Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Read online

  “Yo, Darby! What up, fool?”

  I looked up and saw Tav walking down the hallway toward me with a swagger that would do George Jefferson proud. Tavish Woo-Kaminsky is my co-cubicle buddy at work. We’ve also been inseparable since the age of seven.

  He isn’t black nor is he a wigger. He’s actually half Caucasian, half Asian. You could tell from his eyes. Both are slanted but the left eye has a Caucasian eyelid while the right one is missing it like an Asian eye. His legs were what gave him a height of six-foot-one. His torso? Not so much.

  “Watched some Def Comedy Jam last night. They was tight and slinging some funny-ass shit.”

  Whenever Tav took an interest in someone, he would mimic that person the best he could.

  “Really? I never would have guessed,” I said.

  Pulling up his chair, Tav plopped down beside me. “Yo, you feelin’ me, bro? You look tagged, like you been jacked or sumthin’.”

  “I look like I was mugged?”

  “Yo, yo, you know what I’m sayin’…wait, I got it. You got a little sumthin’, sumthin’ last night? Sum hollaback girl creep over?”

  “I wish.”

  “Yo, don’t tell me you was up all late and shit buying ridiculous products on TV? Why come you buy all that stuff? You know you ain’t collecting the Benjamins like you used to.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Yo, you ‘bout to get yo’self into bankruptcy.” Tav jumped up from his chair and kicked it back under his desk. “Yo, I gotta bounce. Got me a sit-down with the white man. Check you later, a’ight?”

  I watched Tav pimp-walk down the hall. He was right. In the beginning I had done fairly well at the company, but a setback prevented me from truly excelling. Now it seemed impossible to get ahead, yet I hated being on the bottom. Why couldn’t I be happy like Tav?

  Tav was a numbers guy––crunch, crunch, crunch, all day long. Normally he would be assigned to the second floor, but by some mix-up in HR, he was directed to share a cubicle with me. We never bothered to get it straightened out.

  I usually found Tav’s multiple personalities interesting, but today it was annoying. Maybe it was because it was Monday, or maybe it was because I almost got my ass beat this morning.

  Chapter 5

  I turned back to my desktop. The big blue Teleco logo on my screensaver stared back at me, daring me to become a heavy hitter. I knew I could be a heavy hitter. All I needed were the right clients and life would be different––better.

  Would the fame and glory change me? Yup. Would I acquire material things at an alarming rate? Of course.

  I liked where this plot line was heading. I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug for warmth and settled into my thoughts about the rewards of heavy-hitter status. Like being able to date Hillary Kate, Alix Layng, and Maggie Dolen for instance. They are arguably the three hottest admins in the entire company. Of course I called them HAM, and I wanted me a bite. I also knew exactly how my encounter with HAM would play out. With heavy-hitter status in tow, I would swing by their desks one by one and zing them with classic Darbytastic one-liners, the perfect icebreaker.

  Of course the company Christmas party is where I would make my real move, starting with Hillary. I’d tell her I found this great website full of kittens, because she likes kittens. I would mention that we should check it out really quick.

  As we playfully make our way over to my cubicle, I would casually slip my arm around her and laugh as I pull her closer to me. This says, “I’m making a move on you…but maybe not because I’m laughing.” Best to keep a little confusion in the mix.

  To continue, there would be no one near my cubicle. The lighting would be perfect, enough to see detailed labia if offered up, but dark enough so the two of us wouldn’t be visible from a distance.

  After fifteen minutes of looking at cute kittens stuck in cereal boxes or hiding under blankets, Hillary would lose control of herself. Skillfully she would unzip my artificially faded denims and orally please me. After finishing, I would continue to fondle her left breast––

  “Darby!”

  Fantasy over.

  I looked up and saw Harold Epstein staring down at me. He’s the manager who oversees the bottom feeder floor. He had on a short-sleeved, white dress shirt picked up from K-Mart, the kind that doesn’t need ironing. A pair of tan Dockers rounded out the rest of his edgy outfit.

