"Who Needs Decaf?". Tanya Michaels

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      1

      STEERING HER COMPACT CAR onto the exit ramp off Seattle’s Interstate 90, Sheryl Dayton frowned, and not just because of the possibility of ice on the road. Had her car made a noise when she turned? A kind of thwacka thwacka thwacka?

      Not now, please. This really isn’t a good time. Funds were always tighter coming into December, but holiday season aside, Sheryl was trying to save up to buy her own place. Not to mention that with the escalating situation at work, she had no time in her busy schedule to visit a mechanic.

      Deciding tough love was her best immediate course of action, she inhaled sharply and threatened the car. “Don’t even think about breaking down until after the first of the year. If you do, I’ll yank your spark plugs out with my bare hands and hang them on my Christmas tree!” She was only marginally sure she’d know what a spark plug was if she saw one—public relations was her specialty, not the inner workings of American automobiles—but she did know how to solve the disturbing thwacka-thwacka-thwacka problem.

      Sheryl turned up the radio.

      An elaborate musical introduction swelled through the speakers, followed by the voice of an enthusiastic singer confiding that her true love had gifted her with a partridge and a pear tree. Sheryl didn’t have a true love, herself, but she did have an ex-boyfriend. Brad Hammond, owner of Hammond Gaming Software, the company Sheryl worked for.

      On the first day of Christmas, my ex-boyfriend gave to me, a good job and a migraine.

      When she’d broken things off with Brad six months ago, Sheryl had worried it would be too awkward to continue running the miniscule public relations department at Hammond, but Brad had implored her to stay, insisting he needed her. Which had proven to be prophetic.

      Until now, Sheryl had devoted her time and energy to gaining favorable public attention for the up-and-coming software company, but their spot in the limelight had backfired on them when a Web site owner filed a lawsuit claiming theft of intellectual property. With revived public interest in Tolkien, along with some recent, popular fantasy novels and movies, HGS’s newly released fantasy-action game, Xandria Quest, had promised to be their first major success. But writer Kendra Mathers was claiming that the premise, characters and levels for the game had been stolen from her online epic fantasy story. Sheryl’s publicity skills were suddenly needed for damage control.

      “Particularly,” she muttered, “since Nathan Hall seems intent on causing damage.”

      The columnist for the Seattle Sojourner had written a couple of pieces on the pending suit, and his writing made Sheryl nervous. He managed to blend cynicism and passion in his annoyingly factual columns—she’d scanned carefully for glaring, malicious, libelous errors. Nathan Hall resonated with readers, and Sheryl worried about his insinuations that big bad Brad Hammond, “overnight success,” was now sticking it to the little guys he’d so recently been one of.

      Sheryl snorted indelicately as she approached the parking garage of the modestly sized, yet state-of-the-art building HGS leased. Big bad Brad Hammond, indeed. When she and Brad had watched the Titanic DVD together, he’d wept like a baby, and she’d spent the better part of an hour trying to console him.

      That one evening, she realized now, had encapsulated their relationship. Though a good-looking programming phenom, well on his way to becoming a rich man, Brad was a little too needy in other ways, almost painfully earnest for a man who owned a company in a fiercely competitive field. But Sheryl doubted it would be a good PR spin to release an announcement that her boss was too naive to steal from anyone.

      Maybe as a last resort.

      In her opinion, she and HGS’s attorney, Mark Campbell, had sent out some brilliant press releases, but she noted that the Sojourner hadn’t bothered to print any of them. Brad praised her work, but refused to worry much about the problem since, as he saw it, Xandria Quest was his baby and he hadn’t stolen it from anyone.

      Rolling down her window, Sheryl smiled at the parking garage attendant who sat in the small booth, his gloved hands cradling a steaming thermos of coffee. The rich aroma made her glance longingly at her own to-go container. She hadn’t allowed herself to lift it from the safety of its snug cup holder as she drove on the freeway, for fear of spilling burning liquid down the front of her ivory knit tunic and skirt.

      “Morning, Henry.”

      The man’s weathered face wrinkled into an answering smile as he tipped his uniform cap. “Ms. Dayton,” he returned, despite all the times she’d asked him to call her Sheryl. “Say, is your car acting up? Thought I heard sort of a thumba thumba thumba as you came round the corner.”

      “‘Thumba,’ huh? Nope, no ‘thumba’ here.” Her response didn’t stem completely from denial. No way was the sound more of a thumba than a thwacka.

      “Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad,” Henry said. “I’d hate to see a nice lady like you get stranded on the side of a cold road at night, after the late evenings you put in here.”

      Well, when you looked at it that way…Note to self—call mechanic on lunch break, do not end up freeway Popsicle.

      He held up a folded edition of Wednesday’s paper. “You seen the Sojourner? Your boss made headlines again.”

      Surely, with approximately two and a half million people in the metro Seattle area, reporters could find something to write about besides her boss! What new angle could Hall possibly have used for his latest piece when the case was still in the early deposition stages? Sheryl decided that along with the Christmas check she’d planned to give Henry as his annual tip, she’d also throw in a subscription to the Post-Intelligencer or Seattle Times.

      Forcing a pleasant tone, she said, “Have a nice day, Henry.”

      “You, too, Ms. Dayton.”

      Too late for that, but she nodded anyway as she pulled her car up the entrance ramp.

      In the elevator from the garage to the main lobby, Sheryl sipped her white-chocolate cappuccino and dreaded the day. Or more accurately, the fallout from Tuesday evening, which was when Brad saw his therapist each week. Brad had read somewhere that top-level executives needed balance more than anyone since so many people depended on them, and he’d gone right out and hired a shrink. Unfortunately, the quack dictated Brad and Sheryl must have a long conversation to determine exactly where they’d gone wrong, so Brad could learn and grow as a “giving, loving being” and be more successful in СКАЧАТЬ