Upset? Damn straight, jackhole.
Graham flashes his sparkling smile as a muffle of snickers erupts. “Jackhole?” he asks with mirth.
Shit. What I thought was only said in my head must have escaped my mouth. Rich squeezes my hand under the table to keep me in line. Greatttt…I am eating right out of Graham’s hand. He knows he is getting to me, and he is enjoying every second of it. I pull my hand away, not welcoming the physical contact.
Rich leans into my side. “Miss McFee, control yourself.”
Okay, okay, I get it. I will shut up.
Graham’s legal counsel writes a note on his pad and angles it toward Graham, who can’t hide his grin. He gives a single nod, and instantly it feels like there is a secret meeting happening where I am not invited. Am I some kind of joke? It’s as if he isn’t taking this meeting seriously at all and it just started. What are they doing over there, drawing stick figure cartoons?
I catch myself sliding my pelvic bone into the chair, despite trying to be mindful to maintain a confident posture. Meeting with Dominic a few days ago gave me the impression that something could change, that my rights as an employee would be considered. I got the illusion that my free will is still valued, despite the job being about customer satisfaction. Will Graham win in the end for the sole purpose of keeping up with the appearance that Entice honors the elite clientele?
“Ms. McFee, would you like to express your concerns to Mr. Hoffman?” Martha asks, refraining from taking a seat.
I swallow hard. I don’t really see the point—besides now having it officially documented. He knows my concerns. I have told him several times to let me do my job, to quit interfering. Today is about restitution.
My hands entwine and twist against the surface of the polished table. I feel small and silly. Just the other night, he was pleasuring me with his hands, respecting me and honoring my body with careful precision. Now we are in a meeting that neither of us is enjoying. Instantly, I regret going about it this way. Perhaps, I could have struck a deal with Graham, negotiated better by giving him a little of what he wanted to reach my own goal in the end. Or at least give him the illusion of such a deal.
“I, um,” I stop midbreath, looking around at the room of faces. I only know Graham. The rest are strangers. Just people who I have met in person today, who have no vested interest in my case. Or my best wishes.
“Cut to the chase,” Graham demands.
His words cut to my throat, making it hard to speak. He seems cold all of a sudden, uncaring. Ruthless.
“Why am I here?” he asks. “What rule did I break from the client contract that I signed over a year ago?” His voice resonates with power; he is in full business mode. I instantly feel sorry for any of his own employees who ever have the unfortunate occurrence of getting on his bad side.
I stare up into the eyes of the Human Resources director for support. Obviously my spokesperson beside me is useless. It’s like someone put a pin in him and deflated him. He is basically invisible. And apparently Graham showed up today with his lawyer just for decoration. He doesn’t need someone to speak for him when he is doing a mighty fine job all on his own of commanding the room.
“Mr. Hoffman, the employee is distraught over the length of time you reserved her services,” Martha interjects, looking at her file folder for guidance. “And the exorbitant amount of money you put down over this timeframe.”
His smile is condescending. “Let me get this straight.” He steeples his fingers, and I am instantly drawn to them. “I am meeting the time requirements. I am meeting the pay requirements. And I am meeting the employee’s contract limits.” He uses his fingers to count off each listed item for added emphasis. “But, instead, I am sitting here today because I am paying too much money? That’s why I am here? Entice is getting a huge cut of that money too. So, why is anyone here unhappy? Spin some alternate scenario where we all win. I guarantee you can’t.”
I glare across the table at his cold eyes. He’s making me look like a lunatic, and he’s smug about it. Damn him.
My throat tightens up. I try to push the knot forming in my throat back down. I feel ridiculous and irrational for causing a fit over a quarter million dollars.
I tap Rich’s arm and lean into him to whisper. “I never had a choice. My profile was tampered with.” His nod lets me know he catches my quietly spoken words. Graham’s posture and determination pull at the threads keeping me together. He has his “I am going to win” face on.
I can’t help but wonder if Mark didn’t reserve me for an extended amount of time if we would even be sitting here now. If it wasn’t Mark—if it was anyone else—would Graham even try to throw money at me to prevent me from going on agency dates? I know he hates Mark, but to what extent? He won’t tell me the details, so I am walking blindly into the situation.
“Mr. Hoffman, Miss McFee claims she never had a choice,” Timid Rich interjects.
Graham leans into his counsel and talks loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Ask Miss McFee if she would like to go to breakfast or lunch or dinner today. I do, after all, still have her reserved. The time of said meal can be her choice. She can choose what she wants from the menu. Heck, I’ll even allow her to drive.” His mockery boils my blood, making my temper rise to the point of speaking my mind.
“Listen, Mr. Hoffman.” I can feel my nostrils flaring. “I do not want your money.” I slam my hand on the table and feel the sting instantly. “I do not want your overbearing self to grace my presence either,” I snap. Regardless of how said body turns me on like an electric switch is flipped. “Not now and not for the next twenty-one weeks.”
“You want to keep your job—the one I continue to suggest is not suitable for you—but you don’t want my money? How is my money any different from any other person’s money?” he asks with a snarl.
Martha shifts her weight and holds her hand up. “Okay, let’s all just calm down and talk about—”
“Correct! I don’t want your money!” My voice dominates over Martha’s.
“Whose money do you want, Miss McFee?” He says my name with such slowness that it chills my insides.
“Mr. Hoffman? Ms. McFee?” she tries again.
“Not yours,” I grind out of my teeth. “You can shove it up your—”