MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,
a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,
a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence
and the woman important to each
13
Helen felt cold and said to his back, “Stay.” Atom twisted around to train on her his brown eyes and smiled. He fell back into bed where she wrapped arms around him and pressed
against his heat.
She had made the condo her home,
though much was in storage, and squirreled personal items into drawers and closets. Maid service helped
maintain a tidy, unlived-in look. On her increased salary, she could afford her
own place but hated the idea of paying rent when the condo was free. Atom
was unaware because he never saw her “at home”. Usually, they made love
at his place, but that Sunday night the condo was closer, so he parked his
Mercedes coupe in the SOQ spot of the underground garage. The absence of the
limousine signaled the all clear.
Another thing he didn’t know was her intimate relationship with the CEO. Their liaisons often took place
after investor parties. Then, Stephen always had someplace to be and left
first, which suited her. Even before moving in, she made it clear she’d rather
leave in her own car than be dropped off. Now he never offered and she’d sit on
the settee in the expansive bathroom, wearing a green silk robe and brushing
her auburn hair until he departed. Only then did she prepare for the
next day, and sleep.
But that morning with Atom
beside her, she panicked. Monday meant Bill coming over with investor checks.
She shook him by the shoulder but he wouldn’t rouse so, bringing knees to her chest,
she pressed her soles against his back and thrust. He tumbled to
the floor. His head popped up with a look of sleepy astonishment. “You’ve got
to go. Hurry!”
He grabbed his underwear on
the way to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. He returned to
the bedroom to finish dressing as Helen smoothed the zebra-motif bedspread.
He tucked a white cotton shirt into pre-faded designer jeans then approached
from behind to buss her neck. She pulled away. “Go!”
Departing with an amused smile and aglow, he thought it just as well: he had calls to make if he were
to repeat as Salesman of the Quarter. He ran a hand over his dark hair with the
part in the middle. His clean-cut good looks were such that he could have
stepped into a business meeting right then but for the clothes. In the garage,
he passed the limousine and noticed a thin thread of
smoke coming from the window.
Bill waited for him to drive away before exiting the limo. His
eyes winced at the unfamiliar sight of Atom Green
leaving early on a workday morning. “From where?” He had an idea and dropped
the butt to the ground, adjusted his
black tunic, then reached inside the cab for the manila envelope.
He had gotten used to Helen being in
the condo on Mondays, so instead of going in and putting the envelope in the
safe, he simply handed it over. The difference was less effort on his part and of no consequence. When she opened the door, he
scrutinized her less-than-neat hair, bulging eyes and sweatshirt and
jeans. She took the envelope and shut
the door. He thought of the salesman and made the connection. How would Slade take that news, when pilfering a valuable statue didn’t faze him?
Stephen Slade, seated in a high-backed
leather chair, displayed a sneer on his pale angular face. Others did not
intrude on his routine. He didn’t offer a chair and gestured with his hand to get on with it. Bill didn’t like what he was feeling so served it raw:
“That salesman, Atom Green, is screwing Helen in the condo.”
“How do you know?”
Bill’s black-and-white worldview and the desire to make him
squirm erased any doubts he had in the telling. Slade leveled opaque eyes
on the chauffeur. His sneer became sinister. “What else?” Bill shook
his head and left.
The CEO in expensive gray suit and burgundy loafers ran his finger on the back wall wainscoting, as though checking for dust. A button
triggered the release that revealed the hidden door through which he passed into the
corridor leading to the skywalk and the Wayfare Hotel.
Bearing the confidence of ownership, he punched in the code to enter the condo where the panoramic
window admitted a city view.
His nose twitched at vapor in the air, which he followed into the
bedroom and then the bathroom. Steam still coated the shower walls, but
she wasn’t there. He returned to the bedroom and stared at the bed. His mind
sketched in the pair of them and he reached to strip
away the bedspread. Wrinkled sheets and the thought of another man infected his
thoughts. He exploded. “Not on my dime!”
In a frenzy, he searched for
proof of what he didn’t want to believe. What he found was more proof of Helen:
silky panties, assorted socks and neatly folded jeans. In the closet hung the
dresses she wore to the parties. Though logical her things would be there,
the quantity surprised him. To his way of thinking the condo was a workplace but
these indicated a private dwelling space --where unwanted people might visit.
He had to set her straight.
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
