L.A. Caveman (4 page)

He would recognize himself in her
column, since she talked about a testosterone-soaked caveman who
made business decisions with his "divining rod." She hoped it made
him mad enough to call her into his office again. This time she'd
be prepared, though. Now she knew what to expect. Kind
of.

Not really.

Well, maybe she didn't hope he called
for her. Maybe magazine life could continue on uninterrupted,
though, the way it used to be. Surely he had better things to do,
other responsibilities of managing the magazine
business.

He’d just have to wake up to modern
reality. It wasn't fair or appropriate to change her column to be
the voice of Neanderthals, men's magazine or not, and it wasn’t
good business despite his misguided opinion. He might give her a
man's byline. "Stan" was the name he’d picked out, she thought with
amusement. How many people would even be fooled by the changing of
her name?

But rewrite her entire column? He
wouldn’t have time.

She suddenly wondered what revenge he
would have time to take. Might he use his red editor’s pencil on
her column? Or might he do something worse? For a moment, a shadow
of dread passed over her and a calm and reasonable voice within her
asked if she knew what she was getting into.

Stanna acknowledged the voice's point
even as she reached for a paperclip to fasten the editorial
runsheet to her column. It really was much too late for second
thoughts. She'd taken her stand.

Unlike some people who questioned
themselves into a corner, she'd stick by her decision until she
succeeded. Or until someone convinced her men didn't desperately
need to hear what she had to say in her column every
week.

Not bloody likely.

She felt a shiver of anticipation.
Wondering at it, she realized she was looking forward to the
battle.

She should’ve gone to bed
earlier.

The effects of sipping wine with Telly
then finessing her column until late into the night dragged on
Stanna: slightly foggy upstairs, and her limbs were slow taking
orders from her.

She prescribed herself coffee and
walked to the Wednesday morning employee meeting. She was curious
about the very first meeting chaired by the new editor/owner, but
more curious about Jake's reaction to the column she’d drop on his
desk afterward. The anticipation of seeing him again made her
smile, a touch nervously.

Stanna warmed her hands on the mug of
coffee, enjoying its heat and the new-coffee aroma wafting back as
she strode to the conference room. She might actually have to give
Jake a bit of credit. He'd dumped the notoriously bad industrial
brew Ian called coffee and stocked the kitchen with savory
Starbucks flavors sometime in the past twenty-four
hours.

Stanna pushed her hip against the
shining metal handlebar on one of the large glass doors to the
conference room. She slipped inside with practiced skill before the
door could swing shut and dislodge her coffee.

The room was the largest one on the
entire floor, the length of perhaps ten employee cubicles
end-to-end. The oversized glass doors fitted into glass wall, and
at the other end a floor-to-ceiling window had an uninspiring view
of the big brown high-rise next to theirs. Sitting at the long
wooden table were most of the
Men's Weekly
employees, and
she greeted some of her friends and pulled up a chair near the head
of the table. The glass doors opened again and Jake pushed
through.

"Ok, let's get this thing started." He
nudged his chair further underneath the head of the table and stood
behind it, lightly grasping the chair back. The glass doors shut,
creating a tiny breeze that whooshed past him and over Stanna. She
could smell the understated scent of his woodsy cologne along with
her coffee, since he was an uncomfortably insufficient three feet
away. He smelled of quality and competence, and pure, raw
masculinity. It was disturbing, and she couldn't help but look at
the man who originated the scent.

Even more disturbing.

He wasn't looking at her, but had his
strong profile turned to survey the others of his staff. He might
have been counting, or just interested in seeing all his people
gathered in one place.

In all, exactly nineteen employees
ringed the long table. They were a varied bunch, with slightly more
men than women, all dressed more or less casually or
business-casual, as per norm. The publishing industry hosted a
relaxed dress code, which the artistic employees who gravitated to
such jobs appreciated.

Even Jake took "casual" to an extreme,
for an owner anyway. Making a point about his wanting to be one of
the crew? Trying to set a new casual standard? Or did he just
prefer more laid-back clothes? She didn’t know, but Stanna
reluctantly admired the way Jake's rugged, broken-in jeans hugged
his narrow hips. Her angle next to him gave her a hip-height
vantage point, and her eyes naturally fell on his pocket-tucked
thumb pinning his black shirt to make an open curtain frame for the
generously rounded, faded button-fly front. Her breath caught, and
she looked for a full, mesmerized second before quickly lowering
her gaze, her face heated. It didn't help. Now she could see his
superbly muscled thigh and calf, and down by the wheels on the
chair, the leather peek of cowboy boots.

His voice was smoky, melodious. She
enjoyed the tone of it for a few moments before lending her
attention to the content. She didn't quite dare to look up at his
face yet -- had he seen her ogling his crotch? How embarrassing.
What was she doing, anyway, with such thoughts of... of consorting
with the enemy.

She scanned her fellow employees
instead. They seemed to be hanging on every word he said. To be
fair, it was interesting, the way he described his decision to buy
Men's Weekly
. And his declaration in ringing tones of his
commitment to his employees. Very convincing. They were certainly
eating it all up. Michael the art director was looking at Jake with
something like adoration.

What about how he fired Ian, Stanna
thought with some bitterness. Where was all Jake’s so-called
employee commitment then, hmmm? A cynical puff of sound escaped
her, making some of her nearer co-workers glance at her
questioningly. But the disapproving compression of her lips slowly
eased as she listened to Jake’s words.

