The Alpha Gender Ch. 03

During your typical grueling commute you see another protest at the intersection in front of the Galleria by men who believe the changes in women are the result of some vast left-wing conspiracy by "the globalists" to marginalize men and pave the way for the One World Government. You haven't paid much attention to them, but apparently they are suspicious of municipal water supplies, commercially-bottled drinks, and foods with high water content, because they're convinced there's some chemical added to water that is causing all this, and will castrate any men who consume it. You wonder where they get their water. They must run tap water through home-built stills or something. But there are 50 or more men with signs out there on a Wednesday morning at 7:30, so it's probably not a small movement.

As you enter the downtown parking garage under your office building, you notice a buddy of yours heading toward the elevators. One of his arms is in a sling, and it makes you wonder if he had an encounter like the one you had last night. Come to think of it, you've seen a number of guys lately in restaurants, at work, and in the streets with various bruises and injuries. Could just be your imagination painting a target around the arrow, but try as you might, you can't recall seeing... any... injured women... over the same period.

You park, grab your briefcase and jacket, (revolver in the pocket), and lock your car. You head up the elevator, through the hallway, and to your office. You pull a fluorescent pink Post-It note off your door with, "Matson's Office 10:15am" written on it, probably left by Hank, the office manager. Well, maybe that's about the promotion... fingers crossed. As you unlock the door, you see Cynthia from Accounting staring at you from a couple cubicles away. She's looking fit and lovely in a form fitting red sweater and skirt. Such legs!

She says, "Hey Brian, what did you do to your face?" You had forgotten about coming up with an alibi for it, and her question takes you by surprise. "Um, uh... I slipped last night... slipped... in the shower. Hit my face on the tub spout like an idiot." Your shower doesn't even have a tub spout, not that she would know that.

She gives you a strange look and nods slowly, a slight smile spreading across her lips.

She doesn't buy that, you think. Shit, now I'm stuck with that story. You sit down at your desk, fold your jacket and put it in one of your bottom desk drawers. Best not to have somebody accidentally discover that I'm packing heat. You fire up your computer, pull out your papers from the Astana office building complex deal and open the spreadsheet you started yesterday.

After an hour working on it, there's a knock on your open office door. It's Duarte, your friend from Mortgages. "Hey man... whoa! What happened to your face?" He walks in and leans on your desk to get a closer look.

"Oh... slipped in the shower last night. Stupid non-slip appliques came off weeks ago and I never replaced them. I just nailed myself on the bathtub water spout."

He nodded. "Damn, that looks painful! You always fall face-first?"

"Look man give me a break! Sometimes I'm an idiot." You lean back in your chair.

He laughs. "No doubt man. No doubt! Anyway, I was gonna ask you about Double Deuce, but I can see you have your own problems."

"Jason? Yeah I saw him, driving in. He broke his arm?" You ask.

"I heard Roberts asking him about it. He says he broke it getting body-slammed in a pick-up game."

You lean forward. "But you don't believe him."

He shakes his head. "Nah. You know Bill Brewer?"

You think. "Um, the guy from your department? Dating Cynthia from Accounting?"

He nods. "Yeah that's him. He lives next door to Jason in Culver City. Says his wife came home drunk last night from some girls' night thing, and tore him up! All he heard was banging and some loud voices, but in the morning she went off to work like: no problem. But Jason was angry and cursing. He walked out the door to his car, and his arm was in a sling!"

You nod, putting your chin in your hand. "Wow, that sounds crazy!"

"Oh yeah... you know, these things happening with women. I don't know, but there are other stories like that one. You've got to be careful, they can be brutal!" He folded his arms and jerked his chin at you. "That black eye wasn't from Nina, was it?"

You frown. "No man, I already told you. Nina? Get outta here!"

He backs away, hands up. "Okay okay bro... I believe you! But be careful anyway. Gotta go, see you later."

You frown again, and lean back in your chair, arms folded. You look at your phone. 9:15. An hour until the meeting. You check your email, return a couple phone calls, and do a little more work on Astana. You get up and head to the men's room. You check out your face in the mirror. Dabbing at the scab with toilet paper, you see that there's only a small amount of blood on it. But the swelling is worse, and it's purple now. You stretch your back and neck a bit. They're still sore from last night... and this morning, with Nina. Oh yeah: Nina. Will you be sleeping at home tonight, or in a hotel? You wash and dry your hands, and head back to your office.

At 10:15, you knock on Ms. Matson's door, and hear her say, "Enter please." You step into her office. She is at her desk, with a very beautiful young woman in one of the two chairs facing it.

"Thank you for joining us Brian. This is Olivia De la Renta. Oh dear, what did you do to your face?"

You shrug. "Thanks for asking Ma'am. I had an unfortunate shower accident last night at home. I'll be alright."

