...
A grating, low voice is calling me out of darkness. "Jazzy."
I open my eyes to see my boss standing a respectful distance from my bed, looking groggy and wearing a white wife beater over plaid pajama pants. My alarm goes off then, at seven on the dot, and I reach over to turn it off.
"Oh... I didn't know whether you had an alarm set, figured I'd wake you just in case. Good dreams?" His eyes never leave my face, but I get the distinct impression that I'm laid bare in front of him.
I open my mouth, barely conscious, and silently curse the ground he's standing on, my heart still jumping in my chest. "Nah, just regular ones," I rasp.
"Hmm." He turns, stumbles, and holds up his loose bottoms with a careless hand. "We're out of here today, Jazz, make sure to pack up before checkout at two."
I make a face at his back and roll out of the messy bed. I packed last night. "Gotcha."
"And I want to blend in today, so you're wearing your charcoal gray suit with the navy blue accents and the black pumps you brought, if you don't mind."
"Right." I collect my showering bag and am in and out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes, hair pulled back into a puff by a navy blue headband and contacts in. Vasquez doesn't like his staff fumbling with glasses.
He tucks his undershirt into his slacks in the mirror while I collect my tools for the day.
"Jazz, we'll stop for a late lunch after I get out of my twelve o' clock conference; you don't have to attend the meeting but I want a report of the key notes. I don't care how you get them."
"Yes Mr. Vasquez." It's taken some patience not to bristle at the matter-of-fact commands about my whereabouts and appearance this week, but I'm learning to channel the subservient demeanor I had perfected while living with my mother until the ripe old age of 22. It works pretty well.
Raymond Vasquez is usually pretty strict, but always understanding. We admire and respect him day-to-day at the office, but whoever ends up as his personal assistant for business trips of any duration comes back wanting to push him down several flights of stairs.
Never out of line, of course, just the worst micromanager you've ever seen. Didn't help that we couldn't change the hotel booking of one room with two twin beds. I wasn't supposed to be on this trip, but my coworker Lamar lucked his way out of this one because his wife very conveniently went into labor a week before. So now I don't get to see the baby, and I'm stuck catering to corporate America's baby shark.
"Jazzy."
"Yes." He's silent for several moments, and I look in his direction to find his eyes on me in front of the mirror, tucking his pinstriped shirt into his pants.
"Mr. Vasquez?" I stand, hopefully indifferently, while he contemplates me for a few more moments.
He blinks.
"Sorry about the room. I'd change it if I could." Oh. That's sweet. And a rare break from the subtle tyrant I'd gotten to know intimately the past couple of days.
I go back to scribbling conference times on my notepad. "I'm perfectly comfortable if you are, Mr. Vasquez."
I wonder if he's comfortable.
...
"Motherfucker thought 8% was a good offer," Vasquez hisses, loosening his tie and storming down the hallway towards the elevator. "For a sleazy itinerary in middle America and half the marketing we normally start out with. Who the fuck does he think I am?"
I nod and crease my forehead sympathetically, noting the fluctuation of his accent and dashing along behind him in the shoes he specifically asked me to wear. If he had even a dash of gray at his temples or the paunchy belly that all of the team leaders at the conference had, minus the ladies and theybies who looked like they took no shit, they probably would've approached him differently. As it was, he was near to cussing with almost every offer the PR houses made, save a few who knew exactly how long he'd been in the game.
Vasquez has been mentored in management and production under a few big-names since he was a kid in high school, reportedly because his dad happened to know some people. But being so good at what he did, he learned to keep his name out of people's mouths and instead sell the brand first. It's a real double-edged sword, as it turns out.
All this I found out from the older duo back at the office who cluck and waggle at me whenever I work late. Ruby and Wasan, both in their mid-sixties and ready to head out of the workforce in the next five years, let me know regularly how I should clock out on time and see a little more of the city, no matter what kind of chaos the leftover work will bring the next day.
I got this job after working as a digital media specialist - a librarian, basically - for the last eight years, and when I got sick enough of being paid for only half the work I did, one night I had the balls and the blood alcohol content to fill out and submit an application as a personal assistant for this company.
I figured I was completely unqualified, but apparently the position really just requires somebody competent who'll stay on for more than a month and a half. Perfect.
But what do I say now? Do I say anything? The irritation is rolling off of him in waves. The elevator doors close behind us, the silence crowding the space.
"Uh," I mutter, almost under my breath, but he looks towards me anyway. I'd want someone to intervene if I were about to lose my shit. "Bitches be trifling."
A beat, and then roarous laughter, from deep in his gut. I hadn't taken my eyes from the seam in the doors, but after the initial shock, I look at him and grin to myself, the echo of his dying laughter reverberating around the little box. He has tears in his eyes as we step off.
"They do, they really do, Jazzy. Trifling. Haven't heard anybody say that to me since I visited Ma for the holidays."
I shrug, smile a little as he walks ahead to open our door. I think I helped? "I don't see why not, it's a common workplace occurrence. Should I call for a taxi, sir?"
He looks over, rifling through his half-emptied closet. "I said lunch after the conference."
"Yes, but it's 1:45."
His mouth makes an 'o' of surprise. "Oh shit, yes, thank you," he says, grabbing the remaining blazers off the hangers and dumping them onto his bed. "We're clocking out at two, I hope you're-"
He watches as I roll my suitcase out from under my bed, setting my toiletry bag to fit perfectly over the handle. I fold my hands in front of me, attentive. "Yes?"
He grunts, attention back on his messy stack. And I hear, "Well, don't look so smug about it, Jazzy," as he stuffs his jackets onto the crowded pile in his suitcase.
"Of course not, sir," I say, phone in hand and failing mightily to withhold that exact expression from showing on my face. I leave the room to make the call, and standing in the hallway, I watch some other big bosses' assistants strolling down the carpet, looking harried.
I nod as they pass, but as I hang up, the taller of the two trudges back over to me, leisurely looking me up and down.
"You're working under Daft Studios, right?" He leans against the wall next to me, and the shorter man shuffles over, shifting his eyes and already looking uncomfortable. So I guess this is about to be some bullshit.
"Mmhmm." A hand on a cocked hip, eyes directly on his honey brown ones. I have time today.
"Never seen you before, and you're sharing a room? I saw him come out of here yesterday, sweet cheeks." He smirks, eyes on mine, and I scrunch my eyebrows down a bit, in mock confusion, and then back up in mock understanding.
