The Origin of Rezso

Fridays in the office are always hit or miss. Either the world is on fire, or no one wants to work. That particular Friday was the latter, seeming to crawl by. I'm not complaining. To me, quiet means I'm doing my job. Quiet means there aren't any fires to put out, yet.

Just before lunch, my phone buzzed.

Byron Lockhart, bank president, and my boss.

"Andrew," his well-heeled voice droned through the phone. "Where are we on the Michigan deal?"

"They haven't sent the contract yet."

"Goddammit, call them. This is getting ridiculous."

There was no point in telling him that I called them as soon as I got in the office and just pressed send on a follow-up e-mail. Byron demanded results, not information.

"And, the Landfield thing?"

"They sent a counter offer. Changed a bunch of terms. I didn't send it to you, because it's a shit deal."

He grumbled. His calls—especially on Friday afternoons— were to establish that he was still in charge, despite being surrounded by the sharpest minds in business. But, if he wanted to pull out his dick and measure it, I wasn't going to stop him. However, it got tricky when he blatantly went against my advice just to prove he could.

Because things were so quiet, I decided to have lunch at my private club and arrived back in the office just shy of 2 p.m.

Just before I made it through the door, my assistant Beth sent a text saying I had a last-minute appointment, a young intern who refused to leave my office until I returned. I didn't recognize the girl's name, but Beth assured me that she'd been with the bank for the last six months. There was no real mystery as to why I didn't know her. I kept my distance from the intern pool.

For one, they were notoriously oversexed and aggressive. But most importantly, Allison forbid it. Whenever I mentioned a new colleague, she found a way to ask—either directly or indirectly—if they were an intern. She never told me that I couldn't commiserate with them outright—she knew better than that—but I knew there would be hell to pay if I did.

When I made it to the receiving area, Beth handed me a slip of paper with the girl's name scribbled on it:

Kylie Zeigler

Investment Banking Analyst

Puzzled, I looked to Beth for clarification, but she just shrugged her shoulders. More often than I cared to admit, I relied on the shorthand we developed over the years and Beth's shrewdness to guide me through tricky situations; in this instance, it didn't help one, fucking bit. I spun around to enter the office, and Beth waved me down, motioning that the girl was crying.

Another puzzled look and shoulder shrug followed.

Jesus, Beth, give me something.

I grimaced and braced to meet sweet, Cryin' Kylie. Dread settled over me— a crying, young, woman seeking counsel was never a good thing.

I motioned to Beth that I would leave a crack in the door. It was our custom to leave the door open a just crack with particularly challenging or wild card appointments, so Beth could monitor the conversation or interrupt if necessary. Beth's memory was legendary around the bank, and it saved my ass more than once.

I squared my shoulders and bound into the room, determined to set an upbeat, light tone for the meeting.

"Hi, Kylie. How can I help you?"

The girl sat hunched over in a chair facing my desk, her back to me, and her arms wrapped tightly around her long, thin frame. Her hair hung in blonde, stringy curtains across her face.

My light-hearted entrance did nothing to change her disposition. She didn't even glance up when I entered the room. In fact, I wasn't sure she heard me until she slowly raised her head.

Pained, watery eyes met mine with such intensity that I looked away before she detected my shock. She wasn't actively crying, but tears pooled in deep ruts under her eyes, forming a thin, salty crust along the edges as they dried.

I knew her from somewhere but couldn't place her. I'd seen her around the building, but she seemed more familiar than someone I'd only passed in the hall. While she was obviously a young woman, torment made her look years older.

I winced at the implication.

This wasn't a bad performance review or even an inappropriate comment from her boss. It was far more serious. I adjusted my tone and shuffled to the chair sitting next to her.

"Hey, is there some way I can help you, Kylie?"

The girl gulped but made no effort to answer me.

"Kylie, why are you here today?"

I slid into the seat next to her, knees angled in her direction.

She raised her head, taking a pained breath before choking out, "Something happened...and I need to report it. "

"OK, what's the nature of the report? If it's about someone on staff, you need to report it to HR."

"I can't." Panic flashed across her face, and her whole body started to tremble. This was beyond "not good." I—we—were in deep shit.

"OK, OK. Take a deep breath. Tell me what's going on. As much as you want to tell."

Kylie swallowed and steadied herself.

"I was out having drinks with...a colleague I'd been seeing for the past two months."

"So, you weren't at work during the time of the incident?"

She raised a hand to stop me and continued.

Shit. Let her finish, dickhead.

"After we had quite a few, he suggested that we go back to his office. He had to pick up some files he'd forgotten or something. I mean, I didn't think anything of it."

I nodded and urged her to continue; further questions would need to wait.

"When we got there, he was all over me, which was OK because, well, I mean, we'd been together before."

She choked back a sob and took a second to calm herself.

She gulped and continued, "But, then he got really rough. Like really, really rough and started calling me all kinds of names. I thought he was kidding at first."

She whimpered and tightened the grip around her body.

"He just kept getting more and more violent, and his eyes ...it's like he was someone else. Somewhere else. I asked him to stop, then I begged him. But the more I begged, the rougher he got until he...he...he—"

The dam broke.

Kylie covered her face and howled, her despair sending a chill up my spine. On cue, Beth shuffled through the door with two glasses of water, lips pursed. When she moved behind Kylie to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, I sat back in the chair and studied the pathetic creature.

