to convince Rodger to work with us, and it seems as though he wasn't truly committed to the job.
"Tell him the whole thing needs to be redone. No overused stock assets like this, we need to use the footage sent by the production company. For overlays, make sure he's connected with the art department and make sure he knows they'll make anything for him, he just needs to ask. He has a lot of creative control over this project and he should be taking it seriously."
My assistant stares at me nervously. It's clear to everyone I've been on edge lately. Papa has been blowing up my phone and I haven't been picking up. If he has something to say, he should come and speak to me directly. It's not as if he doesn't have the time nowadays.
"... I'm sorry. Ignore that, it makes sense to use stock assets as placeholders," I grumble, resting my head in my hands. "Can you make sure to confirm it's all just placeholders though? Get Monty to oversee this if you're feeling like your hands are full," I sigh.
I spin in my chair as she leaves to go and start on her new tasks. Tomorrow is Friday and, perhaps it was brash, but I cleared my entire evening. I wondered if, at this moment, he could see my office from his own across the street? I stand up and press my forehead to the glass, my cheeks flushing red. I grip the hem of my shirt tightly, flexing my leg muscles and attempting to stifle the terrible feelings bubbling up in me.
I slump into my chair and spin. I spin over and over, dizzying myself. I remember the feel of his skin, the temperature between us. My phone alarm then sounds and I'm immediately back to the usual slog. Skimming contracts, signing the ones the lawyers have been through, writing responses to interviews on news sites I'd never read.
When Papa calls for the twentieth time I give in and answer it, receiving my expected verbal lashings swiftly. He's right to scold me for suddenly leaving, for acting emotional in front of potential business partners. When he asks if I've talked to Ledger White, I can't help but respond defensively.
"Why?"
"Like I said 'fore. Would be good if you two got along."
I pause to process his intentions behind such a statement. "...Why?"
"Think about it like this, right? The best outcome here is ya put 'em on a leash and we out-lawyer him into control of the joint. The worst outcome is nothin' comes of it. You could waste his time, distract him, and that'll help too, y'know? Could start a little scandal, could make some blackmail, could do a whole lot here."
The tiny remaining bit of a good person inside of me, the part that has survived this long, screams at me to not play into this. If anything, it's more likely that I'll be the one to get caught up in a scandal or be blackmailed. Papa has far too much faith in me and I can't fathom why.
"You deserve to have some fun," Papa continued, "and this is a way you can have fun while also making me very proud."
"What if I piss him off? What if I make the company look bad? What if–."
A loud, garbled sigh comes from the other side of the line, as if Papa had intentionally put the phone up to his mouth for emphasis. "What if there's an earthquake and we all die? What about that? Grow up. Get shit done."
Click.