Beneath The Cloak

He covered his mouth with his hand as he yawned, the third time he'd done that since his just-concluded board meeting. He sank into his chair and rested his back. If there was ever a good decision made by his secretary, without him having to tell her what to do, he thought as he rotated the chair he was sitting on with both legs at intervals, this would be one.

About a year ago when furniture was being placed in the building after its completion, he had entered this office and while he was dissatisfied with the position of some of the furniture in the office, he smiled the moment he laid eyes on the chair she picked out for him. It took only a few seconds after sitting in it to conclude that he loved it.

“I’m glad you like it,” she began to say. “I did a lot of research before getting you this.”

He remembered checking out the chair and admiring it that he barely heard the rest of what she said about the chair, although he remembered she said something about the chair having “a streamlined back which is fitted to the human spine…” and “a layered design that provides extra comfort…”

A sound from his phone removed him from his thoughts and brought him back to his office. It was a moderately sized room with walls covered in pieces of brilliant golden-orange amber that you cannot see their true color. The floor was well-polished hardwood, most likely red oak, and was painted with intricate gold patterns. Aside from a few ornate chairs set against the wall, the room was empty. There were two large windows on the easternmost wall, allowing morning sunlight to filter in.

He reached for his phone on the table and took a look at it. It was an alarm he had set for five o’clock and it was labeled, “Meet the whites!” A smirk settled on his face. He always had that smirk on his face whenever he saw the title of the alarm he was about to stop.

He wondered why he had to hide what he was about to do. Even though it was not something that was acceptable in the society, almost no one would be able to question him as to why he does it. He could not help but feel that even though he could get away with a lot at the current stage of his life, he was used to being very cautious, a behavior that he imbibed in himself long ago, when he was moving up the corporate ladder. A little caution, at least, in some cases, won't hurt, he thought.

He moved his chair closer to the table, dropped his phone on it, opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle from it. The description on the bottle read: Acetaminophen. He opened and poured its contents on the table. White powder poured out from the bottle. He shook the bottle a few times expecting more to come out of it. He then brought the bottle close to his right eye and examined it for a few seconds. "Empty!" he groaned.

He clicked on the call button on the table, dropped the bottle, and replaced the lid.

Some seconds passed before the door of his office gave way to a dark-skinned woman. She walked briskly towards his table and placed her hands on it as she got there.

She took a look at the white powder on the table and then at the bottle before looking at him with a smile on her face.

“I suppose you need another?” she asked.

“You know me too well,” he replied without taking his eyes off her.

He was not really fond of women who cut their own hair, but standing right in front of him was an exception.

She was about six feet tall and had what he considered the right breast and butt size. He termed it: just big enough. Her hair was dyed brown, and she had a parting on it from around the left parietal ridge to the top of her head.

He had always seen her that way and could not imagine any other hairstyle befitting of her person.

She knew what he was looking at and followed his gaze as she also looked at herself. She was putting on a black blouse that showed her cleavage and a little of her breasts.

“Do you want me to cover it up?” she asked, feigning seriousness.

“Why would I want that?” he said with a high-pitched voice. “I love the view!”

“Right!” she said, blushing a little.

"Get the martinis," he said to her.

She retrieved a martini shaker from the fridge a few feet from his desk and handed it to him.

"On the table," he said as he gestured at the position he wanted the shaker to be placed.

“Would you like me to get a glass?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I should have another by tomorrow,” he said as he pushed the bottle of acetaminophen in her direction.

“Sure,” she replied.

"Why do you disguise it in a bottle?" she asked.

“I ask myself that question all the time,” he said with a smile. “I’ll let you know if I get an answer to that question.”

She waited for some time and said, "Is that all?"

"I think so," he said.

He stared at her as she walked away from his office. He thought the way she walked was graceful and wondered how many bosses would be able to keep their hands to themselves with such a woman in their office.

She was almost at the door when he said, "And Stella, tell my driver to take the rest of the day off, I'll be driving myself home."

"Okay, sir," she replied.

"Also, let my son know about the party I'll be hosting tomorrow. Give him the details and tell him I would like him to be there."

"Pete?"

"Not Pete!" He looked at her with a face that said, 'you should know who I was talking about.' "Pete works here. Of course he knows about the party."

"Paul then," she replied. "You want me to use your phone to text him?"

"Use yours."

"I'll do that," she replied as she left his office and closed the door behind her.

He didn’t have to guess if Pete had tried to woo his secretary. If something was good, then Pete would be all over it. The question was if he'd succeeded.

