Ask Jake (Book One of the Whisper Series)

Two: Whisper Queen

    Angela's office greets me too soon. Monica, her secretary, welcomes me with a nod, checks me off her list, and waves for me to have a seat. I'm not sure, but it looks as if she's been crying. Of course she has, she works for Satan.

My heart goes out to her. Every employee at Whisper puts up with a lot to work here. It's not that it's the best gig in town. In fact, my feminist side has issues with this type of publication. Whisper is advertised to be pro-woman, but their articles range from How to Have Great Sex, and Dress for Your Size, to How to Please Your Man. Upon further examination, the entire magazine is really very pro-man. It's all about how to please a man, dress slutty to attract a man, and the like.

Whenever Roxy and I write serious articles about subjects that matter to normal, non-desperate women, Angela will kick it back and make us smutty-it-up before it goes to print.

At the same time, there is something to be said about being able to stick it out at Whisper. Angela is known as one of the hardest women to work for and most people are terrified of her. In addition, they are the top paying magazine in New York, and the benefits are incredible. Whenever another industry professional hears that we've made it with this publication, they are immediately impressed.

As I reach for a chair, I hear a deep, smug and familiar voice that makes my stomach turn sour, "Well, hello there, Gillian." My name sounds like poison coming from Phil's lips.

His early arrival is not a mistake. He signed up for a time right after mine. My stomach cringes, knowing what is coming next.

"Hi, Phil. You're a little early for your appointment. Aren't you after me?" I pick up a magazine on the coffee table and toss it to the side, trying to avoid Phil's stare.

"Well, I just wanted to... see you, and, um, ask you something," he says, scratching his ear.

Here it goes, I think and take a deep breath.

I glance over at Monica, hoping she'll save me from this torture. The smirk on her face proves she is listening, but the way she will not look at me says she is not willing to help.

Traitor.

There isn't an ounce of patience in me to deal with Phil. For the hundredth time since I've worked here, he is going to ask me out. I can tell by the way he looking at me. How many times does the man need to be rejected?

I look down and notice a flake of sugar from a donut dangling off his tie.

Always.

He always has food on his shirt or tie, or pants. The first time he asked me out, he had mustard on his tie. The second, some kind of hot sauce was smeared on his cheek. The third time, his shirt was completely covered in wet coffee. There is no ending to the amount of condiments I've seen spotting his wrinkled clothes.

Thinking about all the times he's asked me out makes me more annoyed that he's here, sitting so close to me, and breathing the same air as me. Knowing that he's about to ask me out with donut sugar dangling from his tie makes me stop him in his tracks. "Phil, not now." My words come out louder and with less patience than I intended. "I just need to get into, the zone. You know? I need to stay...focused." His shoulders drop, notifying me that I have hurt his fragile feelings.

"Oh. Okay. I'll find you later," he says, deflated.

He acts like a hurt puppy every time I come up with some excuse as to why I can't go out with him. Every time he asks I feel like I am getting a little closer to telling him the truth: It's never going to happen. I want to scream, Stop trying, Phil. I don't have feelings left for anyone. He took them, all of them when he left.

My jaw clenches while I consider just spewing my thoughts on him but I know what I would really be doing is using all my nervousness against him to get it off my chest. He wants to date me. I suppose if I look at it in the proper light, he's complimenting me. I would never date him, under any circumstance, but telling him that would just hurt him and that would be upsetting to me too.

I throw another magazine to the side, and Phil jumps in his seat a little. Glancing in his direction, I can see that my rejection has already hurt the poor guy's feelings. The jilted look on his face makes me feel bad. I inhale a deep breath into my lungs and sit back, letting a magazine that I have no intention of reading open on my lap.

Erasing it all from my mind, I look around the large waiting area and notice how much color is in this room. The little couch has a retro orange with blue-stripped pillows, a fluffy area rug, and a hip metal coffee table. There is a fountain on the far wall with a metal sculpture of the Whisper logo. The backlit logo reflects off the cascading water creating depth and many colors to illuminate that part of the room. It's clear that a designer came in here to take away all the cold stark colors that plague other parts of the building. The writers' floor needs some of these touches.

After a few minutes, the door to Angela's office opens and Adam walks out, explaining why I didn't hear screaming behind those closed doors. Angela adores Adam. He's known to be a financial whiz, and he's amazingly good looking. His dark hair contrasts his deep blue eyes which are encased in a tall, fit body. His smile is kind and sincere. Adam is so good looking, that I actually have a hard time looking at him for fear of not being able to look away.

His suits. They always catch my attention they way they must be tailored to fit him just perfect. Not that it matters because I am convinced that he could pick up a suit off the sales rack at Sears and it would look amazing.

Amazing.

Adam's everything any girl could ever want; except for the fact that I think he might be gay. My only reasoning for thinking this is because he's never hit on Roxy, or even paid any attention to her, like every other man in the building.

Roxy argues that he isn't gay because what would be the point in hiding being gay in Manhattan? There are gay guys everywhere and it's become somewhat taboo to stay in the closet. Plus, she believes he's sleeping with Angela. She has no proof, of course, other than the only time we see Angela smile is when she's with Adam. Unfortunately, we've spent way to much time at Guinevere's Grill debating this very unimportant issue, and neither one of us leave with the satisfaction of changing the others' view.

Watching his walk out, I stand, knowing I'm next on the list.

"Hi Gillian," he beams.

"Hi Adam," I beam back. I can't help it. I don't have feelings for him, but he always seems so sincere and I find it impossible to not admire him. He's shiny and fresh. My body and mind react appropriately when Adam is around. He makes me flirty. Phil notices the vast difference in how I respond to Adam and slinks down in his seat.

Adam walks closer and stops a foot in front of me. Bending forward, he leans closer to my face and whispers, "I softened her up for you."

"Thank you. I owe you one," I whisper back.

Adam raises on eyebrow and looks directly in my eyes, "I like the sound of that." He looks at Phil for half a second and then back to me, giving me an award-winning smile. I know this gesture is for Phil's sake and I want to wrap my arms around Adam and thank him for his efforts.

The smile on his face might as well be a slab of granite. I couldn't alter it if I tried. Adam grabs the tip of my elbow and raises his eyebrows as he walks passed.

He pauses for a moment and looks down at Phil, who is watching every move from behind a newspaper, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. "Phil," Adam says with a polite tip of his head.

"Mr. Gradey," Phil replies coldly, not looking up from the paper he's pretending to read. His cheeks appear splotchier than they were moments before.

A triumphant smile spans across Adam's lips as he turns and gives me a wink. I giggle to myself. I really do owe him one.

"Miss Kelly, she is ready for you," Monica says. I gather my belongings, take a long breath of Adam's cologne which lingers in his absence, and walks straight into the fiery pit.