  “Hey, limp dick, did you hear a word of what I was saying?”

  I quickly shook the thoughts of HAM out my head. “Sorry. I was mentally running through my massive to-do list.”

  Harold smiled at me with his Cheshire Cat grin. It was obvious that he spent a greater part of his day outside lighting up with the other puff-puffs.

  “Well you better start listening,” he said as he pulled up a chair and positioned his chipper self opposite me. This enthusiasm wasn’t normal. What could possibly have gotten Harold this excited?

  “Management has tasked me with snipping the smallest balls around here and you ain’t exactly swinging a pair. Looks like your run here is about up,” he said, beaming.

  I reached for my coffee because I really had no response and thought taking a sip of this generic swill would buy me time to think of one.

  “Put! That! Coffee! Down!”

  For a second I thought of bitch-slapping Harold. He was at the right distance, too. But the rent check that was five days late talked some sense into me.

  He knows not what he does, my son. Bite your tongue. And that’s an order.

  Harold continued his persecution. “Only two new accounts in the last six months. What the hell are you doing here every day?”

  Why the rhetorical question Harold? You know the answer is “Nothing.”

  I sat up straight and in my most enthusiastic voice said, “Two? Really? I thought it was only one. That’s great news.”

  Memo

  RE: Bite Tongue

  Status: Unread

  Harold wrapped his grubby fist around my only good tie and jerked me forward. His beady eyes tightened like a sphincter.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Darby,” he said through crooked teeth. “You got six months. You hear me, ass-sucker? Six months. Either shape your shit up or I’m shipping your shit out. Capice?”

  Harold stood up and kicked Tav’s chair over as he left.

  “You’re not even Italian,” I mumbled as he walked away with his knuckles dragging behind him.

  I was screwed. I knew it. But how am I supposed to compete when all that’s left to go after are pizzerias and beauty shops? As much as I dreamed of bringing in a big account and becoming a heavy hitter, the situation was what it was. All the large accounts were locked up. If only there was a new territory no one had tapped yet. Things would be different. I was sure of that. I picked up Tav’s chair and sat back down, depressed about my options.

  Tav popped back into the cubicle; slurping on his coffee, “What did Harold want?” he managed between sips.

  “He told me I had six months to improve or he’s going to fire me.”

  “Whoa, that’s harsh.”

  “What happened to Def Comedy Jam?”

  “It wasn’t really working,” he said as he fumbled with the level on his chair. “My chair won’t go down. What the hell?”

  “What am I going to do? I can’t get fired.”

  Tav continued playing with his chair, more concerned that it wasn’t at the right height than he was about me.

  “Hey, are you listening?”

  “Yeah, it’s just…this chair was fine a few minutes ago… Look, you need to pick up the phone and attack. Call every business in the yellow pages. You’ll be fine.”

  “Screw that. I’m better than those piece-of-shit businesses.”

  “Come on, let’s head downstairs. The buses will be leaving for the picnic soon and I want to get a window seat.”

  “I’ll meet you down there. I want to change out of this suit.” And hopefully, out of this slump.

  Chapter 6


  Once a year, Teleco throws a picnic for its employees at the municipal park. This is management’s way to say, “We care,” without spending a whole lot of dough.

  Everyone goes to get out of work, plus the food isn’t half bad. The pièce de résistance is the potato sack race. For some reason, whoever wins it is put up on a pedestal for the day.

  “Tav, why is it after working here for two whole years, we still don’t know anybody?”

  “Speak for yourself. I know plenty of peeps here.”

  No sooner had I opened my mouth than an energetic blonde appeared before us. Her long, sun-kissed hair draped half of her face, leaving one of her sea-green eyes in the open. She wore skinny jeans and a Carolina blue hoodie, and had the right amount of freckles on her nose.

  “Hi, Tavy. How are things?”

  “Hey, Izzy. Long time,” Tav said as he hugged her. “When are we gonna hang again?”

  The two looked like they were actually friends, moved beyond the coworker/associate stage. I was shocked. I assumed Tav’s social circle at work was closer to mine: nonexistent.

