Page 20 of Bridesmaid for Hire
Yup, and look, there’s a sign announcing a private event just outside the hotel bar and restaurant.
I pocket my phone, feeling so out of place that the nausea from the boat rears up again. At least, that’s what I’m calling it. I refuse to acknowledge that it’s nausea from nerves or uncertainty.
Am I the cutthroat businessman I wish I was? Nope. I still apologize if I take up too much time at the copy machine. Do I have good ideas? Yes. Do I have the inner confidence to strut around like I own the goddamn place? Not even close.
I was born and raised in a modest family where we put our heads down and work hard. Good things come to good people. No need to slice your way through life and hurt people on your path, but hell…that’s how it’s done, right? You can’t tell me Daddy Reggie went through life saying his ‘pleases’ and ‘thank-yous’ and built a multibillion-dollar business being an honest, nice man.
Nope, he took advantage of what was presented to him.
So here is an opportunity, take it.
I look up at the Lanai Bar just in time for Mr. Hopper to walk up to the front and start greeting people. Oh fuck, there he is. And just look at him. Posh, with his chin held high. Expensive, in a suit that I can only assumecosts more than a weeks’ stay at the fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night bungalows just outside this bar. And confident, as he greets everyone with a firm handshake and a slight nod.
He knows how to handle himself.
The head of his family, the leader of his company, and the man who holds the fate of my career—and sanity—in his hands.
Here goes nothing.
With two of his favorite cigars tucked into my suit jacket, a bit of a wobble in my step, and the uncomfortable sensation of nude underpants caressing my junk, I move toward him.
Jaleesa told me to carry cigars at all times just to get on Reginald’s good side. I don’t smoke but she didn’t care. She demanded I get them.
I’d like to blame the wobbly legs on my seasick adventures through the lagoon, but I think the majority of the wobble is from adrenaline and nerves all packed in very tightly.
And the nude underpants, well…we know why. But that brief glimpse of my side profile in the mirror of the bathroom had my confidence crumbling as I realized they truly made me look like a Resort Wear Ken.
That’s not how I want to present myself. I want to slap my penis on the table—metaphorically, of course—and say, “Daddy Reggie, here I am. Eat your heart out.”
But I think we can all agree on one thing…that’s not going to happen because as I step into the bar and wait in line to be greeted, inching closer and closer, I can actually feel my dick curl up into my scrotum, never wanting to return.
Should I be more confident, looking to jump the corporate ladder? Of course. But that’s not who I am. I’m not comfortable with the social game when it comes to business. I believe that if someone does their work, goes above and beyond with said work, they should be rewarded. None of this political-social mumbo jumbo. I like it clear-cut. I did my job, so you reward me now.
Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works, which is why I’m standing in line to kiss Daddy Reggie’s ass while wearing this cream getup that’s now sticking to me in ways that are extremely uncomfortable.
“Thank you for having us—we are so excited to be here,” Beatrice, the head of Human Resources, says ahead of me in line. Marion and Beatrice are friends, both crotchety wenches, both in competition for the office’s worst sneer. Marion has a leg up on Beatrice, but also…Marion isn’t here, so…
Hopper offers her a smile. “Of course. Enjoy yourself.” He gestures toward the room, welcoming them in and indicating that I’m next.
Here we go.
He turns toward me. His goatee’s perfectly trimmed and his transitional lenses covering those stark eyes are a dusty blue. His eyebrows are like daggers moving across his forehead, indicating every emotion he’s feeling. And from the crease they form between his eyes, I immediately know that not only is he confused by my presence, but Daddy Darling doesn’t recognize me.
Cue the sweat.
The tsunami of sweat.
From the back of my neck, down my spine, to right above my ass, like a ravine just gushing with nerves.
And as he stares at me, his eyebrows morphing from confused to irritated since I haven’t said one goddamn thing, I realize that this is probably worst-case scenario. This right here.
Him not knowing me.
Me not knowing what to say.
And no one around to interject.
Where’s his assistant with the subtle whisper explaining who he’s talking to? I’ve seen her do it before at functions. Do weddings not count as well?
