Hey There, Delilah... (3 page)

Most people think I am a player - a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy – but that’s because they don’t really know me.
              Or shit, maybe they really do know me, and I am the bastard that everyone seems to think I am.  But I never used to be this way. There was a time in my life that I thought love was the ultimate goal and that being in a committed monogamous relationship was the most incredible achievement. Then I turned ten, and realized that’s all a bunch of bullshit. And as I got older, I learned that women are good for one thing – a good fuck.

My parents married young, and my mom was only nineteen when she had me, her only child.  We lived a comfortable life.  I don’t remember ever wanting anything I couldn’t have, within reason, and always saw my parents showing affection.  It wasn’t uncommon to catch them sneaking a kiss when they thought I was sleeping.
It was my tenth birthday, and I remember it like yesterday. My mom planned this awesome Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
party for me at the house, and all of my friends were coming over.  She even hired a man to come over dressed like Michelangelo, my favorite Turtle.  When I went upstairs to get dressed for the party, she gave me a kiss and told me she was running a quick errand to pick up my birthday cake. She never came back.  No note, no explanation, no reason.  With no siblings, it was just my dad and me from that day forward.  In fact, two weeks from today will be my twenty-third anniversary of being abandoned by the only woman I have ever loved. That’s how I celebrate my birthdays.

I have only been with a few women
since that day that I would even classify as being in a “relationship” with, and they have all been the same, and end the same – by me telling them to hit the road. 

This last one was with Veronica, and she lasted six months before she started hinting at wanting a ring.  Now every woman in
her thirties should know by now that those words are the kiss of death.  That or the whole biological clock shit. Don’t bring those things up to your man unless you are trying to give them a reason to kick your ass to the curb.   There was no way in hell I was going to marry Veronica.  Don’t get me wrong, she was beautiful, and her body was ridiculous, but the sex was shit and she was a “gimme” girl.  You know the type, all they do is take, take, take.  She would suck the life out of me if she could. And not just in the bedroom.  We had to eat at the best restaurants, go to the coolest clubs, have front row tickets to hottest shows, and pretty much make sure she is seen by everyone. Meanwhile, in the six months we were together, she didn’t give me jack shit – not a thank you, not a home cooked meal, and definitely not a satisfying blow job.

So you see, my mommy issues may not be an excuse
for being a total prick to women, but maybe it can shed some light on the importance I place on honesty, loyalty, and an equal give and take relationship. And since that woman doesn’t exist, all I look for is someone I can screw and then leave me the fuck alone.

This brings me to why today I have to eat my own shit and bear it. I had to clear my schedule of the important work
that I should be doing, to interview for a new secretary.  Since I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants, I ended up screwing my last one over my desk and apparently she confused me banging her with love. She quit when I told her that she would be nothing more than a quick lay. Okay, so maybe I am a cold-hearted prick, but I did nothing to lead her to believe it would be anything more than it was.  I made that bed, so now I have to fucking lie in it - no pun intended - with all of these dumb, useless, unqualified, albeit hot, women the agency sent over for me to interview. There will be no more beds, and definitely no more lying in them, or on desks, or couches, or walls. Aw, shit.

Why can’t they just send over someone educated, experienced, and completely unattractive so I can just focus on my work and not
on her tits and ass?

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I just arrived at the Santino Law Office for my interview.  I am so nervous, so I made sure to get here early enough to give myself the chance to freshen up and calm down a bit.  I called my mom after I quit yesterday.  I didn’t give her any details because I was still in such shock. I always complain to her about the Bitch, so she just assumed I quit because of her – if she only knew the half of it.   Anyway, she told me that a woman that she plays bridge with is the receptionist at a law firm, and that she heard her a few nights ago say that there is a position open as the secretary for the controlling partner. My mom told me to show up for an interview at 9:00 am sharp, and ask for Carmella.

So here I am, ten minutes early, and
I meet Carmella, a really sweet older lady by the way. She is probably in her mid-fifties and has jet black hair, clearly dyed.  She has it styled in that stereotypical old lady helmet, which she probably only has to style once a week because there is so much hair spray in it. She is wearing a mauve color button down silk shirt with a black polyester skirt to her knees and black orthopedic shoes. You know, the ones that nurses always wear because they are always on their feet. Oh, and she also has the required strand of pearls around her neck and matching earrings.  She is the antithesis of my DeadHead mom, but apparently a kick ass bridge player, so she is always welcome to the games.

