Free I'll Be Your Everything by J.J. Murray

...”
    “What?”
    “Confused.”
    I try to smile. “It’s my style, Tia.” And yes, I am confused. And hyperventilating.
    She touches my arm. “You will be fine. You are my rock. You have something worked out in your head to say to this client?”
    “Sort of. It’s probably just a meet and greet.” I hope. “I’m sure he just wants to measure me up, see if I can jump when he says jump.”
    “And how do you feel, Miss Ross?” Tia asks.
    I blow out a shaky breath. “Ready. Powerful.” And scared to death!
    “I will pray for you,” she says.
    I give her a little hug. “Thank you, Tia.”
    As the sun sneaks through a few gray clouds, I sprint three blocks down Fulton till I get to St. Paul’s. I’m not Catholic, but I cross myself just the same. I zip in through the Millennium’s front entrance, taking the elevator to the third floor and the Church & Dey restaurant. Considering how I’m dressed, I’m relieved that the restaurant is not that fancy. It’s actually kind of ordinary, not intimidating at all. No good china, not too much silverware or too many glasses, lots of wood, paper not linen napkins. I look through the window at the World Trade Center site. We seem always to be rebuilding in this city, and now I’m rebuilding my life. I say a quick prayer—“Help me, Jesus!”—to the cross made of steel beams that survived 9-11. That cross is a survivor, too.
    “I have a meeting with Mr. Peterson,” I say to the hostess, and I get goose bumps. I have a meeting . Whoo.
    The hostess takes me to Mr. Peterson’s table, and I see kind of what I envisioned as I talked to him on the phone. He’s a good ol’ southern boy, about sixty, tall and wide and jowly. He has to be hating that light-blue pinstriped suit that billows out around him and that very seventies wide blue tie. I sneak a peek at his shoes and see cowboy boots.
    I like this guy.
    He stands and offers his hand. I’ve never done the shaking hands part before. Corrine just leaves her hand out there, expecting the client to take it, and they usually do because they probably want to see her breasts bounce.
    I decide to shake his hand. I may be using her name, but I’m not her. “Mr. Peterson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    He sits, I sit across from him, and I continue shaking in my boots. “You’re not what I expected, Miss Ross.”
    “Oh?”
    He waves a knife with his right hand while holding a biscuit in his other. A rib-eye steak oozing blood and a baked potato oozing butter fill his plate. He’s a meat-and-potatoes man. I can deal with that.
    “Your getup,” he says. “Not what I expected.”
    He has noticed my “new” outfit. I should have stuck to my North Face jacket. “It’s, um, it’s dress-down day. Friday, you know. We have a relaxed atmosphere at MultiCorp.” I just wish that I could relax.
    “Well, I hope I don’t un-relax you,” he says. “You know my bikes?”
    I’ve only seen pictures. “Yes sir. The Rolls-Royce of bicycles.”
    He laughs. “That is a horrible slogan.”
    I don’t disagree.
    “I have a lot of iron and rubber to move quick, Miss Ross,” he says while buttering his biscuit. “You up to it?”
    “Yes sir. What’s our time line?”
    “I’ll need the works out the day before Thanksgiving.”
    This just isn’t done! The works! He’s out of his mind! But I’m not going to tell him that. Why am I not breathing? Oh yeah. That will only give me twelve days, including weekends and Bryan, who is not going to be a happy camper, to produce all this. Dear Jesus, I know I’m wrong for impersonating Corrine, but could You maybe ease off a little? What Mr. Peterson’s asking is, well, tantamount to treason!
    “Will y’all have enough time?” he asks.
    “More than enough time, Mr. Peterson,” I say confidently while thinking no freaking way!
    “I’ve also given Harrison Hersey and Boulder the go-ahead to see what they can come up with. Just met with Tom Sexton not ten minutes ago.