————-Intermission 2—————
Monica doesn’t hate the moment her agent wakes her up. The internal beeping is the tell-tale sign that it’s time to make the donuts. And by making donuts she means making Eddies on the backs of her competitors. Wealth isn’t even about keeping score. It’s about watching her opponents crumble as she walks away with the prize. Cash money is just the icing on the cake.
The exec disentangles herself from the limbs filling her bed. Ringo snores heavily, head tilted back nearly falling off the mattress. Caldwell still wears a stoned grin of surprise, grafted to his face in his sleep. He clearly hadn’t expected the post mission bliss to turn into post coital bliss. Well, if you don’t like it, don’t save the bosses life. Rewards have their rewards.
Showering isn’t optional. MDR heads to the spray of warm clean water enjoying both the pounding on her tender flesh and the fact that in ten minutes she uses more clean water than folks in the combat zone see in a year. Maybe she is an asshole. Probably is, in fact. Still, rewards have their rewards.
She emerges, still sore from bullets and bite marks, some twenty minutes later, dressed to kill. The trip to the CloudKill office doesn’t long. She stops her for caf. Stops for a bagel. Stops to brush crumbs off her power dress. Wouldn’t want to spoil this with an errant organic chia seed or bit of non-GMO wheat. She slides into the lobby of their building, slides her pass through the security check, slides past the metal detector (because that shit is for low level peons), and slides her fingers down the bank of elevator buttons. Punches twenty-four.
The walk down the hall is thrilling, an expectant tickle. She hovers in front of Avery’s door. Smoothes down a hungry smile into a predatory leer. Knocks twice.
And gets nothing.
Knocks again.
Gets nothing again.
“The fuck?” MDR whispers. Throwing patience to the wind, Monica twists the door handle, finds it unlocked (surprise number 1), and pushes the door open. The office isn’t empty. Standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back is Mr. Thornton. All five foot two of him (Surprise number 2).
For a moment, Karma doesn’t quite know what to say. Thornton doesn’t turn around.
“Monica,” he says without turning.
“You were expecting Avery, to be sure.”
“To be sure.” Monica joins him at the window. She looks at his suit, handwoven with wool from virgin goats, daily massaged with olive oil by six year old boys picked from Kazakhstani orphanages for their finger dexterity. The ring on his pinky could buy a building.
“You hoped to gloat. To rub her face in your victory.”
More like push her face repeatedly into her desk and finish her off with a couple blows from a paperweight.
“I do not blame you for this.”
Because you encourage it.
“Alas, your promotion will have to wait. No Avery, no promotion. We still need a few bits and pieces from your superior. And…” Thornton spreads his hands helplessly using only his voice.
“No Avery,” MDR finishes lamely.
“You do get to the heart of the matter.” Thornton defies physics and looks down on her from six inches below her sight line.
“Have a good day.” The CEO of Cloudkill strides out of the room, message delivered.
MDR sighs. Punches the window in what is supposed to now be her office. Maybe she would already be watching maintenance use Windex to wash blood off the glass. No Avery, no promotion.
She starts making calls.