  It’s not like I don’t like my coworkers. I nod my head to people in hallways and hold the elevator when someone asks me to. Isn’t this friendly behavior?

  “Whenever. Stop by my desk. We’ll figure something out,” Izzy said.

  I eyed her butt as she scurried away before turning to Tav. “Okay, first off, how do you know her? And second, why no introduction?”

  “Sorry, my bad. Her name is Isabel but everyone calls her Izzy. She works in operations. We usually hit up the vending machines together over on three.”

  Geesh, even Tav is deep in the game. Hugging, high-fiving, talking about the weekend get-togethers and vending machine meet-ups. Where was I during this?

  My eyes glazed over the heads of Teleco people as I took in the beauty of a municipal park. It used to be an old landfill, but an eccentric old man named Roger McCormack willed $2 million to the city when he died. In his honor, the city built this park and named it after him. I guess all $2 million buys you is your name on a shithole.

  I spotted the Heavys over by the big oak tree and stopped to observe, almost puked. The way they congratulated each other twenty-four/seven––it was so self-indulgent. Typical locker room crap. “Hey, great sale, bro! Love how you closed. Dude never saw it coming. That’s baller, bro.”

  “Darby, forget those guys,” Tav said.

  “They think they’re so cool. Slapping each other on the butt, hugging it out. Bunch of homoerotic behavior if you ask me,” I said.

  “You’re jealous.”

  I was. Truth be told, I was actually a heavy when I first started. Well, I had the status for three weeks.

  I’ll be the first to admit I got lucky at Teleco with a start-up client right out of the gate. I scored Gopher, Inc., a start-up tech company in Chinatown. Long story short, their PassPorto app exploded onto the digital scene. It became the most downloaded app in two days and was hailed by every magazine as the coolest app out there.

  The company grew and so did their wireless needs. I handled their entire operation from wiring their infrastructure to their phones, their database, their Wi-Fi networks––the works. I billed $20,000 on their very first order––enough to qualify for heavy hitter status at the time.

  I was about to embark on a finantastical (part finance, part fantastical) adventure with Robin Leach in tow.

  Until Harold screwed me.

  I can’t prove it, but I knew he was behind the Gopher account getting yanked from me. Harold made it his business to keep his nose up my ass. I knew my bold confidence and my loud mouth rubbed him raw.

  The orders placed by Gopher were getting screwed up. Balls were dropping on the business and they were complaining. I couldn’t figure it out. I did everything right but shit kept going wrong, always on the Teleco side and always in operations. This was where I believed the Cro-Magnon was involved.

  Word had gotten back to the higher-ups and the next thing I knew, management pulled me off the biz. Gopher was an important client now, and Teleco wanted to keep them happy.

  Within the year, the company was able to bill them for a cool million. Frank Rose, the heavy who took over the account, now drives a different Porsche to work every day of the week.

  Without Gopher, I was demoted back to bottom feeder status pronto. I’ve been next to Tav ever since, trying to figure out a way back into the club, preferably by destroying Harold in the process.

  Chapter 7

  In order to hit home runs, you’ve got to swing big. Today, I brought my bat.

  “Excuse me, folks. Pardon me,” I said pushing my way through a crowd gathered around a table. “Thank you, I’ll take that marker.”

  “Darb, what are you doing?”

  “I’m baking a cake. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m signing up for the potato sack race.”

  “But only heavy hitters enter the race. You’ll be creamed, Darb.”

  “Yeah but if I win, I’m the shit. It could buy me some time.”

  Tav stood there shrugging his shoulders. “Seems like you’re taking a huge risk. Lose, and it could work against you.”

  “Look, I need to bring some positive attention to myself. My job’s in jeopardy.”

  “And this is your plan?”

  “Yeah, it is. You got a better idea?”

  “Uh, hello? How about working the phones? You know, get some new clients, perhaps another start-up?”

  Tav was right, but I didn’t want to hear it. My mind was already committed.