Neither woman gets up. You shake Ms. Matson's hand first, then Olivia's. Her handshake is extremely firm, and she hangs onto your hand for a few moments after you release, only allowing your hand back when she decides. She maintains direct eye contact all through the handshake, with a neutral expression, except for narrowing her sculpted brows as she studies your black eye. She smirks slightly just before she releases you. Olivia has dark features, deep green eyes, and her skin color makes you think she is of Italian or Spanish descent. She has long shiny black hair, and is physically imposing, even seated. She is wearing a very expensive looking cream silk blouse, a tight suede crimson skirt, and high black supple leather high heeled boots with a soft shine. Jade earrings dangle from her ears, and she smells faintly of roses. Her body is strong but curvaceous, with large full breasts and long legs.

Ms. Matson indicates the empty chair. "Please have a seat. Would you like anything? Water? Perrier? A cold compress?"

Both women laugh. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and shake your head. "No thank you."

She smiles and nods. "Ms. De la Renta has just transferred here from the Chicago branch. She was hired there 3 years ago, just out of Harvard Business School, my own graduate school, with an MS in Finance, Magna cum laude. I won't tell you her age out of respect but suffice it to say that she completed her graduate studies at a younger age than most." She glances over at Olivia, who smiles back at her, revealing dazzling white teeth.

You think: Is this absolutely necessary? This is like The Girls' Club or something. So, she's younger than me by several years, graduated Harvard top of her class, and has a Master's? Does she have a fucking Nobel Peace Prize too?

She continues. "Since then, she's accomplished feats that have reached the attention and admiration of management all throughout First Nationwide Mortgage. In spite of being only an analyst like you, she increased approvals in her branch on commercial loans above 3 million dollars by a weighted average of of 36%. That translates into a revenue increase of over 300 million dollars in her last year alone. If that's not impressive enough, the loans she has closed have an average LTV ratio of 65%, with zero defaults!"

Those numbers are astonishing. It sounds like your chance of promotion was just steam-rolled. You clear your throat nervously, adjust your chair, and steal a glance at Olivia, who was staring unflinchingly right at you.

"I'm sorry Ms. Matson, but I want to make sure I understand. No offense directed toward you Olivia of course. But is my performance as a loan analyst being compared to the performance of another loan analyst... who was actually performing the job of a loan officer? That hardly seems fair."

Matson frowns, but Olivia speaks up: "Mr. Bannister, the wheels of business are greased by those who surpass expectations, not by employees... who believe their assigned role limits their ability to help their employer excel in the marketplace. In my case, not only did I outperform all other analysts in the company in those basic functions... including you... but I also sold loans at a performance level surpassing the numbers of the top 3 or 4 loan officers combined. Fairness... is for children Mr. Bannister. I am interested only in excellence through sales and profit."

Ms. Matson nods and grins at her. You squirm uncomfortably in your seat. "Yes... yes of course Ma'am... I mean Olivia. That's why we are all here. And bravo to you for those achievements!"

Ms. Matson continues. "After a protracted bidding war with several other branches, we consider ourselves very lucky to have brought Ms. De la Renta onto our team as... the new Director of Commercial Loans."

You feel all the wind leave your sails, and your shoulders droop. That was supposed to be your new title.

"Because you are our most efficient analyst, we would like to offer you the honor of serving as her Assistant Director. She will take you under her wing and teach you all she knows about the loan business. I hope you are an attentive student Brian! I hear she is quite the... strict... task-mistress." She chuckles at that one, joined by Olivia's polite laughter.

She finally gets a hold of herself and continues. "I would like you to assist her in anything she requires. Our goal is to allow her as much freedom as possible to do what she does best. We can discuss the terms of your new position later this afternoon Brian. There will of course be a modest increase in salary. Do you have any questions or comments?"

You look from Ms. Matson to Olivia and clear your throat. "Well, thank you of course for this... opportunity, Ms. Matson. And Ms. De la Renta, since I assume you must have been involved in that decision. I AM honored." You grit out. Ms. Matson nods and mouths you're welcome.

"I can only say that I'm astounded at those achievements. Those kinds of numbers projected onto our annual volume... would make us the flagship branch, and anything I can do to assist Olivia toward that end, I'm obviously more than happy to do. I look forward to working with you Olivia."

You stand and extend your hand to her.

"Ms... De... la... Renta" Olivia says, her brow narrowing, her hands remaining folded in her lap.

"I'm s-sorry?" You say. Your hand hangs in space.

"Please call me Ms. De la Renta, not Olivia. One of the principles I follow, is strict adherence to professionalism in the office. I prefer that those working under me do not use my first name. Shall I refer to you as Brian, or as Mr. Bannister?" You notice a slight European accent in her speech, probably French.

You feel your ears grow hot. You stutter. "Uhm, p-please call me Brian, Ms. De la Renta."

