– 9 –
The Beheading
Friday, October 14th
10:00pm
New York City
The excitement a sexy mommy-escort could generate with her business clients in Washington, D.C. was nothing compared to the stir being generated by a certain young fiancée in New York City. It was her social debut in the North East gas patch, and those who watched, knew—oh, how they knew: an awesome exhibition of sensual power now rocked the patch. And…everyone was watching.
The exhibition started on a hotel-club dance floor in Manhattan. 10pm; TranState’s dinner gala was over. Dana Ryder stared again at Bud and Lisa.
Oh, yeah—dinner was way, way over.
TranState hosted the lavish event every year at the ‘Q’—midtown’s hot-n-happening biz-party hotel. Only the C-level boys who dominated the gas patch games were invited; well, they, and their C-level wives. If one were to think top gas executives were of the aggressive and throat-cutting type—they had yet to meet their wives.
Four hours earlier, Dana had made the final decision in the matter of dinner seatings. She shuddered at the prospect of placing Lisa next to any of the executive wives. They would delight in slowly slicing the Houston stripper into quivering social jelly.
So, instead of placing her new-best-friend next to one of the C-level She-wolves, Dana sat Lisa between Bud and Dave Wilton, the new CMO of New Jersey Gas Supply. To make sure confrontations were stopped before they started, Dana sat herself on the other side of Dave; and, just to make sure she was sure—the TranState VP had her ballpoint pen ready. If need be, she’d embed it into Wilton’s side then pay the medical bills later. It wouldn’t have been the first time such punitive actions were necessary to protect the defenseless dates of her C-level boys. But, this time, ‘she’ was not some randomly-hot call girl hired to sit, listen, and giggle. She was Lisa Ellen Hansen—Bud Gossett’s new fiancée: the talk of the gas patch. All the men—eyes-on; all the women—target-sighted.
The TranState executive rubbed her forehead in expectation of her coming headache. She liked Bud, and Lisa obviously made him happy. There would be no business-social beheading at her dinner party and particularly of some defenseless stripper who couldn’t hold her own in a business conversation with a convenience store owner—much less the power elite of the North East gas patch.
Dana checked the final placement of the dinner settings at her table. Most were done right; a few were not. A hard snap of the VP’s fingers brought three waiters scurrying. A harder frown ensured they would make the necessary rearrangements. Dana didn’t bother pointing out which ones needed attention—they could figure that out for themselves or re-do them all.
The Operations VP took another look at the seating chart. Her party would be perfect. Well, maybe close to perfect.
Okay, for this one, please, God—not a complete social disaster.
Dana knew who the wildcard in the mix would be: Dave Wilton, the gas exec hired to fill Bud’s position. In from a West Coast minor, cocky by nature, small by stature—the combination worried her. There was cause for hope, though; Bud and Dave already knew each other. Hell, Bud had even overlapped a week of work to provide personal coaching to his replacement. Surely good will had been established.
Yes, it was common knowledge that Bud found his match in a Houston strip club. He had money and power—the hot-stud CEO of a gas patch major could have any woman he wanted. But, a stripper? C’mon Bud—they were for fucking, not marrying.
The Ops VP steeled herself for what might come. Stripper or not—Lisa would be treated with respect, and a pen-stab wound could always be bandaged up later.
At 7pm, the guests arrived; each—seated in their perfectly-planned place. Matters proceeded in good form through the first course and then the second. Lisa maintained a poised presence. She used the dinner setting correctly and listened intently to the telling of fictitious gas-patch tales. She even laughed when Wilton rudely asked of the height of her heels.
Dana frowned at the crude display of disrespect. Bud simply smiled as his woman unsheathed her social blade.
“My heels? They are about as tall as you are, Dave.”
Matters started to spin out of control during the third course. For it was then, that Wilton finished off his fifth scotch; which, accordingly—also finished off his common sense.
To Dana’s perplexed amazement, Bud made sure his replacement’s glass remained full. Surely he knew this would set into motion the necessity for a business-social confrontation. She watched in struck awe as he ordered Wilton his sixth drink, and then sat back comfortably. His woman would take her first steps into the business-social battleground—squared off against a drunk C-level boy; one who had obviously never had the good fortune of dating a girl half as attractive as Lisa, much less sleeping with one.
A certain level of male animosity had built up through his punishment by attractive-female neglect, and it all came out as dessert was served.
The new CMO focused his bleary-eyed stare at Lisa. She smiled back. Words, even more bleary than the stare, stopped the table’s conversation with a gasp.
“Lisa, next year, at the Gas Supply Conference—I want you to introduce me to one of your slut-stripper friends.”
Wilton’s uncoordinated hand motioned the waiter to serve the scotch. The young man extended a questioning look toward Dana. She shrugged and nodded a reluctant ‘yes’. The battle was already on—no stopping it now. Dave was drunk, and a pen stab would simply enrage him more. A dark professional curiosity engaged the TranState’s VP of Ops; it would be interesting to see if Lisa could hold her own or at least not cower and run for Bud’s protection.
Cowering and running—not going to happen; Lisa’s response took the gasps of those seated at her table and turned them into hushed whispers of excited expectation. The blade was being positioned.
“Why introduce you to just one of my slut-stripper friends, Dave? The odds go up the more you meet.”
The attacker’s mind, dulled beyond an ability to sense the slice, fell into the trap.
“Really? You’d do that?”
Lisa smiled. The blade began its hard strike down. “Of course; that is what friends like me do. The hard part will not be meeting strippers at the GSC—I’ll make that simple for you. The hard part will be lasting long enough as a CMO to make it there. The conference is ten months away—that’s darn near three quarters of numbers you have to put down in P&L black. And, well, it’s not looking very good from the git-go to be real damn honest.”
