Chapter 8 - CEO
Submitted January 13, 2008 Updated April 6, 2010 Status Incomplete | Okay, so, the other day I was thinking (scary, huh?). I have no way to share my short stories other than creating a story thing for each. why not just have one whole 'story' for short stories? so, here we are. Just Because.
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Miscellaneous » Writing |
Chapter 8 - CEO
Chapter 8 - CEO
CEO
The meeting wasn’t supposed to run long. He scripted it in his head, running through possible barriers the board members might present. He wanted to get this over with and he wasn’t about to let the Board get in his way.
His eyes heavy with the weight of responsibility, he strode confidently around the board table, his fingers trailing lightly on the polished surface. As he watched the lights dance upon the table, reflecting in bursts of radiance, he saw out of the corner of his eye an aid enter the room with cups and pitchers of water and coffee.
Sighing, he reached the head of the table and slumped into the chair. He passed a hand before his eyes, dreading the reactions to come. Just as he got comfortable and accepted his difficult situation, the board members began to silently trickle in, one or two at a time, until all twelve members creaked into their seats.
Their mouths were solemn, the brooding beasts, but their eyes spoke, even yelled, volumes of gloats and snide comments.
He sighed to himself. This was not going to be easy.
“Mr. President,” one of the older board members said, interrupting his sulking, “we’re ready.”
Leaning forward, the President of the Company placed his palms on the gleaming table, slowly rising from his chair and pushing it back. He cleared his dry throat and leveled an even, firm gaze at each of the board members.
“Gentlemen, please remember why we are here,” he began, noticing a few uncomfortable fidgets, “and remember not to reveal anything about the company’s private life. We already had to clean up multiple messes caused by careless executive comments.”
Murmurs of consent around the table followed, along with telling glances at those responsible for the ‘comments.’
His gaze rested upon all faces before continuing.
“Very well,” he sighed, then remembered an important note. “Before it happens again or you lose control of yourself…Flynn, keep quiet. If you say anything, anything at all, even a whisper to Meier or Olsen, you’re fired. You will never be able to get another job. You’re reputation will be ruined. This company will ensure you never get another cent. Understood?”
The fat pig nodded profusely, sweating up a lake.
The CEO shivered. I hate this job, said his spine as he slumped back into his chair. He motioned toward the door, where the aid sat uncomplaining.
“Let Mr. Connewell in, then, so we can all get back to our lives,” he ordered, impatient for the order to be followed.
Agonizingly slow, the board aid opened the room’s double doors and ushered the infamous reporter, Jason Connewell, into the room. Though he had heard of the freelance journalist, he had never seen him. Now, though, his eyes fell upon a completely unexpected meal.
Right before his eyes strode a man who could possibly destroy the world with a smile. This man, Jason Connewell, bore the eyes of the Board and CEO without a hint of nervousness. There was nothing in Jason’s bearing that suggested he was even the least bit intimidated by one of the most powerful men in the world.
This annoyed the President to no end.
Jason lazily yawned and scratched his disheveled brunette hair, his yellow eyes alert. The reporter’s eyes, his manner, reminded the CEO of a cat. His careless, smooth gait as Jason strode into the room put the CEO off balance. Something about watching the reporter’s slim body move across the room mesmerized the President. Jason’s messy and uneven suit did nothing to hide the sculpted body beneath.
“Mr. President,” the board member to the CEO’s right murmured, glancing in his direction.
Again, the President cleared his throat and gazed at the reporter, rolling a pen between his slender fingers.
“Jason Connewell,” he began, setting the pen upon the table and glancing at a file he took from the table, “a freelance journalist living in a small apartment on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia, yes?” He glanced up to see if Jason was paying attention. “You have no immediate family to speak of, a dog you’ve had for eight years…your parents both died last year in a car accident…” At this, Jason’s back stiffened and his eyes screamed to dispute.
Yet the reporter said nothing.
“We filed a law suit against you,” the President continued, silently congratulating Jason for his restraint, “however, we are willing to drop all charges if you write an apology to each person involved-”
This sparked Jason’s tongue.
His voice turning to a whine, the reporter countered, “But the article wasn’t even published!”
