Free The Messenger (A Lesbian Romance) by K.C. Blake

Chapter 1
    These kinds of meetings share a similar rhythm with sex: some innuendo, some back and forth, then after a bit of awkward interaction, someone comes out on top, while the other party more or less holds their breath waiting for a returned phone call. I’ve been running meetings like this for upwards of twenty years, and had long become acquainted with the signs of a deal, or a fuck, going bad.
    In this particular meeting, for example, the red flags were waving like palm trees in the wind. If I didn’t know any better, I could’ve sworn that the guy at the other end of the conference table was going to cry. I began to hope it would happen, just to see something new for a change. I mean, they’d made so many mistakes. They let us choose the small conference room, for fuck’s sake. They had to have known that we’d use that to our advantage by using the small space to crowd them, to take turns standing up and pacing to give them the impression that they were in a cage with a wild animal.  
    Or maybe, they’d made the fatal mistake of underestimating me because I’m a woman, or because I’m old enough to be most of their mothers. Whatever the case, this particular batch of young bucks came into my office expecting to pass over some insult of a deal, and we handed their asses back to them in a greasy paper bag. What did they expect? I’m what’s known, unaffectionately, as a ball-breaker in my industry. I’m the kind of CFO that inspires either nightmares or wet dreams, depending on if I’m on your side or not. Make even a single error and I’ll sniff it out like a bloodhound. All it took was a single terse glance from one of them to let me know that there were mistakes and miscalculations lurking within the offer like a virus. I didn’t even have to read it.  
    “Tell me your numbers”, I began, knowing full well that they would begin making it up.  
    “Uh… well… you’ll see our offer is more than generous… “
    It was like blood in the water.  
    “Tell me when you’d take the company public”, I asked. All I got in return was a hard swallow. I was already bored.  
    “Tell me your projected overhead for your first quarter.”  
    The wet behind the ears MBA only blinked.  
    Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. I’ve given this company my twenties and thirties. I survived layoffs and recessions by protecting this company with every ounce of resourcefulness I could muster. In return, I’m highly compensated. Not that I go in for the flashy stuff, but knowing that I could buy almost anything I wanted was as good as actually doing it. I’m more interested in the power than the money.  
    Somehow, though, something had begun feeling different lately. There was something missing. It was beginning to feel like I’d been doing this for so long that it just wasn’t exciting anymore. How could I have ever thought I’d get bored with this job?
    Mitchell, our CEO and my counterpart, noticed it as well. He popped into my office as soon as the meeting was over, and more demanded than asked that we go get a drink. While I never disclose what I’m thinking, I never turn down a drink.  
    We walked to his favorite bar, a cavernous place that emulated a 1920’s speakeasy, right down to the flapper-girl bartenders and servers. He sidled up to the bar while I claimed us a small booth in the window. As he ordered, no doubt chatting up the bartender, pretty in a young, coltish kind of way, I looked outside as though something out there might have the answer to the question that had slowly begun unfolding itself.
    To my dismay, there were no surprises on the other side of the glass. The same kinds of faces I saw day after day after day, tired and forlorn, no matter their color. The same weary shuffles, the same buses, all moving in the same rhythms. Just before I started planning a trip to some exotic country to go “find myself”, Mitchell returned, gin and tonics in hand. He looked disappointed.