"...and of course some of you must be
wondering why your former editor, Ian, had to be let go, and
whether there will be any more changes." Jake turned and looked
down to meet Stanna's startled glance up at him. His mouth
momentarily curved in sardonic amusement, then his eyes flicked
back over the long table of employees calmly. "The short answer to
the first question is, Ian is no longer needed since I am assuming
the role of editor. For those of you who are wondering, he was
receptive to the idea of an early retirement, and seemed content to
accept the terms of the severance package I offered
him."

Not wasn't exactly true, Jake mused,
but they didn't need to know the gory details of the previous
editor's refusal to accept the termination and his nastiness and
threats to Jake.

Ian had finally taken Jake's
more-than-generous severance and left, not without promising Jake
he hadn't heard the last of him. But Jake thought that he had. The
sixty-year-old would have to be a fool not to realize what a sweet
deal he'd received, considering the incompetent way he’d been
running the magazine.

At least Ian hadn't had a contract,
Jake thought, fighting the urge to look again at his female
columnist. He liked the way her smooth golden hair fell to well
above her small round breasts pushing against her white T-shirt. He
remembered how testy she’d been in his office yesterday.
Passionate. Was she the type to display the same kind of passion in
bed? The thoughts made him self-consciously wonder for a moment if
he possessed more than the average amount of healthy male lust, and
he moved closer to the chair back in front of him.

Jake opened a manila folder and pulled
out some handouts he'd prepared. Handing them to the guy on his
left, he said, "Please take one and pass ‘em on. This," he said,
raising his voice to include the whole table, "should answer most
of your questions about the changes I want to implement in
Men's
Weekly
. It's an overview explanation with a breakdown by
department showing what each of you will be responsible for. Please
take a look at it. I’ll discuss this first, then I'll answer any
questions."

When the diminished pile of handouts
got to Stanna, she pulled one from the top and placed the last one,
pinch-fingered, in front of Jake. Silence ruled the room. Glancing
down at the sheet, Stanna's eyes widened. There, in title-type at
the top of the page, was Jake's new
Men's Weekly
slogan:
"GIVING MEN WHAT THEY WANT, WHEN THEY WANT IT."

Stanna bristled, but on second thought
shrugged, figuring it was just marketing. The line could simply be
referring to baseball cards. Or something that was totally
innocent.

But when her eyes scanned down to her
new responsibilities, she knew her problem would be much bigger
than baseball cards:

"'STAN SAYS,' formerly 'Woman's Word,'
is Stanna Whitland's responsibility. The voice should be a hip,
hungry heterosexual male who delivers a weekly column on troubles
plaguing the modern man: employment, women, finances, women,
fitness, women, you get the picture. Surveys say men want to hear
about women. This is the magazine's main forum for it. In addition
to this weekly column, Stanna's official responsibilities now
include handling the main phone line and acting as receptionist,
managing the departmental correspondence (mail, Fed Ex, faxes,
memos, etc.), and any other special projects I give
her."

The florescent light in the conference
room gave the white sheet of destiny in front of her an unpleasant
glare. Stanna felt her stomach tighten in a defensive ball as the
shock kicked in. There it was, committed to print for everyone to
see. Her column, a forum for slobbering over women. And, as if that
weren't enough, he'd made her receptionist too. Receptionist. The
lowest rung on the magazine ladder. It was a joke. She, Stanna
Whitland, had been training under Ian to become the next editor.
The
highest
rung aside from being the publisher or owner.
Receptionist
.
They'd gotten along fine without a
receptionist by having everyone answer their own phone. What was
this all about?

But the moment she asked herself the
question, the answer popped into her head.
He's doing it to make
you quit.

Her anger coalesced as she stared at
the paper in front of her. Scanning quickly, she saw only minor
changes to the others' responsibilities.

Definitely out to get her.

It was the sound rather than the
conscious decision to do it that made Stanna realize that she'd
torn the paper in two. It seemed to echo in the silence of the
room, and she became aware that every eye was on her.

Jake didn't seem surprised. His face
held an attentive, alert, expression. She could only imagine what
the other faces ringing the table revealed. They were suddenly all
peripheral blurs.

"Do you have a question?" So Jake was
going to play dumb. He exuded the kind of arrogance that made her
want to upset his equilibrium, just for the cosmic balance of
it.

Her words shot out without any
premeditation. "Yes. How did such an ignorant son of a bitch get to
be an editor?"

Did I really just say that?
Stanna heard gasps around the room. Michael was staring at her like
she'd grown a long black hat and sprouted a wart-sporting
beak.

Jake's face hardened somehow, showing
displeasure without a change in expression. But he controlled it,
along with his voice when he answered, "If you’re referring to
Ian…” His voice warned.

“
I’m not.”

“
Then, you’re referring to
me. I will say I didn’t attain this position by rudely swearing at
my superiors, I assure you."

"You’re certainly not my superior.
You’re not superior to Ian either. You’re not superior, end of
statement. Get over yourself." The rest of the room had disappeared
as far as Stanna was concerned. It was just the two of them. Mano
et mano. Duking it out. Maybe she had her "tail feathers in a
twist" as her stepfather used to condescendingly tell her, but she
had good cause.

So it was with momentary surprise that
she registered how Jake's next words were directed at the rest of
the table rather than at her.

"Please excuse the interruption, but I
think it's best if we resume this meeting next week at the same
time." Jake dismissed everyone with a calmness she felt certain he
didn't feel. Too quietly, her fellow workers gathered up their mugs
and notes and filed solemnly out of the room. The tension in the
air prickled her skin.

She swallowed. They were
alone.

"I'd like to discuss this further in
my office." Jake gave her a neutral, almost distant glance and
began walking toward the door, assuming she'd follow
him.

"I'm not going to your office," Stanna
responded, wishing she were more successful in injecting outrage
into her voice.