He’s still a child, the President’s mind grumbled. “Yes, because my company is on good terms with that particular newspaper editor. All we had to do was line his pocket a little, and quite frankly, that cut into our profits. We may not catch it next time or have the funds to get rid of it. And before you start complaining, Connewell, let me finish with your punishment.” He paused to silence the reporter. “You will be working for the company for the next five years under constant surveillance. I suggest you don’t object, Mr. Connewell; you’ve brought this on yourself and you’re getting off light. We gave you fair warning last time and you blew us off. Just be glad neither the article nor the photographs were published. Otherwise, you would not be breathing.” He noticed Jason swallow hard and knew then the reporter took him seriously. “Do you understand your position, Mr. Connewell?”
Slowly, the reporter yielded, beads of sweat on his brow.
“Very well, Mr. Connewell,” the President set the file down on the table and leaned back into his chair, folding his hands on his lap, watching the reporter’s every fidget. “Do you have any questions for I or the Board?”
The reporter breathed in slowly and nodded. “Where will I be working?”
“As my personal aid,” he surprised the Board with his response; he hadn’t discussed this part with the board members and they didn’t look happy.
“And might I know who you are?” Jason’s eyes revealed he truly didn’t know.
Smirking inside, he answered without any of his previous irritation present in his voice, “I am the President of this Company, Nicholas Krestan.”
Jason physically flinched. The CEO had been the focus of his article, but Jason was unable to obtain a photo, or even a description, of the elusive president. That very President had blocked the reporter’s every attempt.
Now, Jason was face-to-face with the very man the reporter had come very close to ruining.
Jason didn’t look very confident anymore.
“Any other questions, Mr. Connewell?” he asked impatiently.
Defeated, Jason shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good. You begin work tomorrow, early,” he told the ex-reporter, picking up the pen once more, “I’ll expect you in my office at 6:30; I’ve informed the secretary at the front desk, so if you are not in the building by 6:20, you will be regret it. Understand?”
Jason’s dejected voice floated across the room, “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, then,” Nicholas said, returning to his papers. As he heard the door click open, Nicholas glanced up. “One more thing,” – Nicholas’ voice caused Jason to pause within the door frame– “if you tell anyone about this, we will know. I’m sure you understand what that means, yes?”
Slowly, Jason turned and nodded, “…Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” he waved his hand dismissively, his other hand rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I expect you bright and early, don’t forget.”
“I understand, sir.”
The meeting wasn’t supposed to run long. He scripted it in his head, running through possible barriers the board members might present. He wanted to get this over with and he wasn’t about to let the Board get in his way.
His eyes heavy with the weight of responsibility, he strode confidently around the board table, his fingers trailing lightly on the polished surface. As he watched the lights dance upon the table, reflecting in bursts of radiance, he saw out of the corner of his eye an aid enter the room with cups and pitchers of water and coffee.
Sighing, he reached the head of the table and slumped into the chair. He passed a hand before his eyes, dreading the reactions to come. Just as he got comfortable and accepted his difficult situation, the board members began to silently trickle in, one or two at a time, until all twelve members creaked into their seats.
Their mouths were solemn, the brooding beasts, but their eyes spoke, even yelled, volumes of gloats and snide comments.
He sighed to himself. This was not going to be easy.
“Mr. President,” one of the older board members said, interrupting his sulking, “we’re ready.”
Leaning forward, the President of the Company placed his palms on the gleaming table, slowly rising from his chair and pushing it back. He cleared his dry throat and leveled an even, firm gaze at each of the board members.
“Gentlemen, please remember why we are here,” he began, noticing a few uncomfortable fidgets, “and remember not to reveal anything about the company’s private life. We already had to clean up multiple messes caused by careless executive comments.”
Murmurs of consent around the table followed, along with telling glances at those responsible for the ‘comments.’
His gaze rested upon all faces before continuing.
“Very well,” he sighed, then remembered an important note. “Before it happens again or you lose control of yourself…Flynn, keep quiet. If you say anything, anything at all, even a whisper to Meier or Olsen, you’re fired. You will never be able to get another job. You’re reputation will be ruined. This company will ensure you never get another cent. Understood?”
The fat pig nodded profusely, sweating up a lake.
The CEO shivered. I hate this job, said his spine as he slumped back into his chair. He motioned toward the door, where the aid sat uncomplaining.
