Page 98 of Pierced

The guy stands up from behind the custom desk and chair that I bought for Myrtle and which, when I left last week, was still sitting in her office, but now is placed in front of her office, just outside her closed office door. Rising to his full height, he must be about three inches taller than I am and about twice my horizontal depth. Guy has a really well-developed chest, is what I’m saying.

But, for whatever reason, seems like he accidentally bought his shirt in my size because it clings to every muscle on his torso and looks like it wants to weep from being stretched so tight. It’s possible that I notice it more because his tie is very, very skinny. Don’t get me started on his pants. And he’s sitting in front of Myrtle’s office. K.

I’ve been gone for three and a half days. What the hell is going on?

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I’m going in to see Myrtle.”

I start to walk past him and he puts a bear-claw-sized palm out to stop me. Wait. No. That can’t be right. Lemme say that to myself again.

He stops me. From going into Myrtle’s office. At the magazine I own.

OK. Yeah. No, that’s right.

What the fuck?

“I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Rothschild is on a call. She asked not to be disturbed.”

“I—She—OK, well. Thanks.” I start past him again. This time he moves his whole body in front of me. I look around for hidden cameras for the second time in two weeks. Then…

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“I’m Bryce,” he says. “Ms. Rothschild’s executive assistant.”

When I was running through the list of what ifs in my mind, this was definitely not in there.

I look around again. Valerie’s still away from her desk and no one else seems to be in sight, so I have to use a phrase that I absolutely deplore, and resist at every occasion, but…

“OK, Bryce… do you know who I am?”

He stares at me, his expression unchanging. Then he lifts his other giant paw, in which is what appears to be a miniature note pad. I think it’s actually regular sized, but in his hand… he picks up a pen off the desk, holds it above the pad, and says, “No, sir. I don’t. Who may I tell her is waiting?”

I—This guy—What the—?

I bow my head, close my eyes, swallow, take a breath and say, “Pierce Chevalier.” And then I look at him for something resembling, if not ignominy, at least acknowledgement.

“Can you spell that, sir?”

Nope!

But now, fuck it, I just wanna see how this plays out…

“P-I-E-R-C-E…”

“And Chevalier like Maurice?”

Gobsmacked. Seriously. Gob. Smacked.

“Big Maurice Chevalier fan, are ya?” I ask.

“Thank heaven for little girls,” he says, and smiles. This guy is… probably exactly the kind of guy who should be working here. I’ll admit it. “I’ll be right back.”

And then he opens Myrtle’s office door. I get a glimpse of her, wearing a headset, and in the middle of what looks like a very animated phone conversation. Bryce closes the door behind him and I feel my eyes go wide. I do that thing people do when they look around for anyone at all to share a “can you believe this shit?” look with. Still no one.

And then, from inside Myrtle’s office, I hear what can only be described as an uproarious cackle. Oh, good. I’m glad everyone’s enjoying this.

A second later, the door opens again and Bryce squeezes his way out. Not because he doesn’t open the door all the way, but because the guy can barely clear the frame.

“Ms. Rothschild will see you now,” he says.