smile was knowing.
Oh, really?
A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting
gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started
engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude,
only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal
assistant.
Great.
I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and
actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be.
But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck with me.
Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be
Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become her assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't
tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the
realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I
didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position
with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant
totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.
And I was about to have to shovel turds.
“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it,
but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and
he couldn't wait to pass it along.
He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the
many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can
keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of
them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the
crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.
Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the
ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I
can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her
feet and cleaned up.”
I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could
just do himself. The ladies room is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a lady— and
I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I
suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to
put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would
find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”
“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the
auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the
melee of well-dressed assholes.
“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the
auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be
checking for?
But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling
people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven
to attend to. And what could be more important than that?
*
Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I
took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember
it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.
By the time I had mostly cleaned the vomit from her hair and
made her as presentable as possible, I was a mess. My cocktail dress
stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was redfaced and sweaty from the
exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into
the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to
straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my one
last check, whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant
making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that
nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.
I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized
this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper
crust, and not a boring
Oh, really?
A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting
gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started
engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude,
only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal
assistant.
Great.
I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and
actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be.
But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck with me.
Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be
Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become her assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't
tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the
realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I
didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position
with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant
totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.
And I was about to have to shovel turds.
“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it,
but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and
he couldn't wait to pass it along.
He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the
many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can
keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of
them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the
crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.
Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the
ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I
can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her
feet and cleaned up.”
I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could
just do himself. The ladies room is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a lady— and
I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I
suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to
put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would
find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”
“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the
auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the
melee of well-dressed assholes.
“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the
auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be
checking for?
But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling
people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven
to attend to. And what could be more important than that?
*
Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I
took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember
it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.
By the time I had mostly cleaned the vomit from her hair and
made her as presentable as possible, I was a mess. My cocktail dress
stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was redfaced and sweaty from the
exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into
the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to
straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my one
last check, whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant
making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that
nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.
I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized
this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper
crust, and not a boring
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