From my slender legs to the hem of my black pleated dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my stiff neck. He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as he unabashedly peruses my body. My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous catwalk up to Scott Van Wright. “You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway Couture collection.
“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers. I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair screeches as he leans back. My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me. When I first talked to him, he name-dropped actors and producers and directors, waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. He’s twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. That I will cower beneath his deep gray eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference table (instead of the chair nearest me) and just stares in my direction. He expects the girl to go tongue-tied and agree to his every demand. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. You know the stories where the strong, brawny man struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky shoulders pulled back-he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the one who quivers girls’ knees.
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