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The following is an excerpt from W.J. Evans’ financial mystery book Dead Deal, a sexy thriller filled with twists and suspense.
Aimee had never
heard any hanky-panky coming from Philip’s office before, although she wouldn’t be blown away to discover that hanky-panky was exactly what was going on.
The stock market was down well over 100 points, which wasn’t unusual. Volatility
had been the rule lately, not the exception. Aimee’s stomach churned, dreading what might happen if the market fell 200 points or, God forbid, 300 points. She wasn’t sure her ulcer could handle it.
Then, as if her own negative thoughts had caused it, the market began to plunge.
Down 190 points.
Down 242 points.
Down 297 points.
Down 330 points.
“Holy shit,” Aimee whispered to her computer.
Aimee looked around the office. Only two other workers were at their desks—the
other six were out at one of their fabled three-martini brunches. Bert was throwing Velcro darts at a dartboard and talking animatedly on his headset. Leslie Monroe, a pint-sized pit bull of a woman, was staring wide-eyed at her computer screen while chomping into a nasty-smelling liverwurst sandwich.
Aimee wanted to ask Leslie what was happening, but Leslie had made it clear from day one that unless the building was burning down, Aimee shouldn’t feel the need to make small talk with her. Any small talk.
Down 399 points.
Down 439 points.
Down 476 points.
Aimee knew it was the wrong thing to do, but Philip needed to know that the world was crumbling. Literally. Second by second. If he was in his office talking about—or doing—God knows what, he probably had no idea.
She pictured his hard, beautiful face on the day he interviewed her, telling her
NEVER to interrupt him. But surely this was as bad as nuclear war. Maybe worse.
Aimee felt warm pools of acid swirling in her stomach as she rose from her chair.
She fastened the buttons on her blouse and smoothed her skirt. She peeked at the
stock ticker—down 495 points now.
“I’m going in,” she whispered to herself.
She prayed that Shelby had all of her clothes on. And Philip, too. Aimee tapped gently on Philip’s office door, then slowly pushed it open. Philip was sitting half-reclined in his leather chair, fully clothed. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, a sure indication his meeting wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Shelby sat in the wooden chair opposite him, a look of steely death on her face. Her blue blazer was as neatly pressed as when she had walked in.
No hanky-panky at least, Aimee thought.
Philip turned his head slowly to look at her.
“I know you don’t like to be bothered,” Aimee said, in as sweet and soft a voice as
she could muster. “But the sky is falling. The market’s down five hundred points in the past few minutes.”
Philip didn’t flinch. Neither did Shelby.
There’s some serious ice running through this chick’s veins, Aimee thought.
Something about Shelby gave her the hardcore heebie-jeebies.
The room went completely quiet for a moment, as if nobody dared to breathe.
Philip rose from his chair with a deliberate, warlike motion that reminded Aimee of a falcon getting ready to hunt. Shelby watched him with unblinking eyes.
“If the sky is falling, then you must be Chicken Little,” Philip said. He marched loudly over to Aimee, the cords in his neck straining against his skin.
For a moment Aimee thought he was going to hit her. She had the feeling that if he did hit her, she might see Shelby smile for the first time.
Philip didn’t hit her, of course—it wasn’t his style. He preferred intimidation, not
“So tell me, Chicken Little,” Philip continued. “I know you’re good at answering
phones, and you have a nice ass and a damn fine pair of legs. You’ve got a lot going for you.“
But I can’t have somebody working for me who can’t follow one simple goddamn
rule. Can you tell me what that one simple goddamn rule is?”
Aimee stammered her response: “Don’t i-i- interrupt you when your door is closed.”
“That’s right, Chicken Little,” Philip said. “Don’t interrupt me when my door is
closed. I don’t care if the Arabs nuke New York or the Pacific Ocean catches on fire…you are NOT allowed to interrupt me when my fucking door is closed!”
Tears began to roll down Aimee’s cheek.
“Sorry to say, my long-legged friend,” Philip said. “Even if the sky is falling, you have ten minutes to pack your things and get your juicy ass out of my building.”
Shelby Powell finally smiled.
Aimee turned around, feeling two inches high. She shuffled stiffly back to her desk, ignoring Bert Bunning’s look of pity. She flicked off her computer and started to gather up her belongings.
Author Bio: W.J. Evans is involved in various business interests including commercial real estate development, hotels and restaurants based in Atlanta, Georgia. He co-founded the 50in50 in 2008, raising awareness for cancer by playing 50 golf courses in 50 days in all 50 states. Along with writing, in his spare time he enjoys golf trips, world travel and creating new projects for worthy causes.