Page 8 of Wicked Takeover
Chapter Two
Lauren figured her shitty financial situation had finally fried her brain. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt or tactless, especially to Van Gogh. The poor guy looked like the bullet-hole tats on his arms were real and causing serious pain.
He hung his head.
She hoped to God he wasn’t going to pass out or cry. She’d thought Dante had been kidding about Van Gogh being so emotional.
Even if he hadn’t been, what was the matter with her? As a human resources professional, she was supposed to be careful when delivering bad news to a staff member. She knew to be firm yet gentle, explain why the company was downsizing the department or division, and assure there would be severance, a letter of recommendation, and a decent transition from full-time employment to being thrown out like so much trash.
As she’d been professional the afternoon the powers-that-be fired her, two days before Christmas. Prior to the awful news, she’d planned to go shopping at the mall after work, get into the holiday spirit, maybe have a nice dinner out, then decorate her condo while old holiday movies played. Even though she’d be alone, she was okay with that. Her work buddies had husbands, children, boyfriends, or family members to spend the holidays with. She was happy for them.
Okay, she really envied what they had. Her mom had passed away more than a year ago. Frank had been missing for decades. There wasn’t immediate family, a spouse, or anyone remotely close to a boyfriend in her life. But hey, she’d have fun even if it was by herself.
Those plans had died when the CEO had called Lauren into his office shortly after lunch. She’d thought it might be for a holiday bonus, especially because her supervisor was in there, a sweet matronly woman who was a vice president. Next to her sat a security officer.
His presence confused Lauren. Still, she had hope until the CEO, a grim man, regarded her as he would a particularly nasty specimen he’d viewed under a microscope.
For the first time ever, Lauren’s supervisor avoided her gaze.
Her heart started to pound. She sank into a chair and worried about what she might have done wrong. Before she could ask, the CEO spoke.
“I’ll get straight to the point. Your position’s being eliminated. The company’s moving in a new direction. Today’s your last…”
His mouth kept moving, but she’d stopped listening. She couldn’t, actually. Her ears rang too loudly. The room lurched. The CEO pushed papers at her that she could barely read much less understand given her shock. If she refused to sign the separation contract, the CEO warned there’d be no severance. He made a veiled threat that the company might even fight her on unemployment benefits.
That got her to read faster than she would have liked. Her hand had shaken so badly, her signature was illegible.
The CEO took the signed contract from her, gave it to Lauren’s former supervisor, then strode to the door. “That’s all.”
No have a nice day, Merry Christmas, or go to hell.
Six years she’d given the company, working her usual ten-hour days, and the man had altered her future in less than fifteen minutes without breaking a sweat. The security guard escorted Lauren to her desk as he might a convicted felon. As she packed her few personal items into a box, which the company generously provided, Mr. Rent-a-Cop had watched closely, then followed her toward the elevator.
When she walked past her colleague’s workstations, none of her former friends bothered to look up. No one had said good-bye. She’d organized birthday parties for them, celebrated their marriages and their children’s births.
Halfway home, her tears started, making it impossible for her to see. She pulled into a strip mall. Holiday music pumped from the storefronts. Kids bolted down the sidewalks to the toy and sports stores. Young couples strolled arm in arm, window shopping, probably dreaming about Christmas.
She spent the holiday in bed, curled in a fetal position, too defeated to do anything.
Lauren wanted to tell Van Gogh that if it came to liquidation, he’d get a decent severance. If she sold Wicked Brand, he’d have a job with the new owner. Anyone in his right mind would want Van Gogh as a tattoo artist. Trouble was, she couldn’t promise something that might not come true. She had no idea what shape this place was in. It was solvent for the next few months because of Frank’s insurance. After that…
There weren’t even any customers in here. She hoped things weren’t always this slow.
She was afraid to ask and risk Van Gogh’s meltdown. “It’ll take a couple of weeks, maybe a few months, before anything happens. I’ll do everything I can to make the transition as easy as possible.”
He looked at Dante the way a younger brother would, needing confirmation of what she’d said, or maybe he wanted a hug.
Dante clamped his hand on Van Gogh’s thin shoulder. “Everything will be all right. It always is.”
Lauren wished she had his confidence or knew what else to say. Spanish guitars sounding from the radio didn’t drown out the strained silence.
The door swung open.
Jasmina strode in, ponytail bouncing, a large white sack in her slender arms. She beamed at Lauren, then noticed Van Gogh’s downturned mouth and crushed demeanor. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Dante pulled the bag from her. “This is Lauren. Frank’s kid.” He inclined his head to her.
Jasmina perked up again. “Yeah? Well, hey.” She threw her arms around Lauren and hugged hard.
