position. Fat chance, Barbie Doll.
"Yes, you may," Justine said, but checked her watch to indicate the girl had better hurry the hell up.
Barbie assumed a smug smile and leaned her elbows on the table. "Well, it seems to me that we're drifting too far away from our core product line." She spoke with the nasal thickness of the locals here in the headquarters' town of Shively, Pennsylvania. A homegrown girl whose mother worked on the Cocoon assembly line, Little Barbie seemed to have gotten above her raising. "Instead of putting the Cocoon name on all this stuff, why don't we expand our skin care line?"
All eyes cut to Justine, and she saw agreement in their stupid expressions. Clenching her fist in her lap, she bestowed a tolerant smile in Barbie's direction. "I'll take your comment under advisement." She put pen to paper. "Let's see, the fancy marketing term you used was stuff, wasn't it, Barbie?"
The offender turned scarlet and sat back in her chair like a good girl. "My name is Bobbie, Ms. Metcalf. Bobbie Donetti."
"Oh, my mistake. One of the few mistakes I've made in my career, I might add."
A repentant silence fell, but Justine wasn't satisfied. She pursed her mouth and crossed her arms over her runway-quality laser-red suit—whoever said that redheads shouldn't wear red had never gotten a gander at her. "Before we move on, I'd like to take a moment to remind everyone seated here that Cocoon is a classy firm—if you intend to stay here, you might want to reevaluate your business wardrobes." She glanced around the table, lingering on Barbie-Bobbie, daring anyone to make eye contact. No one did.
"Now then, are there any other questions about the new product line?"
There weren't.
She opened the folder in front of her. "Good. As I was about to say before I was interrupted, the new sales quotas and bonus structures are in your folders—"
The door to her office burst open, and Justine jumped to her feet, her patience spent. "Dammit, what now?" She didn't recognize the slight woman who stood in the doorway, her graying hair disheveled, her eyes glassy.
The woman wet her lips. "Are you Justine Metcalf?"
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Lisa Crane."
"I don't—" Justine stopped as realization hit her. Randall's wife. She swallowed and forced a note of calm into her voice. "Do you need to speak with me in private, Mrs. Crane?"
"No," the woman said, closing the door behind her and turning the lock on the handle. "I want plenty of witnesses."
Her heart thudded. "Mrs. Crane—"
The woman raised a revolver. "Shut up, slut."
Cold terror gripped Justine, and shrieks rang out.
"Don't anyone move," Mrs. Crane said, sweeping the weapon over their heads, and the group obliged. She smiled at Justine. "I understand you're screwing my husband."
Justine was paralyzed in her crocodile pumps, "I d-don't know what you're talking about."
The woman reached into her purse and tossed a wad of something on the table that slid down the glossy length and stopped in front of Justine's notebook.
Her panties. A pair of tiny sheer silk undies with a yellow butterfly design. One of the non-cosmetic items she'd added to last year's product lineup.
Justine's mouth went dry. "Those... aren't... mine."
The woman cocked the hammer. "Prove it—lift your skirt."
Panic rolled over her in waves. She leaned against the table, the edge cutting into the fronts of her thighs. "I—"
The woman raised the gun and fired. Everyone screamed except Justine, who simply waited for blood to begin spreading over some portion of her upmarket suit jacket. When it didn't, she realized that the woman had shot high and into the wall behind her. As her knees weakened, her mind raced—at least security would be alerted, although the Keystone Cops milling around Cocoon's lobby had never dealt with anything worse than a malfunctioning fire alarm.
The Crane woman cocked the hammer again. "I missed on purpose. Lift your little skirt, or I'm going to start picking off your
"Yes, you may," Justine said, but checked her watch to indicate the girl had better hurry the hell up.
Barbie assumed a smug smile and leaned her elbows on the table. "Well, it seems to me that we're drifting too far away from our core product line." She spoke with the nasal thickness of the locals here in the headquarters' town of Shively, Pennsylvania. A homegrown girl whose mother worked on the Cocoon assembly line, Little Barbie seemed to have gotten above her raising. "Instead of putting the Cocoon name on all this stuff, why don't we expand our skin care line?"
All eyes cut to Justine, and she saw agreement in their stupid expressions. Clenching her fist in her lap, she bestowed a tolerant smile in Barbie's direction. "I'll take your comment under advisement." She put pen to paper. "Let's see, the fancy marketing term you used was stuff, wasn't it, Barbie?"
The offender turned scarlet and sat back in her chair like a good girl. "My name is Bobbie, Ms. Metcalf. Bobbie Donetti."
"Oh, my mistake. One of the few mistakes I've made in my career, I might add."
A repentant silence fell, but Justine wasn't satisfied. She pursed her mouth and crossed her arms over her runway-quality laser-red suit—whoever said that redheads shouldn't wear red had never gotten a gander at her. "Before we move on, I'd like to take a moment to remind everyone seated here that Cocoon is a classy firm—if you intend to stay here, you might want to reevaluate your business wardrobes." She glanced around the table, lingering on Barbie-Bobbie, daring anyone to make eye contact. No one did.
"Now then, are there any other questions about the new product line?"
There weren't.
She opened the folder in front of her. "Good. As I was about to say before I was interrupted, the new sales quotas and bonus structures are in your folders—"
The door to her office burst open, and Justine jumped to her feet, her patience spent. "Dammit, what now?" She didn't recognize the slight woman who stood in the doorway, her graying hair disheveled, her eyes glassy.
The woman wet her lips. "Are you Justine Metcalf?"
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Lisa Crane."
"I don't—" Justine stopped as realization hit her. Randall's wife. She swallowed and forced a note of calm into her voice. "Do you need to speak with me in private, Mrs. Crane?"
"No," the woman said, closing the door behind her and turning the lock on the handle. "I want plenty of witnesses."
Her heart thudded. "Mrs. Crane—"
The woman raised a revolver. "Shut up, slut."
Cold terror gripped Justine, and shrieks rang out.
"Don't anyone move," Mrs. Crane said, sweeping the weapon over their heads, and the group obliged. She smiled at Justine. "I understand you're screwing my husband."
Justine was paralyzed in her crocodile pumps, "I d-don't know what you're talking about."
The woman reached into her purse and tossed a wad of something on the table that slid down the glossy length and stopped in front of Justine's notebook.
Her panties. A pair of tiny sheer silk undies with a yellow butterfly design. One of the non-cosmetic items she'd added to last year's product lineup.
Justine's mouth went dry. "Those... aren't... mine."
The woman cocked the hammer. "Prove it—lift your skirt."
Panic rolled over her in waves. She leaned against the table, the edge cutting into the fronts of her thighs. "I—"
The woman raised the gun and fired. Everyone screamed except Justine, who simply waited for blood to begin spreading over some portion of her upmarket suit jacket. When it didn't, she realized that the woman had shot high and into the wall behind her. As her knees weakened, her mind raced—at least security would be alerted, although the Keystone Cops milling around Cocoon's lobby had never dealt with anything worse than a malfunctioning fire alarm.
The Crane woman cocked the hammer again. "I missed on purpose. Lift your little skirt, or I'm going to start picking off your
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