Welcome to another tale from the Owenverse! It has been a while, I know, but Owen remains an influential character in what I am planning for future stories. While Owen is in this story, he is not the narrator this time around.
If you don't know Owen, don't worry. The main Owenverse stories are all standalone tales and can be read by themselves.
A couple of my multi-chapter series are part of the Owenverse, can you tell me in the comments which ones they are?
As for this tale, enjoy, and as always, remember that it's just a fun yarn and not meant to be realistic. I aim for the plausibly ridiculous.
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The Owenverse: The Negotiator
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"I hate to mess up your morning," I said apologetically, yet not, "but this menu won't work. Your people are going to have to hop to it to fix it."
The catering manager started to object that eight am was too late in the process to alter a luncheon menu, but I cut her off. "It is also late for you to finally give me the menu for approval." I reached into my briefcase that doubles as an over-the-shoulder purse and power accessory for my folder with our contract, written correspondence, and printouts of our email chain.
All of it. I like to be prepared.
You have no idea how small and light electronics are going to get soon, but for now, at 5' 2" tall, I am much too small to carry around a 'portable' computer. I just keep printouts of what might matter for the day.
"Mr. Walton is vegetarian, as I wrote you on... April 5th, see?" I said, handing over the relevant email.
"And we have a vegetarian entree! We always do," objected Jessica defensively.
"You have one," I said. "Our contract," I went on, producing said document next, "specifies two."
"Oh. Um, well, it is still a little late for me to... can I simply have a special plate..."
"No, you cannot," I interrupted, looming over the woman. That was a neat trick to pull off, considering that she was five inches taller, and had sixty pounds on me at least. But I managed. "Alan Walton is one of my two best potential sources of funding on this deal, and he's damned near a billionaire. He is a sweet, polite man... who never forgives a thing. He and I get along," I added significantly. "I will not have him feeling singled out as unusual. Two dishes, in equal quantities and presentation as the others, as contracted. One with asparagus," I added, stabbing the line in the contract that Jessica or her kitchen staff had ignored.
"Asparagus?!?"
The meeting ended with me getting what I wanted. My meetings like that usually do, which is why I have them.
I am not one to ever leave things to chance. Well, not when it comes to business. While I am not so aggressively free-wheeling in my personal life as in my college days, I still like to take advantage of spontaneity when it presents itself. Today was not a day for such thoughts, however. I had a deal to midwife, and I was on the hunt for hidden speed bumps.
I had already spent the extra fifteen minutes on my appearance that I always did on important days. I sported the better of my two Alexander McQueen double-breasted suits, the one which fitted me to the nines. I am not one of those severely styled women who wears ties like a man (unless it suits my purposes to look insecure), and my open-collared, silk ecru blouse had the collar points resting along my lapels.
I never have and never will use sex to make a deal happen. That is just simple principle. But I don't ignore it either. This outfit shows off my figure just well enough to ensure I can capture most men's attention easily, but is in no way explicit enough to distract them once they focus on what I'm saying. Business first. Always.
I can certainly dress distractingly while still being professional, of course. I'm not ashamed to say I have done so on occasion when I wanted to deliver bad news and have it be absorbed... incrementally. But today I intended for there to be no bad news for anyone.
To that end, I poked my head into the Ashethorpe Room of the hotel, where the presentation and demo were to take place, just to ensure no one had stolen any of my chairs, and that the tables for breakfast were laid out properly, in readiness for the pastries, coffee and so on.
I know it may sound as if I am some executive secretary or something, fretting about danishes and asparagus. I am not. I have an assistant, I am not one. I had already spent the last month, especially the last week, doing all the work to make sure the business done today went the way we wanted it to, and I was satisfied with my efforts, and those of our client in that regard. But I did not get where I am, at my young age, by letting the little things go unaddressed.
Little things like some guy lying on his back in the room, fucking around with the metal structure of my raised platform which was there to support the apparatus that was the point of today's demonstration and hopefully eventual deal.
"Excuse me? Excuse me," I said, slipping swiftly into the room and advancing on the man. "What are you doing? That platform has to be rock-solid for a demonstration we have going on in here today."
"So I've heard," the guy said back drily. He twisted smoothly out from under the platform and looked at me. I watched that flash of expression my appearance and dress were supposed to get, but it quickly faded to a serious look. He didn't get up from the floor, he just sat up. "I thought I had better see for myself if the crew had assembled it properly."