Kylie wasn't an average intern. She wasn't trying to look the part or fit in. She was the template, the same as Rebecca.

Even in a desperate state, she was well put together, clad in the aesthetic subtleties that only the wealthiest pay attention to—gold bangles from the right designer, calfskin boots, cashmere sweater. All silent indications about her place in the social pecking order. Old money didn't flaunt its wealth; old money knew the language of inconspicuous affluence.

That's how I knew her. She came from "a family," an influential family on the New York social scene. I was sure of it.

Why the fuck was she bringing this to me? I'm the last person she should seek out. It's my job to protect the bank, not impose justice—even if I wanted to find the cocksucker who hurt her and throw him off the roof.

Besides, her family probably had an army of goddamned lawyers waiting for her call. Something didn't add up. I shifted in my seat, fighting an impulse to move away from her.

When she was ready, she dried her eyes and rubbed her palms across her face in large, clunky swipes. She shivered and sat up straight to face me.

"You're OK to continue?" I asked, and she nodded.

"I am, but I don't want to talk about that night anymore."

"Understood. Is it OK if I ask you some questions?"

She nodded.

"First off, why did you come to me? Why not HR or the police?"

Kylie looked down and started fidgeting with the cuff of her sweater, revealing a large bruise on her forearm. I sat forward, and when she saw me notice, she yanked her sweater over it.

"Did he do that to you?"

She nodded, eyes welling up.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

"Kylie, what happened to you is... is beyond disgusting, but you haven't answered me. Why did you bring this to me?"

"Because I can't take it anywhere else. He's—" she trailed off. "I just can't go through HR."

"Kylie, we have policies for things like this."

"Those policies don't apply to him," she snorted. "Look, I think this was a mistake."

She started to rise, and I raised a hand.

I needed the full story, even if we sat there till the sun went down. No way she was leaving my office without telling me what I needed to know. Only having ten percent of the story was dangerous. It just wasn't going to happen.

"Please. Sit. I need to know everything you're willing to tell me."

She gave a cautious nod and sat back down.

"I won't tell you who it is."

Fuck.

"Kylie, it's my job to protect this bank from litigation. If you won't reveal who you've got the complaint against, there's nothing I can do for you."

She said nothing, so I added, "And, now you've given me the advantage of knowing this situation exists."

She sat back, sad eyes sizing me up and wheels turning: how much to reveal, how much to hold back.

At once, her face twisted with decision, revealing the confident composure expected from well-bred, young ladies. There it was—her dyed-in-the-wool gentility. Instantly recognizable.

"I don't know why I came here," she said, shooting out of the chair and fumbling to gather her things. "I just thought you were different. Forget you saw me."

I stood up, desperate to stop her.

"You know I can't do that. You've just said someone on our staff assaulted you. In our building."

"Then, report it. Do what you have to. Maybe someone around here will finally do the right thing. That's why I came to you in the first place."

Kylie looked me over and started to add something but shook her head and breezed past me.

On her way out the door, she said, "Oh, you can contact HR yourself. Tell them I quit. We'll see if you've got the stones to tell them why."

Beth and I stood stunned, as Kylie swept out the door. She was the first to speak.

"What are you going to do?"

"What can I do? I have no information besides what she gave me. And, who knows if it's the truth? I don't know her at all."

"You saw her arms," Beth chided.

"I did, but who's to say that wasn't staged."

"You need to tell Byron. He needs to be prepared in case she goes to the police. Or, God forbid, the media."

I flopped back in the chair and ran my thumbnail across the seam of its arm. Bryon didn't like complicated and messy. He certainly didn't like incomplete, which is what this was.

For six months, I begged him to revamp the bank's sexual assault and harassment policy, but he kept putting it off. If we'd done it when I asked, at least it would look like we gave a damn.

Kylie chose me based on social standing—I was sure of it. It was no secret that my membership in the world of New York affluence was only partial. First, through my stepdad, then my wife. She probably assumed that I had some ax to grind with the untouchable elite. Most people did.

I mean, I'm not a "pulled myself up by the bootstraps" success story by any stretch, but I'm not bitter about it. My stepdad married my mom when I was still in preschool, and I went along for the ride. Even so, no one ever missed the opportunity to remind me that—while my ticket was paid for—I was lucky to be invited on the trip. Marrying into Rebecca's family put a stop to the side glances and snobbery for a while, but it never completely went away.

Possibilities moved rapid-fire through my head.

"Beth, find out as much as you can about Kylie. Have HR pull her personnel file, look up her social media. But, be discrete. We need to know if she has the potential to lie about something like this."

"And, if she doesn't?"

"Then, my job just go a million times harder."

Beth shook her head and walked out. I stared out the window, the city skyline reflecting the afternoon sun. The man—her assailant—had to be VP or higher to have his own office. That meant that it was someone I knew well—someone who sat across from me in meetings.

My jaw clenched.

Son of a bitch. Stupid, stupid son of a bitch.

Now, I was involved. If I did nothing, I would be complicit in the act.

No better than the mother fucker who hurt her. Allegedly.

That's all I had to hang my hat on. It was merely an accusation, but the pit in my stomach told me otherwise.

A list of possible—what, suspects?—ran through my mind when my phone buzzed.

Allison.

"When will you be home? There are things we need to discuss."

Well, double fuck. What now?

I huffed and sent her a text back.

"Be home in an hour."

The Saga of Cryin' Kylie would have to wait another day.