Page 13

Twelve. Being paid to stalk you

Vera

I t’s been a few days since I returned from Mumbai and I miss sex with Elias. I also miss him . He makes me laugh and is a good cuddle buddy, when I want to be cuddled, of course. But I’ve drawn my lines and I will stick to them, no matter what. Being so out of the loop with cricket and the ICL, I don’t know the format or their schedule. I usually wait for him to text me about where he is, what he’s doing and when I get to see him next.

“Ms. Thomas, the conference room is ready for you,” James, my assistant, says from the doorway to my office.

“Is he here yet?” I ask with a heavy sigh.

He chuckles and nods. “On his way up.”

“Thanks, James.”

The idea of assistants always rubbed me the wrong way, mostly because the people I assisted treated me like shit. But a year into starting my company, I realised the benefits of assistants. James was my first hire and he’s been the gift that keeps on giving. He joined me at twenty-two, fresh out of college and the only earning member of his family. He didn’t speak any English and my Tamil was passable, but we made it work for six months. After which I signed us both up for language classes—English for him and Tamil for me—so we could learn to communicate. Seven years later, he’s the reason I get any work done and why this office runs so efficiently.

Tall and sharply dressed at all times, James is a handsome young man. He’s soft-spoken, but can be blunt. He’s hard working and dedicated to keeping Lucky Shot running smoothly. I would be floundering if James didn’t exist because he checks my email and highlights important ones, he organises my meetings and keeps my head on my shoulders. He’s also my first line of defence when it comes to people I don’t want to deal with.

In very simple terms, James Pillai is the best.

My phone buzzes as I gather my things and I smile when I see texts from Superstar . To avoid revealing our connection, I decided not to save his number under his full name.

Superstar

We should have stayed in bed in Mumbai. This sucks.

Rolling my lips together, I shake my head. I agree with him, even if the real world was calling. I think back to the knee-wobbling way he kissed me before we got on the elevator and the filthy words he said while fucking me into the soft mattress. But what’s playing on a loop is actually how earnest he was that night and the complete awe when he realised who I really am.

Don’t let yourself go down this road, Vee .

“Right, fuck buddies,” I mutter to myself and head to the conference room where folks are setting up for the presentation.

Starting Lucky Shot was never part of my life plan. Like everyone else in my generation, I struggled to find the right jobs and suffered quietly through the ones I thought were a good fit. It took me almost fifteen years of being treated like shit to realise I had to change things. Not only for myself, but for everyone else who had to deal with things the way I did.

My years in advertising and public relations taught me while there are tons of women doing good work, most of them never get the recognition they deserve. Our successes are often credited to men and every request for a promotion was followed by a ‘you need to do more if you want that role’ conversation. I was tired of doing all the work and being ignored, so I quit in a blaze of glory. I made enemies, I pissed off a lot of people, but at the end of the day I was able to move forward without any regrets.

It took me two years to get Lucky Shot off the ground and since then, I’ve made a name for myself. Not only as a company to work with, but a company to work for . Building teams and hiring the right people doesn’t happen overnight. Now when I look around the gorgeous office space we have, I can say I made the right choice. It’s never been just about how much money we’re bringing in. Lucky Shot is more focused on the kind of work we do.

The conference room door opens and James steps through, followed by the founder and CEO of a well-known textile company. Mr. Selvaraj is the most pompous and self-righteous person I have ever met. Five men and one woman step into the room behind him and they take their time settling into the chairs around the table. My team and I are on our feet, a sign of respect for a man that has none to give, and I offer him a smile he returns half-heartedly.

“Welcome back to Lucky Shot, Mr. Selvaraj.”

He grunts. “I’m looking forward to the updates you’ve made to your presentation.”

I’m looking forward to the ways I can erase you from this planet . I flash him my most demure smile and nod at the person leading the meeting. As the presentation begins, I pay attention to the people sitting across from me. Mr. Selvaraj is a douchecanoe, but his staff are pretty decent. Even if the man dislikes what we offer them in terms of marketing plans and PR guidance, his team is usually good at convincing him otherwise. I might even have to thank them for being the reason we scored this client.