Ms. De la Renta stands, smiles her dazzling white smile, and shakes your hand, making you wince slightly by crushing it. In heels, she is nearly two inches taller than you. You try to get an idea of her body under her loose blouse. It looks like she might even be a bit... chubby, but her waist is narrow, and her face, hands and legs don't appear to be padded at all. But she is big enough that she makes you feel small. "Very well. Brian it is." You think: Did I actually just give her permission to talk down to me?

Ms. Matson claps softly from her desk. "Excellent, young lady. I have always believed in that. Good for you."

Ms. De la Renta nods and smiles at her, then turns back to you and continues. "I begin this coming Monday. I will be arriving precisely at 8am every morning. Please make sure you are similarly prompt."

Ms. Matson cuts in. "And don't worry, before Monday, we will re-arrange office space so that Ms. De la Renta's office is properly configured and appointed, and yours, Brian, will be her outer office, to allow you to work together as closely as possible."

You say your final farewells and slink off to your office, to lick your wounds and try to get some work done.

When you reach your office, you close the door, and put your desk phone on Do Not Disturb. You are unable to concentrate well enough to be productive, and you find yourself gazing through your window with unfocused eyes and muttering under your breath about Ms. De la Renta's ridiculous credentials, the imperious manner in which she treated you, and how you essentially invited her to demean you by addressing you by your first name when you're forced to address her by title and last name. But when you think of her, you focus on her facial expressions, the curve of her shoulders and breasts, the smell of her, and the way you felt in her presence. Your heart beats faster, your breathing quickens, and you feel anxious but excited.

At 10 after 12, you head toward the elevators to leave the office for some lunch. A couple co-workers swivel their heads toward you when they notice the dark bruise around your eye and cheek, but you act as if you don't see them, so you don't have to have... that... discussion again.

You decide to walk a couple blocks to the coffee shop on Seventeenth Street. They have great soup, and you need the exercise. After a hundred yards or so, your phone rings. You scramble to get your bluetooth earpiece from your pocket and into your ear. You know it must be Nina.

You tap the button. "Hey honey." You're a little out of breath.

"Hey baby, you walking to lunch?"

"Yeah. It's a pain to find parking downtown, so I'm doing that more often these days."

"Ah, the soup place, right? Hey, have you heard anything about your promotion?"

"Yeah... Sucked, didn't get it. I got blindsided by... someone they brought in... from the Chicago branch. Real wunderkind... with an MS... from Harvard. Young wom... person." You were having trouble walking vigorously while carrying on a conversation.

"Aw, sweetie! That's so unfair, you worked so hard! So is your position staying the same then?"

"Umm... not really. It's actually getting... worse. Sounds like... I am getting a salary increase... I'll know how much by the end... of the day. But I get to be... I get to, um, be... her assistant..." Your voice trails off a bit.

"Oh." There's a long pause. "Oh I'm sorry babe. Her? She's younger than you? What's her name?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure she is. Olivia... De la Renta, if you can believe that."

"Oh wow, quite the name! Sounds like a baroness or something. Is she pretty?"

"Oh I don't know." You pause and cough. "Maybe." You reach a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to change.

"Oh come on! I can tell when you're being evasive. She's drop-dead gorgeous isn't she?"

"Okay, okay. Yeah, she's like something out of a magazine if you really want to know. Tall, big tits, long black hair... but she's a little scary to be honest. She's a big woman... you know, looks like a plus-size model. I think she's gonna have me for breakfast. I have to call her Ms. De la Renta, not Olivia. She made that... crystal... clear. It's like old-school professionalism."

"Oh shit. She sounds like a real piece of work. But a younger woman? Having... you for breakfast? I think you underestimate yourself." She pauses. "Although..."

"What? Although what?" You are almost at the restaurant.

"No, nothing. Listen: just remember who you are. My boyfriend is no doormat. You have... her... for breakfast okay? Remember that." She pauses and takes a drink. "So, have you thought about what you want to do? About tonight I mean."

You are entering the lobby. "Yeah, sweetie, I think that I do need some time to think. Not long... tonight and Friday night for sure. Maybe Saturday night too at most. But no longer. We both do. We should both plan to think through the problem and see what we can come up with. I love you, and there's going to be a way to make this work, but..."

"Nina cut in. "Yeah, I hear you. Look, I'm so sorry for this... but I know you're right. I will devote some time to thinking about it, and I agree, there will be a solution." She pauses. "I'm going to miss you."

"Yeah, me too." You hold up your index finger to the waiter, one for lunch, and follow him to the table. "I'll stay at the Hilton downtown. It's close. Okay, bye sweetie, I love you."

You pocket your bluetooth and slide into the seat, accepting the menu from the tall, skinny, bearded waiter with a bandaid across the bridge of his nose. "Thanks."

He indicates your face and smiles sympathetically. "They're getting feistier, aren't they?"

"Who?" You ask.

"Oh! Oh, no one. I just thought... well, what can I get you to start sir?"

Later that afternoon, you have your meeting with Ms. Matson alone, and a 4.5% salary increase is offered.