*Running away only works if you know what you are running from*
(Again, I have to thank a few of my commenters for ideas that I think improve this story immensely)
(I'd also like to say that this is not a story of domination, or someone changing who they are overnight. In this story sex is not a panacea.)
*
If I had any illusions that my weekend with Mrs. Hardison had earned me anything by end of business Monday they had all evaporated. I had to start up a project, get everyone aware of what I needed from them, and be constantly on call for information I barely knew how to find. I got home to my hovel at ten.
Tuesday I had to set up meetings, go to meetings and deliver a status update to Leslie all before noon. Now that the easy part of my day was over I had to actually get working on the project. In the midst of this I got dragged off to a security briefing I didn't have to be at and then I got buried in calls explaining to me why people couldn't do what I wanted to do for the rest of the day. I was home at nine-thirty.
Wednesday was more of the same; pointless meetings, tons of excuses that basically boiled down to me being a jumped-up twerp with no authority and since they didn't 'have' to do it, they weren't going to do it. I countered with a charm campaign, doing end runs around some of the people giving me crap and personally going to the people I needed to talk to. I was home by eight, but I told my friend the drug dealer on the street corner I was considering his job offer.
Thursday was wonderful. Three people way over my head spent some of their precious time firing off e-mails my way telling me they were going to have my ass for going behind their backs. Two of them threatened to have me fired. I resisted the temptation to tell them to get the fuck in line. Leslie called for an update, I told her I wasn't done and she told me to bring up what I had. I printed it up and went to face the music.
"Hey," Leslie smiles to me. She develops a worried expression as she sees the hang-dogged look on my face. "Is it really that bad?" I hand her my work to date. She looks at it and shakes her head. "This isn't good." She gets up and goes into Mrs. Hardison's office. A minute later she steps out and ushers me in.
Gloria Hardison sits behind her Spartan desk with everything a neat arrangement and everything in its place no doubt. She is reviewing my hardcopy; thumbing through what little I have compiled, a strand of her thin black hair slipping along the delicate curve of her cheek. "Why has Mr. Fujiwara's section not filed any work with you yet?" she says in a clipped tone.
"The long version or the short version," I respond in a tired voice. I figure I am about to go down in flames. Gloria pierces me with a soul-searing glance. "Long version; his department is busy and he'll get to it in due time. Short version; he told me to stuff it up my ass," I explain.
"Leslie, get Mr. Fujiwara in my office immediately," Mrs. Hardison communicates to her assistant. Gloria goes back to work and I stand around uselessly. My phone rings, I answer it and I have a quick conversation with a co-worker who is actually cooperating. All the while Gloria doesn't seem to notice I'm in the room.
Even when Fujiwara walks in the room she doesn't look up until she's finished whatever she's working on. "Mr. Fujiwara, do you know Mr. Duarte?" "Yes Mrs. Hardison," he responds.
"Are you aware of his project?" "Yes I am aware but ..." he stammers. "I give you a set number of projects to supervise, I give you a set amount of time to accomplish these goals and I figure in such things as overlap and acceptable delays. This project is an acceptable delay, so why haven't you been assisting Mr. Duarte?"
"I'll get right on it," he says softly. "What strike is this Mr. Fujiwara?" He doesn't answer. "The answer is three. Clear out your desk and have security process you by end of business. Good day," she said dismissively. The man stumbles out of the office. This is why she's called The Bitch.
"If you have any other problems contact Leslie," she tells me. "Leslie, see that Mr. Fujiwara is removed from the building by five and put a lock on his systems. Inform Harriett List that she's been temporarily promoted," Mrs. Hardison says over her mouth piece then gets back to her work. I stand at attention, turn and leave hoping my sweat isn't showing.
I sometimes forget what a terrible unforgiving bitch she can be, but by the end of business I have people stumbling over themselves to get me what I need. I get home at ten again and I'm really starting to hope I get mugged just so I can sleep it off in some police precinct. I go in early only so I can catch up with all the stuff I should have been doing Tuesday and Wednesday.
At noon Leslie gives me a call and I show up at her desk. I wait for a few people to file out and Gloria's lunch to arrive before I get ushered in. Again I feel like a fly in a massive spider's web. "You've been putting in a great deal of overtime," she comments without looking up. "Yes Mrs. Hardison, but I'm putting the time to productive use. I hope to have a strong alpha model up by Wednesday." She looks up and me and I can't tell if she's angry or happy; she's like a robot, cold and pitiless.
"That is acceptable," she nods. "Friday would have been fine." "Thank you," I sigh. "That wasn't a compliment Mr. Duarte, it was an assessment of the situation," she says evenly. "So, are you working late tonight?"
"I ..." I stammer because there is no way I can judge what the right answers are. "I am ... staying ... no ... I'm leaving on time tonight," I manage to get out." She goes back to her work without physically acknowledging my response. "You may go," she dismisses me.
(Friday Night) I'm working up some stir-fry using the instructions from one of Gloria's cook books at her place. I think I'm doing it okay, but I haven't cooked this in three years. I hear noise from the front of the building but I can't abandon my food so I'm still cooking away when two arms wrap themselves around me and a head presses against my back.