After the warm greeting, Carmella
brings me to this conference room, waiting for my turn to be called.  Oh, yeah, I said my turn.  That’s because there are half a dozen other women here interviewing for the same position - my position.  Since my mom is friends with Carmella, I was feeling really confident last night and this morning. Now that I am in this room, looking at all of my competition, I realize that I don’t have a shot in hell.  Mr. Santino obviously has a type he is looking for.  It is almost like a casting call in here.  I wonder what the job ad said: Prestigious New York Law Firm partner seeking super hot blonde bimbo secretary. Must be over five feet ten inches, wears micro minis, six-inch stilettos, and have had at least two cosmetic procedures under her belt.  Oh, and make sure your tits are hanging out.  College degree or experience not required.

Okay
, so maybe that is a little harsh, but looking around it is blatantly obvious that he might as well have posted a personal ad.   I am wasting my time sitting here. But then again, what else do I have to do? No job, no boyfriend.  Shit. I pull out my e-reader and get back to my new fictional boyfriend. Lord knows he won’t cheat on me.  I am totally into this new erotic genre and am engrossed in the most incredible sex scene.  The main character is this hot Italian actor, and what he is doing to the girl is indescribable, nothing I have ever experienced with Ryan. I know that nobody in this room knows what I am reading,  or even realize I am even in this room – not one bimbo even looked at me when I walked in, clearly they know I am no competition -  but my face must be turning red from the steam emanating off the pages. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to have a man do those things to me.  Just as I am about to get to the climax scene, I am brought back to my craptastic life when Carmella walks into the room and calls for me to come with her.

I follow her through a maze of offices and cubicles.
  My mind is still swimming in the book when Carmella opens the door and I catch sight of him. Oh.my.God! I blink a few times and shake my head to see if I am imagining it. It just can’t be… my Italian stallion is standing in front of me, and hot damn reality is better than fiction! He has dark shiny brown hair that looks like he is a week past needing a trim; it looks as though it was neatly slicked back when he got to work, but has since run his hands through it – definite sex hair.   Either he has been frustrated with the previous interviewee selection, or he seriously got down and dirty with one, or more.  He has a strong square jaw and at least a few days worth of stubble, and is probably in his early thirties.   His eyes are an exquisite emerald green, and when our eyes meet for the first time, my legs go weak.  I can’t tell how tall he is exactly because I am so petite, but he looks at least a foot taller than me.  And he is built.  I don’t mean trim and lean like a runner, I mean built like a boxer or MMA fighter. It is really hard to see what exactly he has going on under that suit, but I can just tell that whoever gets to experience what’s under there, is one lucky lady.

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“Mr. Santino, your nine o’clock interview is here,” Carmella’s voice says from the speaker of the phone on my desk. Carmella is the sweet older receptionist that makes the best chocolate chip cookies ever.

I hit the spea
ker button on my phone. “Thanks, Carmella. Can you bring her back, please?”

“Absolutely,” she replies.

I stand and button my designer suit jacket, smoothing out the lapels and straightening my tie in preparation. I like to look my best. I can’t deny the fact that I’m a good looking dude. I skirt the desk when I hear a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call.

Carmella opens the door and waves my interviewee in before giving me a sweet smile. I give Carmella a wink in return. My attention is drawn to the horribly dressed young woman walking into my office, and I frown. What the hell is that? She has that dull, mousy brown mane of wavy hair that is hanging limply down her back, and there is no make-up on her heart shaped face. I can’t tell what color her eyes are because they are hiding behind a hideously outdated pair of glasses.  And why won’t she look at me?

“Thank you, Carmella,” I say with a n
od and she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

“Hi, I’m Nicholas Santino, controlling partner,” I say, introducing myself, hand held out.

She places her dainty hand in mine. I shake it lightly afraid that I might break her arm if I am too rough. She is a tiny little thing; tiny as in short, like a foot shorter than I am. I can’t tell you what her figure looks like because it is completely covered up by an ill-fitting black suit. It is too big for her and has no shape to it whatsoever. She doesn’t even have heels on, just wearing a pair of chunky soled black shoes. One word fits this woman…frumpy.

“My name is Delilah Sampson,” she says softly.

Hoping to ease the tension, I say, “Oh, were you named after that Plain White T’s song,
Hey there, Delilah
?”

Delilah grimaces. “No, I’m actually n
amed after a Grateful Dead song. My parents were DeadHeads.”  She seems a little put off by my question. I wonder if she gets it often.