A year ago, a call went out that his textile company was looking for new representation. We beat out some of the best agencies in the country to secure this contract and I wasn’t going to take it lightly. However, the man makes it impossible every chance he gets. He finds the tiniest issues with our suggestions, inflating them into bigger problems than they are.

It doesn’t surprise me, because this is textbook male chauvinism at work. He’s always been the most powerful person in every room, until he met me. I might not be as wealthy or own an internationally traded company, but I hold myself tall and strong every single time. I don’t have time to mollycoddle sexist pigs with too much money.

Thirty minutes later, soft claps go around the room before Mr. Selvaraj’s people are pushing to their feet. I tuned out of the meeting a long time ago, mostly because I know this presentation like the back of my hand. Also because I trust my team to put their best foot forward.

“That was a far better presentation than I expected,” the older gentleman says as he smooths his shirt over his protruding belly. “Send it over, so we can look at it again with everyone else before we sign off.”

I nod, still seated as he stares me down. With a saccharine smile, I say, “Of course. We will need confirmation by the end of the week if we are to implement this.”

With a wave of his hand, he leaves the room, his team following closely behind.

Once the door is closed, everyone collapses into their chairs. I chuckle at their reactions as I stand up, straightening my clothes.

“You did great today, as always,” I tell them.

“Thank you, Ms. Thomas. I can never tell with Mr. Selvaraj.”

“Ignore him, focus on his team instead. They were nodding and taking notes. If you’ve got them hooked, the hard work is done.”

They thank me again as I head back to my office and settle behind my desk. I often leave my phone behind during meetings, to show I’m present and professional. It’s rare I have too many notifications waiting for me. But ever since I met Elias, that’s not the case.

He’s a prolific and speedy texter and I’m always playing catch up. I’ve also discovered he likes to unload his thoughts into our conversation, so most days I’m reading inner monologues.

Superstar

I also fucking hate PT. I know it’s good for me and it’ll help me get back onto the field, but this is fucking ridiculous. I’m pretty sure Doc is trying to break my arm while attempting to fix it. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

When I said that to Doc, he rolled his eyes and continued torturing me. I prefer your kind of torture, this isn’t fun.

Coming home in two days, if you’ve got some time for me, I’d like your brand of torture to counter this unpleasant one.

Just got an email that says you’re actually “chronicling my life”?

Ever since I found out he’s a benched player because of his rotator cuff injury, I’ve done some of my own research. I can only imagine how painful the recovery might be and what physiotherapy is doing for him. His frustrations with the team are clear in every text and I know he hates being sidelined. I might not follow the sport anymore, but I did look Elias up and every article, video and pundit only has the best things to say about him. Plus, I did watch some of his highlight reels and the man is very talented.

Which is why his insistence he isn’t good enough or didn’t deserve me was confusing. I’ve met a lot of people in my life that were half the man Elias is. When he’s on the pitch, he carries himself with confidence and strength. But the person I’ve met isn’t the same one in those videos. I wonder if his spirit has been crushed because he’s not playing or if there’s more to it. I might have assured him that he’s more than enough, but it feels like an issue rooted deeper in his soul. And I don’t know how to help him. Especially since we’re only supposed to be fucking and this seeps into feelings territory.

Superstar

I miss you.

I groan at the last text and drop my head to my desk. I know he wasn’t joking when he said he wanted more, but I don’t want to blur the lines. Turning my phone over, I ignore it as I spend the next few hours finishing up for the day—replying to emails, accepting and declining meetings, reviewing work lists and paperwork from my board members.

Only when I’m done do I acknowledge the device again. Standing in front of the tall windows looking out onto the city, I take a few minutes to gather my thoughts and type out my response.

Think about how much faster you’ll be back on the field if you suffer through the PT. And how much faster you can toss me around once you’re fully healed. Also, we’re not chronicling your life, sounds so dramatic. I’m being paid to stalk you.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, knowing I have to acknowledge his last message in some way. “Just say something. Anything ,” I grumble.

I’m looking forward to you being home.

Superstar

See you in two days, beautiful.

