This is supposed to early, young Emere. Emere that looks like this: http://67.media.tumblr.com/580c8fe5b910bc2f8fa5c4b6a2fa690b/tumblr_nctm7lPYrP1qz4acfo1_1280.jpg
Or this: http://cs303810.userapi.com/u103248306/152448911/z_57cb2ca2.jpg
I was trying to flesh out a new character, but it became more Emere-centric/Emere-POV rather than focused on Jameson. I'll try again later. At least this is something, right?
There’s a meeting in his office at a time that’s too late to be decent. In response, she wears a skirt that’s too tight to be professional, a dark blouse tucked in but with the top buttons undone.
It’s the same old song and dance.
She’s young and beautiful – too beautiful, really, considering she’s barely over twenty, too beautiful to be soft (she’s harnessed her looks into a weapon) – and he’s in a position of authority.
They fuck like they aren’t strangers, like they haven’t just seen each other casually across departments, like she isn’t nearly seven years his younger. He keeps his mouth on hers, biting on her lip, tasting her with his tongue. She tangles her dusky hands in his hair, ruining its slicked-back look. He messes up her skirt, his greedy hands wrinkling the fabric, and she pushes all the items off his desk when he shoves her against it. Everything is tit for tat.
Afterwards, she has to pick up her portfolio spreads from the floor; they had slipped from her hands when he grabbed her by the inside of her arm. She does this after she fixes her hair and her lipstick; he’s straightening his tie, clasping his belt.
“I like this,” she says, still a little breathy, reaching over to run her fingers against the groomed hair on his face.
“So does my wife.” Jameson’s grin gets lost in his beard.
She raises an eyebrow. “A wife? So you’re just a piece of shit in a good suit.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to advertising, sweetheart. We’re all pieces of shit.”
“You’re still hiring me?” There’s a notch of surprise to her voice. “Don’t tell me office fucks are part of the new interviewing process.”
“Technically, Floyd is hiring you. He’s the boss. I’m just your partner.”
“So this was, what? A seduction?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She makes a soft, noncommittal noise. Her eyes are dark and her mouth straight. She has a way of closing herself off so that she’s impossible to read. It’s a defense mechanism, but Jameson doesn’t know that yet.
(He never really bothers to learn).
“He could be your father,” Brando tells her over the phone, his voice full of judgement.
She pictures his disapproving gaze in her mind and rolls her eyes. “Hardly. He’s not that old.”
They walk out of the building together. Jameson holds open the door, offering her a cigarette. “You want to get a drink?”
Emere shrugs. “Sure,” she says because she knows he’s paying.
It could be any Tuesday or Thursday night.
She’s good at her job. She might be better than him, actually, but Jameson has the experience under his belt and the rapport with the clients. He does most of the talking over the expensive dinners; she smiles encouragingly, showcases the rough drafts of concepts, and wears paper-thin dresses and diamond rings on her fingers. The clients like her more than they like the advertisement blueprints sometimes, but the night almost always ends with signed contracts and champagne bottles.
Occasionally, she points out his flaws like they’re her own.
“Your Vienna Beef campaign was shit, you know that, right?” She cuts into a steak rare enough to bleed.
“Not my fault. You can’t make hotdogs sexy.”
“You’re lucky I distracted your bad taste with my spectacular tits.”
Jameson laughs, throaty and harsh. “Where do you buy those dresses?”
“From the prostitutes on the corner, obviously.” She winks.
She eats like she’s starving. She isn’t used to having money, to fancy restaurants where waiters pour water from reclaimed wine bottles, where the napkins are linen rather than paper, and there are no prices listed on the menus. She fakes it well enough. Jameson forgets sometimes that she’s a Jersey girl. It takes three dinners for him to realize she’s trained the accent out of her own voice and that she’s practiced the way to smoke a cigarette, harkening back to Audrey Hepburn movies with the delicate way she inhales.
He notices the scars on the insides of her arms on the fourth dinner. He nods towards them, eyes serious. “What happened there?”
Emere doesn’t look. She doesn’t touch the scars self-consciously or try to pull down the slinky, gossamer sleeves of her dress. “I was bored in high school.”
“Must’ve been bored a lot.”
“You have no idea.”
It surprises her how much they don’t fuck at work. It surprises her that she’s capable of liking him in spite of their limited relations. It surprises her that he’s funny and warm and professional (excluding the occasional glance or touch of her hip when he passes her while she’s pouring her fourth cup of coffee in the breakroom). A small part of her dislikes it. She wants to be distracting, she wants to be memorable, she wants to burn.
She thinks the rest of the office must know. If they do, they keep their mouths shut. Or maybe they’re used to it; maybe he’s done this with all the new girls. Or maybe they keep their silence because he hasn’t, he wouldn’t, and they think this affair will be the ruin of him. She’s the harlot with the scarlet letter.
Sometimes she lets her imagination get the better of her. She read too many books in college.
They do not go to the company Christmas party together. She shows up two hours late, her dress as red as cranberries, smelling of honey and crisp apples. While his secretary gossips with his wife (a waspy woman named Carol), she gives him a blowjob in the bathroom, his hand fisted in her hair, his groans more pleased than pained.
Later, she shakes hands with his pretty, blonde wife. Emere compliments her jewelry and modest heels. They even clink glasses when Floyd finishes the obligatory Christmas speech.
She’s aware of how bruised her knees feel the entire time they’re talking, but she doesn’t feel ashamed.
Jameson never talks about his marriage. She doesn’t even know if he has kids.
He never stays the night at her place.
They share bottles of whiskey on her fire escape and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes he smokes cigars instead. He often smells like lemon and saffron and sage. It’s a cologne she’s familiar with but can’t place – clean and straightforward. It doesn’t really fit him, which makes her think it’s a standard birthday present from Carol.
They don’t hold hands. She doesn’t lean her dark head on his broad shoulder. He doesn’t kiss her temple or tell her she’s beautiful in a sad, violent way.
They drink and they laugh and they fuck and Monday mornings he’ll bring her a coffee.