Page 21 of Pierced

“Yes sir,” she says, again. Also writing it down.

I observe her. She’s so nervous. So eager to please. So unassuming.

I really, really miss Myrtle.

“Oh, Mr. Chevalier?” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Ms. Rothschild is here to see you.”

Huh. I just manifested that shit out of that.

“Yeah? About what?”

“She didn’t say. She just started to head in on her own but then she kind of, um, saw you, well, smash your…” She points at my broken phone. “And then heard you yell and… and she kind of smiled, and sort of licked her lips, and adjusted her stockings, and then told me to tell you she needs to see you.”

One thing about Valerie, she’s specific when she relays information.

“She did, huh? Yeah, okay. Send her in.” I slide my nine iron back into its place in the canister I keep by my desk, straighten my tie, pull my vest down, and when I turn back around, Myrtle is standing there. Knee-length tube dress and tiny matching blazer taunting me with the memory that this is what I used to see every day sitting in the seat where sweet, scared Valerie now sits.

In addition to her too-sexy-for-most-jobs outfit, Myrtle wears a smirk.

“What was all that about?” she asks.

“What was what about?”

“The smashy and the yelly. Was that Derek on the phone?”

“How’d you know?” I ask, making myself comfortable in my office throne. That’s interesting. I never before realized how weird the phrase office throne sounds. Huh.

Anyway…

“Because you were yelling, ‘I’m not signing it, Derek.’” She tilts her head at me. “What aren’t you signing?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, twisting my neck out. “There’s a chance to take over a new building in Paris. Finally open a Parisian office like I’ve been wanting to do forever. But the deal they want to make is bullshit. I know when I’m being fucked on real estate. I’ve fucked people on real estate deals dozens of times, so, y’know, you can’t pull that shit on me. I’m the fucker. Not the fuck-ee.” That didn’t come out quite like I wanted it to, but whatever. “In any case, I’m not signing it. What?”

That last part is in reference to the way she’s looking at me. Which is with a dollop of skepticism topped with a soupçon of curiosity.

“Why would you be taking over a new building?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because the magazine continues to be in trouble, I thought. Which is why I’m in charge of this party for this special edition, and blah, blah, blah.”

Fuck. I forgot all about that. Goddamn it. Women remember everything.

“Whatever. Don’t worry about it. What’s that?” Now I’m referring to a piece of paper she’s holding in her hand. I just noticed it. It is the least interesting thing about her.

“Oh,” she says, “This? This is what I’m here to see you about.”

She… saunters? No. Myrtle doesn’t really saunter. Prowls is maybe more like it. She prowls over to my desk and takes a seat behind it.

“You just gonna plop yourself in the CEO’s chair without asking?” I ask.

“What’re you gonna do? Fire me?”

“Touché. What’s the paper?”