Home .

“I gotta know, is it the sex or is his dick beautiful?”

My cousin-slash-best friend was waiting for me when I got home. Born six months apart, we’ve been inseparable since we were kids. She lost her parents at a very young age and my mother—who lost her sister that same day—took Tamara in even though she had a house full of kids. Between my mother and our grandmother, Tamara was always surrounded by love. Our relationship is further proof of that.

Our jobs are incredibly demanding—she’s an interior architect and works with a very famous firm in the city—but we make sure that we see each other at least once a week, if not more.

Once I let her in, we changed into our Star Trek themed onesies and have been lounging while the television plays Brooklyn Nine-Nine .

“Seriously, what does this guy have the others don’t?”

“Everything,” I mumble into my glass of wine, because that’s the truth. My emotional quota seems to be filled with this man. Two nights spent fucking and talking, and he’s got me thinking about him even when we’re miles apart.

“So, it’s the sex, the dick and the man itself.”

“I don’t know, Tam. He’s…different.”

She snorts. “He’s a dude. We’ve met and fucked enough of them to know they’re more or less the same.”

“True. But …”

“How good is the sex on a scale of one to ten?”

“Twelve.” I hesitate and take another swig of mine before adding, “Maybe fifteen.”

“What the hell?”

“Four orgasms the night we met. Six in Mumbai. And his bounce back rate is insane.”

Tamara groans. “Jealous! I haven’t had more than two orgasms at the hand of someone else in a long time.”

I frown at her admission because she’s been with her boyfriend, Kabir, for a long time. I don’t like him and think she deserves better, but Tam is stubborn.

“The thing is, I told him we could only be fuck buddies. I know he wants more. When I’m with him, I sometimes forget we’re meant to be only friends too,” I tell her, aware she doesn’t want to talk about her boyfriend.

“Don’t overthink it. Have fun and see where it goes. Why do you have to curb yourself and your feelings when you’re having fun?”

“Because…”

“Ugh, don’t give that pathetic excuse of a man any credit.”

A laugh bursts out of me, because she’s right. Rakesh might have been my last serious relationship and the cause for my hesitance to accept more than sex. But he isn’t deserving of taking up any more room in my head. Neither is Ajay, the first man who broke my heart. Not that the women I dated between them were any better. The difference is things ended before I got too attached.

“ He was an asshole. Doesn’t mean Elias is the same,” Tamara says, breaking me from my thoughts.

I know she’s right, but I remember the heartache. I’ve buried myself in work and one night stands because that’s easier than committing to someone. Everything is so different with Elias and I wish I knew how to handle it properly.

“Tell me you know Elias is nothing like him.”

I sigh. “I know they’re miles apart, but you understand why I don’t want a relationship yet.”

“If you want to disguise your relationship by calling it fuck buddies, I won’t stop you. But don’t keep hiding behind that.”

With a loud grunt, I finish my wine and climb onto the sofa. Tamara joins me seconds later and holds out her phone. At first, I’m confused at the photograph—Elias with his arms wrapped around a dark haired woman in a crowded club, his face buried in her neck. I suck in a sharp breath when I scroll further and see him grinning at the same dark haired woman. That look on his face is one I’ve seen countless times and when I realise the pictures are from the night we met, I drop the phone like it burned me.

“Apparently his night out with you forced him to rejoin the team on the road.”

“I know about that, but why are you showing it to me?”

“In case you didn’t read his expression properly, he’s already halfway in love with you.”

“Tam, stop .”

My cousin rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, you should have fun, but you should also consider he’s different. That he wants you.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“So let him get to know you, let him fall all the way in love with you.”

“You’re a pest,” I grumble and she laughs.

“You love me anyway. So, do I get to meet him?”

“He’s home in two days, so maybe…what?” She’s got this giddy smile lighting up her face.

“You said he’s home in two days. That’s fucking cute.”

“Fuck off. Chennai is home for both of us, don’t read into it.”

“Too late.”

She starts singing ‘Vera and Elias sitting in a tree…’ and I shove her, both of us dissolving into wine-induced giggles.