The table quieted into hushed awe. Dana’s mouth dropped wide open. Bud bit his lip to keep quiet; it was not polite to laugh at a business-social beheading—particularly when it was his woman who now wielded the blade.
Wilton stammered. Anger flushed red across his face. Small marks of spittle outlined a mouth ready to stutter any reply it could muster.
No reply was allowed.
“Dave, please—I’ll be happy to help with your stripper problem. But instead, let’s talk about your gas marketing problem.”
Everyone seated at the table leaned in a full foot. The upcoming words would determine the respect granted to Lisa Ellen Hanson and, by the connection of a $20,000 engagement ring, the respect granted to Bud Hamilton. The New York Gas Pipeline’s CEO: seduced by a slut-stripper or captured by a biz-social tigress? It was all on the line, and Lisa’s words would call the shot. Bud just smiled and took a sip of wine.
The blade severed the first artery.
“You are doing it backward, Dave. I checked your gas marketing patterns at the West Coast firm. You led with rapid price changes to out-maneuver the competitors. That was possible in the California patch—your former company is one-fifth the size of New Jersey Gas Supply. As you have recently learned—you can’t use that strategy on this side of TranState’s pipeline. In our patch, the situation is reversed: you have competitors who are more nimble in pricing.”
Wilton’s eyes opened so wide there were no eyelids to be seen. His mouth moved, yet he could not speak.
The blade struck bone.
“What you have to do is arbitrage the gas inventory. The third alternative is to manipulate the cost-to-purchase.”
Lisa smiled at Dana with genuine respect.
“That, of course, TranState sets fairly for all. So, you must have an arbitrage strategy: inventory management with profit-producing results. Southwest Airlines pioneered this technique. Fuel stock arbitrage—with it they showed a profit for decades running.”
Nods of complete agreement were exchanged. This girl knew it!
A final, sweet smile signaled Wilton’s head would now fall.
“You do have an arbitrage strategy, don’t you Dave? Bud had one and used it with great success. You… do have one of your own, don’t you?”
The gas patch CMO shook his head in a stupid ‘no’.
Lisa winked at her man. “Of course, Bud explained this to me. I am just a stripper, and yes, I’ll introduce you to my friends. If—that is—you will be nice to me.” Sensual eyes, filled with the energies that could hang a man with his desires, fluttered their coy invitation to the newly executed. “You will be nice to me, won’t you?”
Wilton shook his head in a stupid ‘yes’.
Bud extended a requesting nod to Dana—her signal to clear the battleground. There was no reason to dance in the biz-social blood of a C-level boy.
The VP of Ops instantly knew what to do. “Lisa, honey, let’s go visit the girl’s room. I do so want to know your thoughts on our pricing strategy. And—where do you get those fabulous heels?”
If applause was allowed at business dinner tables, it would have broken out wildly. Instead, calm smiles of acceptance flowed toward a woman suddenly transformed from a Houston stripper into a C-level She-force.
Within an hour of the execution, all the gas patch executives knew of the social battle and of the one left standing—the one in six-inch heels, to be specific.
Within two hours, the C-level wives had been warned not to exercise their prerogative of misbehavior with that one—or their husbands would exercise their prerogative to enjoy yet another social beheading.
Three hours later, Lisa Ellen Hanson’s reputation as the new She-level force within the North East gas patch skyrocketed from mere business respect to awestruck admiration.
All it took was one carefully planned dance…
The dance floor beckoned; the lights were turned low; and the deejay’s music issued its invitation. Many couples joined in movement; only one couple mattered.
Dana watched as Lisa faced Bud and matched her body movements to the erotic beat of the music. Her hips swayed but an inch from her man. With practiced perfection, the vivacious brunette extended her grip on Bud’s soul. He was an intoxicating capture and one from which she would fully drink.
Lisa spun away from her man in a suggestively elegant half-circle. A perfect female form swayed in front of him. Graceful hands raised themselves above her head—the ultimate suggestion of submissive control.
Bud swallowed hard. Hell, everyone in the whole damn room swallowed hard. She was seducing him—right in front of his business friends, customers, and half-a-legion of hard-breathing waiters.
Lisa giggled when Bud wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered what he wanted. She knew this was merely another form of beheading, but this time the blade cut with a pleasure only dreamed of by most men. A whisper was returned. Bud’s face flushed pure red.
The C-level boys smiled and nodded; they knew what was said. The wives just turned away.
They knew they could never say it.
The TranState Ops Manager approached her VP. A socially-ungraceful finger pointed toward the center of the dance floor.
“Is that her?”
The hand was slapped down.
“Yes, of course. Have you seen any other fantastically-beautiful women hanging around Bud Gossett tonight?”
“Well, no.” Then the manager laughed. She had news from Bud’s secretary, and now was the time to use it.
“Do you know what those two have planned next?”
Ryder eyed her protégé closely. She was paid to be in the know, not in the question.
“Lisa has asked Bud to take her to Houston for their honeymoon. She wants the party to be at—”
The TranState VP’s mouth opened full-wide for the second time that night.
“—no.”
“Yes! New Year’s Eve—a toast to her new husband—at the Pump Room.”
Dana shook her head in disbelief. “There are so many bad memories of that place! For her, for Bud—for everyone!”
The younger exec shrugged. “Maybe she misses the pole—sure seems so by tonight’s performance.”
Dana considered the situation for a moment. Perhaps she hasn’t yet faced her demons. But—if Lisa Ellen Hanson wants to toast her new husband at the Pump Room—on New Year’s Eve—then she’d make it happen.
A mental note was made to fly Wilton in.
She was curious how many slut-stripper friends the new tigress of the North East gas patch could bring to the party—
—second only to the wonder if Lisa really could convince any of them to throw a minute of attention to a headless fool.
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