Molly - Sarah Monzon Page 0,68

be it from me to scream nepotism, but he was the CEO’s nephew and had thrown his cap in the air with an undergraduate degree in marketing only last year. The weight shifting didn’t give him a bearing of confidence and authority either.

Not that I had been jockeying for his position. To be honest, I’d pretty much reached the highest rung they’d let me climb to already, and it had cost me plenty of blood, sweat, and tears to get there. I was the minority’s minority. Besides Tonya, the only other female. Besides Sam Yo, the only other non-Caucasian. But I had the privilege to earn 61.6% of my white male counterpart, so there was that.

I flushed at the sarcastic thought and wiggled my toes in my Jimmy Choos. I’d bought the pumps from a resale app, but never would my younger self have imagined I’d ever get to a point in my life when I’d slip my feet into designer anything. So, yes, there were injustices in the world, unfairnesses that begged to be made right, but there were also miracles. And just being there in that sixth-floor room was one of them.

I willed Jayden—I really should start remembering to call him Mr. Weidel, since he was technically my boss—to speak another miracle. This would be my first corporate retreat with the company, since I’d only been promoted two months ago. I’d heard tales of their legendary getaways. I’d even applied for a passport in the hope this year’s retreat followed along the same lines as last year’s—a week-long cruise on the Riviera.

Jayden—I mean, Mr. Weidel—cleared his throat and mumbled something under his breath without lifting his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weidel, but could you repeat that? I missed what you said from down here.” Bill from investments leaned his pinstripe-covered forearms on the opposite end of the conference table. He didn’t have any trouble remembering to address the boss properly, even though, with fifteen years’ experience and a DBA in finance, he was more qualified for the job. And I couldn’t blame his hearing loss for not having picked up Jayden Weidel’s words. I was sitting three seats down and I hadn’t been able to make out a single syllable.

Surfer-boy-boss lifted his fingers into the neckline of his button up and pulled the cotton away from his throat. “This year’s annual retreat will take place on the Double B Dude Ranch.” He glanced up for a split second, then quickly fell into the upscale office chair with a four-digit price tag and occupied himself with his papers.

A finance conglomerate department head meeting wasn’t exactly on the same decibel level as a bar of rowdy bikers, but the room grew so quiet I began to think we’d all forgotten to breathe. I swept my gaze around my coworkers frozen in their seats. Henry McNamiss from the actuary department appeared to be running statistics in his mind.

Pretty sure I could jump in on the probability of a group of business personnel who worked inside a skyrise for sixty hours a week coming out of a seven-day experience around thousand-pound animals unscathed.

Zero. The probability was zero.

One of us would end up dead. And since I was the only Black person in sight, I’d go first. Hollywood always killed us off before anyone else, didn’t they?

I took in Donald Hartwell’s pale complexion. Sam Yo’s tan skin had turned the yellowish color of paper from an antique book.

I winced. Maybe I shouldn’t have made that comparison. My own skin had been compared to coffee and chocolate, among other food items, and while I enjoyed eating those things, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being compared to products of consumption. Especially ones my ancestors had been forced to cultivate through slavery. But people didn’t really take those things into account and, usually, didn’t mean to be offensive (I know I didn’t with my antique paper comparison), so I ordinarily let it go.

Tonya folded her hands on the table. Jeff covered a cough behind a fist.

Had anyone here ever had any outdoor experience?

I most certainly hadn’t! Camping had been a joke in my neighborhood growing up. Why would anyone want to pay hard-earned money to go and live like a homeless person for a weekend? It had been a struggle to keep a roof over our heads. Spending a night in a tent was something I’d feared, not dreamed of.

“This is where you give us a disarming grin and tell us you were just kidding.”