“Let Mr. Connewell in, then, so we can all get back to our lives,” he ordered, impatient for the order to be followed.
Agonizingly slow, the board aid opened the room’s double doors and ushered the infamous reporter, Jason Connewell, into the room. Though he had heard of the freelance journalist, he had never seen him. Now, though, his eyes fell upon a completely unexpected meal.
Right before his eyes strode a man who could possibly destroy the world with a smile. This man, Jason Connewell, bore the eyes of the Board and CEO without a hint of nervousness. There was nothing in Jason’s bearing that suggested he was even the least bit intimidated by one of the most powerful men in the world.
This annoyed the President to no end.
Jason lazily yawned and scratched his disheveled brunette hair, his yellow eyes alert. The reporter’s eyes, his manner, reminded the CEO of a cat. His careless, smooth gait as Jason strode into the room put the CEO off balance. Something about watching the reporter’s slim body move across the room mesmerized the President. Jason’s messy and uneven suit did nothing to hide the sculpted body beneath.
“Mr. President,” the board member to the CEO’s right murmured, glancing in his direction.
Again, the President cleared his throat and gazed at the reporter, rolling a pen between his slender fingers.
“Jason Connewell,” he began, setting the pen upon the table and glancing at a file he took from the table, “a freelance journalist living in a small apartment on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia, yes?” He glanced up to see if Jason was paying attention. “You have no immediate family to speak of, a dog you’ve had for eight years…your parents both died last year in a car accident…” At this, Jason’s back stiffened and his eyes screamed to dispute.
Yet the reporter said nothing.
“We filed a law suit against you,” the President continued, silently congratulating Jason for his restraint, “however, we are willing to drop all charges if you write an apology to each person involved-”
This sparked Jason’s tongue.
His voice turning to a whine, the reporter countered, “But the article wasn’t even published!”
He’s still a child, the President’s mind grumbled. “Yes, because my company is on good terms with that particular newspaper editor. All we had to do was line his pocket a little, and quite frankly, that cut into our profits. We may not catch it next time or have the funds to get rid of it. And before you start complaining, Connewell, let me finish with your punishment.” He paused to silence the reporter. “You will be working for the company for the next five years under constant surveillance. I suggest you don’t object, Mr. Connewell; you’ve brought this on yourself and you’re getting off light. We gave you fair warning last time and you blew us off. Just be glad neither the article nor the photographs were published. Otherwise, you would not be breathing.” He noticed Jason swallow hard and knew then the reporter took him seriously. “Do you understand your position, Mr. Connewell?”
Slowly, the reporter yielded, beads of sweat on his brow.
“Very well, Mr. Connewell,” the President set the file down on the table and leaned back into his chair, folding his hands on his lap, watching the reporter’s every fidget. “Do you have any questions for I or the Board?”
The reporter breathed in slowly and nodded. “Where will I be working?”
“As my personal aid,” he surprised the Board with his response; he hadn’t discussed this part with the board members and they didn’t look happy.
“And might I know who you are?” Jason’s eyes revealed he truly didn’t know.
Smirking inside, he answered without any of his previous irritation present in his voice, “I am the President of this Company, Nicholas Krestan.”
Jason physically flinched. The CEO had been the focus of his article, but Jason was unable to obtain a photo, or even a description, of the elusive president. That very President had blocked the reporter’s every attempt.
Now, Jason was face-to-face with the very man the reporter had come very close to ruining.
Jason didn’t look very confident anymore.
“Any other questions, Mr. Connewell?” he asked impatiently.
Defeated, Jason shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good. You begin work tomorrow, early,” he told the ex-reporter, picking up the pen once more, “I’ll expect you in my office at 6:30; I’ve informed the secretary at the front desk, so if you are not in the building by 6:20, you will be regret it. Understand?”
Jason’s dejected voice floated across the room, “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, then,” Nicholas said, returning to his papers. As he heard the door click open, Nicholas glanced up. “One more thing,” – Nicholas’ voice caused Jason to pause within the door frame– “if you tell anyone about this, we will know. I’m sure you understand what that means, yes?”
Slowly, Jason turned and nodded, “…Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” he waved his hand dismissively, his other hand rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I expect you bright and early, don’t forget.”
“I understand, sir.”
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