  “Look, I can’t keep sniffing ass to make my numbers. Maybe you should enter?” I suggested as I tossed him the marker. The plan was solid. I just needed to execute it flawlessly.

  An hour later I was sandwiched between two heavy hitters, Mike Rowland and Jason McClure. The two outweighed me and outspent me. That Rowland ass even wore one of those skin-like shirts to cut down on air drag. Tool.

  The Heavys bombarded me with taunts but it didn’t bother me one bit. Nothing did. I was in the zone. Focused.

  The entire company lined up, creating a gauntlet of massive proportions. All eyes were on us potato-sackers. Today I would prove to these knuckleheads I was the boss man.

  Gripping the edge of the bag, I did some warm up jumps––both feet, then alternating. I felt loose. Good to go.

  I saw HAM push their way to the front of the crowd. Confusion, then laughter overcame their face as their attention focused on me. Go ahead and laugh. Enjoy yourselves. I was front and center in this bitch, and the entire company was about to eat crow.

  The heavy hitters flanked me five wide. Any normal person would have been intimidated, but not me. I had this race. This “King of the Day” decider was all but sewn up.

  The crack of the gun launched my body into motion. My eyes slammed shut and my legs pounded the ground like I was a juiced-up gorilla on The Jersey Shore.

  After what felt like a half hour, I opened my eyes and looked around. To my surprise, there was no one in front of me. Looking back, I realized the nearest jumper was a good ten feet behind me.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was actually leading the pack by a huge margin.

  My body moved like a finely tuned fighter jet. Feet, knees, thighs, and arms––they were all taking orders from brain. “Yes, sir. Aye-aye, Captain. Right away.”

  Cooperation was the word of the day. My limbs knew what was at stake. I only need to continue my mad hopping and victory was mine. Seize the day. Carpe diem. Fuck all y’all.

  Fifty, forty, thirty, the finish line drew closer with every hop. I was a mere twenty yards away from capturing Teleco stardom. I couldn’t wait to cross the finish line.

  My coworkers would shout, “What’s your name?” and I would shout back, “It’s Darby! Remember me!”

  Management wouldn’t dare fire the potato sack champ, at least not for a year. HAM would most definitely rush over and fawn over my sweaty body. The Heavys would have no
choice but to hike me up on their shoulders and carry me around. Heck, I would even be given first crack at the dessert station when it opened.

  Finally, one of my ideas was about to pay off.

  As I neared the finish line, I caught site of Harold Epstein staring at me. I laughed at him. Suck it up and go find someone else to can.

  He gave me that stupid smirk of his and shouted, “Don’t blow it, Darby.”

  Those four words are what set in motion a series of events from which I would never recover.

  Right then, the big toe on my left foot tangled with the bottom right corner of the sack. I made a last minute decision to jump bare foot and now it was haunting me.

  I tried to shake it free and hop at the same time but it wasn’t working. I felt my rhythm fall out of sync. Maybe I could hang on. My hopping had slowed and my form was ugly but winning was what mattered. Only eight jumps to the finish line.

  And then I heard a crack and a sharp pain shot up my leg. “Aaarrrggghhh,” I yelled.

  My leg buckled from what felt like a thousand sewing needles stabbing my toe. My fall from grace had commenced. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to regain my footing. It was as if my body suddenly didn’t understand. No comprendo sus instrucciones, señor.

  Forward I fell like a retired Redwood tree. I couldn’t believe it.

  It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. The Teleco gauntlet was in an uproar as I tripped and skipped and hobbled my way to the inevitable. I looked back toward Harold, the trigger. There he stood, upright, when he should be on all fours. Big belly laughs shot out of his mouth as he slapped his thigh.

  That’s what I last remember before I slammed face first into the ground, knocking myself unconscious. And if that wasn’t enough, the ground cushioned the blow to my face with a pile of dog...ouch!

  Chapter 8

  I didn’t know what to expect when I crutched into work the next day. The doctor told me my toe had a hairline fracture and would be in a cast for a couple of weeks.