He touched the white substance on the table with a finger and dipped it into his mouth. He picked a ruler from a cup on the table and divided the white substance into three straight lines, about two centimeters apart. He picked a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the ruler with it and returned it to the cup he took it from. He clenched the handkerchief in his right hand and placed his hands on the table as he brought his face closer to one of the white lines and sniffed from one end to the other. He raised his head with his eyes closed as though he were having a vision.

"Fucking ulcer!" he said with a smirk.

He had lied to his secretary. Of course, he knew why he used an acetaminophen bottle to conceal his cocaine and it had something to do with his dead ex-wife.

He poured some martini into the glass and drank a little from it. He placed the glass back on the table, holding it for some time.

He adjusted the named cardholder on the table with his hand and stared at it for some time.

"James L Dutton, CEO," he began to say, "you've come a long way."

Once more, he brought his face to the table and sniffed both cocaine lines in quick succession. He turned his face towards the ceiling, but he wasn't looking at it; he wasn't looking at anything.

He opened his eyes and all he saw was white. He had no idea what the material used for the ceiling was neither did he care, but he loved the pattern on it.

Shit, looked like someone tried to draw maps, lots of maps, on the ceiling and, failing miserably, ended up with this piece of art. He didn't really get art. She tried to teach him about it, but that didn't really work out before they fell apart.

"I guess that's it," he said as he wiped his face and the table with the handkerchief in his right hand. "Time to get the fuck out of here."

"Does she have any idea how much time I spent and how much work I had to do before coming up with that proposal?" he said, pacing to and fro around the room with a maximum of three steps in any direction he walked.

The room was illuminated by the rays of light given off by the moon that escaped the curtains that covered the windows. The only other source of illumination was from an air conditioner just above a window; it read, “23°”.

"I agree with you, Lana, she doesn't!" he said.

Lana was sitting on an oval brown table about three meters high. She was looking intently at every movement made by the man in the room.

He was dark-skinned, about six feet and two inches tall and had a lot of hair. He was also wearing nothing but shorts.

"She keeps telling me to do more, to put in more work if I'm to keep my place at her company," he said with a smirk. "No one puts in more work than me in that department!"

He sat down at the center of a blue couch big enough for three people to sit in. He placed his elbows on his knees and cupped his face in his hands as he looked at Lana.

“It’s like she doesn’t want me there and I bet it has something to do with my dad!”

"I wish we would make actual conversations Lana," he said as he looked into her big blue eyes, "so I would not need to guess what you have to say to me".

"Oh, Pete called me, he told me Dad will be hosting a party tomorrow."

He was holding both hands together with his elbows still on his knees as he looked at Lana.

"He wants me to show up. I guess he hopes my presence would piss Dad off," he scoffed.

"You think I should go?"

He didn't get any response from Lana, not even a movement. But he interpreted the stare she gave him as uncertainty.

"I also don't know, girl," he said as he lay down on the chair and looked at the ceiling. "Of course, my dad doesn't tell me about it, we haven't spoken in months." He turned on the chair as he lay on his side and said, looking at Lana, "He hates me, remember? That happens when you tell your dad to fuck off, that you don't need him to survive and that you can do better on your own without him controlling every aspect of your life".

He turned back to his previous position on the chair and was once again looking at the ceiling.

"To be honest, I think the word I used was 'manipulating' rather than 'controlling' and in my defense, Mom used worse words." There was a little smile on his face as he said that.

His eyes closed slowly, for a few seconds but he opened them again. It was as though he was fighting the urge to sleep.

"I wonder why my brother would want me there, though," he said as he scratched his head with his right hand. "It's not like we're friends or anything close to that. I wonder how there can be so much chaos in a family, I loved it better as a kid. What the fuck went wrong?"

He covered his mouth as he closed his eyes and yawned. He didn't bother opening his eyes anymore. He was tired and was going to sleep.

"Lana, do you know what 'think outside the box' means?" He stretched his left hand in her direction, still with his eyes closed, to feel for her presence. "Neither do I," he said as he rubbed her head. "Neither do I. It’s just some bullshit term people throw around when they have no idea what to say and how to motivate their employees."

He was silent for some seconds, and he had the appearance of someone who had finally found the sleep he was searching for.

"If I got a penny for every time my boss said to me, 'Paul, you need to think outside the box', I would be richer than my dad," he said, with the sound of his voice so low that someone a few centimeters away would strain to hear him.

Just then, his phone vibrated once, twice, three times.

He groaned and said, "No peace for the wicked."

He opened his eyes and stretched for the phone on the table where Lana was sitting. He looked at it for a while and said with a smirk, "Look who wants me at the party, but could only send his secretary to deliver the message."

He dropped the phone on the table and resumed his sleeping position.

Lana got down from the table, climbed the chair he was sleeping on and lay atop him.

"I see that you're also tired," he said, and as he rubbed Lana's body, she meowed.