Being Me by Lisa Renée Jones

food between clients has long ago worn off and no sleep the night before has taken a toll.
    “What exactly do you have to run by me?”
    I look up to find Mark standing in the doorway, his tie loose and his hair rumpled. He’d had a meeting with several people today that had lasted hours and he seems oddly harried. “The prospect list,” I reply. “I was hoping you could tell me which ones own pieces that Riptide might contact tomorrow.”
    “I emailed you a list of those prospects earlier this afternoon.”
    “Oh. Hmm. I guess I should check my e-mail. I was slammed with people today.”
    “And yet we had no sales.”
    My spine stiffens and I am instantly transported back to my past, when my father, and yes, Michael, were quick to flatten me when anything went wrong. Anger begins to stir inside me and not at Mark. I thought I’d put it behind me, but I clearly have not. Choose success, Mark had said, and yet he’s here trying to make me admit to failure that doesn’t exist? My anger shifts, twists, and turns inside me. No matter what the outcome, I cannot lie down for Mark as I have others in the past.
    “You know,” I say, and I am proud of how strong my voice is, how steady my gaze, “if you’re trying to get me to ‘choose success,’ assuming my failure isn’t going to help. No sales today might be correct, but I have several customers I feel will buy, and buy well.”
    His lips twitch. “Good to see you feeling confident enough to put me in my place.”
    My eyes go wide. Had I really just put him in his place? Andhe let me, even seeming amused when I barely think he’s capable of such a feeling. Self-doubt rips through me and I try to reel it in, to remind myself he doesn’t seem upset, but I can’t do it. He’s my boss. He’s my path to financial security. I have to justify my reply. “I’m just . . . trying to make sure you know I don’t like failing, either.”
    “And I approve.”
    A frisson of pleasure runs through me with his words and the light in his eyes. Pleasing Mark pleases me and it’s not sexual. No. Chris has that part of me wrapped up tightly enough that there is no room for anyone else. It’s that power thing Mark has along with his role of authority. The pleasure of seconds before begins to ebb and fade at the uncomfortable reminder that even after daring to stand up to him, I did not stand my ground, and I am not in full control of how my past influences me.
    “You look tired,” he says. “And so am I. Why don’t I walk you to your car?”
    “I look tired,” I repeat. “Compliments will get you everywhere, Bossman.”
    “Ah now,” he purrs, his voice low and rough, “if only it were that easy.”
    I swallow hard at the heat in his stare and quickly reach for my purse and briefcase, and words, oh the words I can never control, tumble from my mouth. “Somehow I doubt anything easy would hold your interest.” Oh shit. Had I just issued him a challenge? I didn’t mean to. My eyes jerk to his. “Not that I—”
    Laughter rolls from his lips, deep and rough like his voice. “Relax, Ms. McMillan. I know you weren’t issuing a challenge, though if you have a change of heart that sways in my direction,I’ll be happy to take you up on one.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Let’s get out of here. I’m of the opinion we both had way too long of a night for a long day like this one.”
    No, I think, as I push to my feet, already feeling the absence of Chris in his own apartment. Mine was too short considering Chris was gone for a few more days.
    We exit the gallery, the dim glow of a streetlight illuminating the back of the building and parking lot, where our two cars are the only ones left, and that means by process of elimination, the sporty silver Jaguar is Mark’s. He glances at the 911.
    “I see he made sure to stake his claim,” he states dryly.
    “Or he just really hates my Ford Focus.”
    His eyes narrow sharply. “Don’t get used to what he