Downward

It had been a scene, and the whole lobby was frozen in anticipation of how the redhead would react. Someone chuckled softly, and uncomfortably, across the way. There was a nervous cough. Abby had no choice but to return to Barrow.

She joined him, hesitated, but didn't address what had just unfolded. Instead, she took a deep breath and offered, "On to Marie Partee?"

Barrow sized her up, nodded, and replied, "Yes. Marie Partee." It looked as if she wanted to reach out, and give her a hug, but he held back.

He was good-looking. Of that, there could be no argument. Tall, dark hair, in good shape. Young; maybe mid-to-late thirties? He was whip-smart, with an MBA of his own. In what was perhaps the understatement of the century, Abby's boss Chris had warned her that Barrow could be "condescending to women." Abby had found herself fetching coffee and making copies for him when she'd come to give him updates at the Plaza, and he'd basically evicted her from her own office that week in Park Place -- setting up shop and forcing her down the hall to the reception desk. But he also had a power to him, an undeniable magnetism that Abby (and others, it seemed) couldn't resist; she found herself wanting to please him. Chris had told her, before that first meeting, that she needed to make sure she was well-dressed for him, in a skirt and hose, and Abby had dutifully allowed that instruction to dictate how she'd dressed around him every time since.

The fact that Kristen Metkovich had just escaped, that Abby had failed Will Barrow, was crushing.

He recognized that she wasn't quite ready to move on to Marie Partee just yet. "No need to fall on your sword," he offered. "We get a 'no' sometimes."

"No, of course," Abby responded. "Of course. I know."

"Why don't we regroup, lick our wounds, and plan on meeting down in the call center at eleven?" Marie was a team leader for the escalated customer complaints group, with a staff of sixteen under her. At thirty-four, she was among the oldest of Abby's candidates. But she was single, gorgeous, and took to every assignment she was given with enthusiasm and company spirit. And, as a native of Montreal, she'd be USF's first Canadian-born mailgirl, one whose work visa Abby and Barrow were hoping to exploit as leverage.

"Sure," Abby answered. "Makes sense."

"I'll have Mistress Rei get started with Number Five a little early," Barrow continued on. "I'm just going to be in your office, making a couple of calls. Are you coming?"

Abby shook her head. "No, I..." she started, then stopped. Then started again, "No, I think I'm going to go grab a coffee downstairs, and maybe take in the show?" Number Five would have an audience as she was introduced to the locker room for the first time. It came out a little creepy, and certainly had some homosexual undertones to it. But she and Barrow had watched Numbers Three and Four join the ranks from a lunch table together yesterday, so she knew he'd understand that the place she was operating from was one more akin to the pride of ownership. She'd bask in that morning's success to get over the subsequent failure.

She wasn't actually going to head to the cafeteria, but it made a believable enough cover -- so long as Barrow didn't invite himself along.

He didn't. "Call center," he confirmed. "Eleven."

"Eleven," Abby repeated.

He looked past her, out the door, and after Kristen Metkovich. He smiled, and then offered up only, "Cunt."

Abby couldn't help but laugh a little. In whatever regards Barrow held the whole of her gender, he was never one to speak to bluntly or with such vulgarity. He was doing this for her benefit, and with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Cunt," Abby agreed.

Barrow turned, headed for the elevators, and gave Abby her leave.

She looked at her smartphone. It was already ten past. She wouldn't have a lot of time. As Barrow returned to her office, Abby was off to the stairwell, and down into the depths of Park Place.