"Which I confirmed for myself. Yesterday," I said irritatedly. I did not want to waste time on this issue. I had to still check several more details. But Roger Evans, the CEO of my client who was seeking funding, had been most explicit that no vibration was permissible in the platform. This chucklehead with the hotel was going to fuck up my demo if he didn't cut it out with that wrench I saw beside him.
"Good," he said simply. "But I figured I'd check too, just to make sure. This is a good platform, and they were more careful than usual putting it together." Damned right they were. But Wrench Boy went on calmly. "Unfortunately, it seems that there is a low spot in the floor under the left rear segment. Put enough weight on it, and it will sag. That means it will vibrate."
"What?"
"I tried just tightening up everything, but that was not enough. It will work its way loose again pretty quickly when there is weight on it again," he said calmly.
"That's not acceptable," I worried.
"Mmmm. That is why I am jamming a large wooden box under there in just the right place. It will be sturdy enough to prevent that initial sag and everything will stay rock solid," he said. Then he proceeded to ignore me, lie back and slide halfway under the platform again.
I considered him with irritation. He was not dressed in the hotel's maintenance staff uniform of khakis and blue polo, but in a baggy pair of dress trousers and a white business shirt with the cuffs rolled up. Probably someone in the hotel's back office management team, doing his own due diligence, and handy enough to fix a problem himself.
I heard two grunts and bang from underneath, and he called out, "I think that should be good now."
"Mind if I check it myself?" I asked, becoming moderately less irritated at his delay in my morning. I grudgingly took him off my nuisance list, and began to worry instead that I was going to have to write a thank you letter to the hotel GM about him the next day.
"Please do. Though you checked it yesterday, didn't you?" I heard him say with amusement in his voice. I went back to irritated with the guy. But I stepped up onto the platform, which moved not a hair.
"Can I jump on it?" I asked, remembering a lack of movement the day before as well. I got a grunt of assent. I slipped off my shoes and jumped twice. I noticed nothing. He sounded satisfied as well. I was briefly aware that I was jumping up and down in an above-the-knee skirt directly over this guy. I swiftly gave thanks for the solid black platform and its lack of gaps between panels.
Slipping on my pumps again, I stepped back down off the platform. The heels were low enough, at only a little over two inches, to not look distracting in the short skirt, but tall enough to keep my lack of height from making me look like a kid at the adult table.
"Thank you!" I called out over my shoulder toward the long legs still sticking out from under the table as I rushed on my way.
Cute guy, I realized on further consideration as I headed for the business center to grab the hand-outs. He seemed a bit callous and rough around the edges though, for a service industry worker. I supposed they put him in the back office for a reason.
Everything else was in order, and I slid easily into my relaxed, 'everything is perfect' persona as people began to filter into the room. I moved from funding sources to startup employees, making introductions. The principals already knew each other from months of meetings of course, but if today was to turn into the wedding I damn well intended for it to, the families needed to get to know each other as well, so to speak.
Investment capital has been pretty plentiful lately, though most of it is flowing to internet commerce sites right now. The money that was at this meeting was the kind that was still focused on physical products, rather than new ways to sell existing products. I personally liked that kind of money, and now that I had begun to actually accumulate some meaningful funds of my own, I tended to follow its moves with my own funds, rather than join in with the currently more profitable dot com worshippers. It was going to be easy for websites to make huge money, but I reasoned that patents and products would have an easier time fending off competition in the long run.
"Sophia!" I heard from behind me. It was my client Roger, he of this company with an actual product... and a desperate need for capital. I was slow to answer, because I had to disengage from one of his potential funders that I was reassuring about Roger's Y2K readiness. "I want you to meet Dr. Owen Voss, who will be running our demo today," Roger went on, before I could even turn around.
"We've met already, actually," I heard another voice say behind me.
That voice...
I winked at my funder and turned smoothly around.
The 'back office hotel accountant' who was good with his hands was Dr. Owen Voss!
But who the fuck was Dr. Owen Voss?
I was going to kill Roger. Where the fuck did he get off, springing a presenter on me that I had not been informed of, and more to the point, vetted?
Ah. The loose-fitting, awkward trousers he had had on this morning were suit pants, not slacks. Most men's suit pants look stupid with no jacket in the picture. His shirt was buttoned neatly now, with an oddly expensive tie, given the off-the-rack nature of the suit.
Dr. Voss extended his hand smoothly. "I am sorry, Ms. D'Abruzzi. When we met this morning, I thought you were with the hotel!"
I snorted. "No apologies necessary. I thought you were with the hotel too!"