I nod. “Ah, I see.
I get it now… Delilah Sampson… like the Dead song, just with the extra ‘p.’ Your parents must have a sense of humor.”  If I remember correctly, it is also a story in the
Bible.
  But the way she reacted when I mentioned the Plain White T’s song, it may piss her off even more if I ask, so I move on.

“Either that, or they were too stoned t
o come up with an original name,” she says with a chuckle, and then a nose snort. She has just the right amount of awkwardness to keep me at an arm’s length.  I won’t have to worry about getting erections at inappropriate times around her, and that definitely earns her points.

“Well, it seems like you inherited that sense of humor from them.
Why don’t you come in and have a seat,” I say, motioning toward the chair in front of my desk.

As the interview progresses, I can’t help but realize how perfect this girl
could be as my secretary. I don’t find her the least bit attractive, which really is the main reason why I need her working for me. She is plenty qualified, and that helps, of course. She has a sense of humor, seems sweet, and totally innocent - so not my type.  I like my women a little wild and very, very bad; although, the last one might have been a bit too wild. That is the reason I need a new secretary; my previous one thought she was in love with me because I fucked her a couple of times on my desk.

“Welcome aboard, Delilah, I think you will make a great addition to our team,” I say, having made my decision.

Delilah looks up at me. I can see that her eyes are hazel now. She looks a bit stunned as she watches me stand and come out from behind my desk.

“Really? I have the job?”  S
he squeaks.

“Yes, you have the job
. That is, if you want it.” I smile and hold my hand out for her.

“But you haven’t asked me any questions about my qualifications or past experience. Don’t you want to know why I left my last job?”  I can’t decide if she is that confident that she wants me to know the answers, or if she is so insecure
and unsure as to why I just offered her the job.

“No, Delilah
.  Once I make a decision, I don’t like to second guess myself. Your resume is impeccable and you present yourself very professionally. You have demonstrated that you have manners, are respectful to authority, and have a sense of humor.  All qualities you need to work in a stressful environment, such as a criminal law firm.”

She jumps to her feet and shakes my hand fe
rvently. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Santino, I really appreciate it!” she replies excitedly.

“Before you accept, please understand a few things. We will be working very closely together,
and I need to be able to trust you with everything – professionally and personally.  All of our cases are subjected to privacy laws, and you will be held to that standard. Anything you see or hear from the moment you sign on will be considered privileged information.  I expect you to be here on time every day, and never leave before me. That may mean that you are here really late some nights. If you have someone at home relying on you to be there at set times, this job may not be for you.  Because people don’t commit crimes strictly between nine and five, we are both considered on call, all day, every day.  I may call you in the middle of the night to meet me at the jail or to help bail out a client. Again, if there is something at home that would prevent you from jumping when I call, this job may not be for you.  Lastly, even though we will be working long hours and spending a lot of time together, I am still your boss. We won’t have a personal relationship, we won’t share stories or feelings, and anything you see or hear will be private and kept to yourself.  If you can accept all of these conditions, I would really like for you to join my firm.”

“
Mr. Santino, I don’t have any trouble with what you just said. I don’t have anyone at home waiting for me. I don’t have a boyfriend, husband, or kids.”  As she said that last sentence, she looked down and away from me.  Up until then, she kept eye contact and appeared confident with herself, despite the despicable outfit. I wonder if I hit a nerve.  Oh well, not my problem.

“
Great, Delilah!  Oh, and one more thing, as long as there are no clients present, call me Nick, everyone else does. ” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood again.

I’m glad she is so excited about getting the job. I like having people on my payroll who are willing to work. Delilah
seems like that type of person - willing to work, keeps to herself, and does not cause trouble. I cannot afford to have any more whack-jobs working for me. I am trying to run a serious business here and I don’t need the distractions that attractive women cause. I can’t help myself sometimes, a man needs to get laid. Frump girl here? She won’t disrupt my focus.

Not that she is ugly
, per se, but she has no style and no clue on how to present herself. I can see that she can possibly have the potential to be cute, but not without
a lot
of professional help. I rather her stay frumpy, though, because I am a selfish prick.

“When can you start, Delilah?” I ask her.

“Oh, as soon as you need me,” she chirps.

“Can you start
today? We can get started on your training.”

“Yes, abs
olutely!” She smiled brightly. Still no hard on - this is going to work out perfectly.

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