Page 15 of Off Script
According to witnesses, Sutton arrived solo at Chateau Marmot but soon met up with friends. A little after midnight, Sutton and his small entourage moved venues, ending up at Polo Lounge. He and two male friends sat at a private booth in the VIP section drinking beer, but Sutton did not appear intoxicated. The A-list actor left Polo Lounge alone when the bar closed.
After his late-night bar hopping on Friday, he caught locals by surprise when he stopped into Main Street Coffee Company on Sunday morning with an unknown brunette.
Sutton and the young woman were spotting talking inside the coffee shop and departed at the same time. The Hollywood actor held the door for the woman and placed his hand lovingly on the small of her back. Though they left in separate vehicles, it appeared as though the two were well-acquainted with each other.
Captain Commanderopens nationwide on December 10th.
Representatives for Sutton could not be reached for comment.
5
Carlisle
On Thursday morning, I limp into work a few minutes late because I’m hungover. My head is pounding, and it is taking all my concentration not to regurgitate last night’s dinner.
My life is full of regrets, but at the top of that list is deciding to have a third margarita.
Why did I do that to myself?
Oh, wait. I know why. I was trying to drown out the disappointment I feel that Brent hasn’t contacted me since the weekend. Stupidly, I’d gotten my hopes up that he enjoyed talking to me as much I did him.
Sliding my bag under my desk, I turn on my computer and wait for the ancient beast to roar to life. I amble into the break room to grab a mug of coffee. Hopefully the one-two punch of caffeine and ibuprofen will quieten the drums that are playing directly on my brain.
Sipping my coffee, I start working on crossing things off my to-do list. Starting with the easiest items first, I finish some filing and then move on to updating our client database. As always, I keep an eye on Mr. King’s office and try to avoid any interaction with him. Luckily, my hangover abates, and I get lost in my daily tasks.
When my stomach growls loudly, I’m surprised to realize that it’s already past my normal lunch hour. Most of my co-workers go out to lunch each day, but I so rarely join them that they've stopped inviting me. When I first started working here, I tagged along a few times, but I don’t have anything in common with them. They’ve been working at Staples King for years, if not decades, and most are married with kids or even grandkids. While I’m drooling over a new purse or fantasizing about a cute guy, they’re planning for retirement, college funds, and knee replacement surgeries.
I grab my lunch from my tote bag and eat it at my desk while researching recipe ideas and jotting down a grocery list. A recipe for bulgogi burgers begins to coalesce in my mind. Ground beef patties seasoned with garlic, ginger, and dark soy sauce and topped with thinly sliced cucumbers, kimchi, and spicy mayo.
In addition to my day job, I’m a small-time food and recipe social media influencer—emphasis on small-time. It’s not making me rich, but I feel lucky to earn a little money each month from pursuing a much-loved hobby.
I started cooking during my sophomore year of college after my mom passed away. My childhood is filled with memories of spending time in the kitchen with my mom, so I began recreating her favorite recipes as a means of holding her memory close. With Harper’s encouragement, I documented both my grief and my mom’s recipes online. My authenticity and vulnerability hit a chord with social media users, and more people started to follow my journey. Over the years, my reach has grown steadily, and I hope it will continue to grow because cooking has become my favorite creative outlet.
After I finish my grocery list, I scroll mindlessly through Instagram and TikTok while I finish my lunch. Jumping up from my desk, I walkto the breakroom to throw away my trash, ready to get back to the doldrums of my day job.
But as I re-enter my cubicle, I have an unpleasant surprise waiting for me. Mr. King. He’s sitting at my desk holding my phone, which is still open to TikTok. He raises his bushy eyebrows at me and flashes my phone screen towards me.
“Now, now, Carlisle,” he tsks. “It’s against company policy to use social media during working hours.” He drops my phone onto the desk with a clatter.
“I was using it while I was—” I start to explain that I was on my lunch break when he cuts me off by raising a meaty hand. He lumbers out of my chair, his large body dwarfing the tiny cubicle. In such close quarters, I notice the red spiderwebs of broken capillaries peppered across his cheeks and the stringent odor of the aftershave he uses to cover the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“I don't want to hear excuses, Carlisle.” I shrink against the cubicle wall making myself as small as possible, when he brushes his body against the front of mine as he exits. I fail to repress a shudder at the feel of his body touching mine, which Mr. King misinterprets.
He shoots me a leering smile and murmurs, “If you keep misbehaving, I’ll be forced to punish you. But something tells me, you might enjoy that."
Oh, gross.
I fight the urge to gag, and my reaction has nothing to do with my earlier hangover and everything to do with my creepy boss.
Truthfully, Mr. King's harassment scares me, but my hands are tied. If I report our conversation to human resources, he’d deny that there was anything sexual about his comment. Additionally, he’s the owner of the company. Who is HR going to believe—the boss or a lowly,entry-level assistant who got caught using social media during working hours?
As soon as Mr. King retreats to his office, I fish a small red notebook out of my purse and jot down the details of our latest interaction.
When Mr. King’s inappropriate advances first started, I told Harper about it, and she persuaded me to take notes detailing each incident. I don’t know if any good will come of it, but I dutifully write about each encounter. Afterwards, I return the notebook to my purse and get back to work, but it’s difficult to shake off the persistent feelings of humiliation and discomfort that Mr. King left in his wake.
I’m almost finished cooking our dinner when Harper arrives home from work.
“Hey, Car!” Harper singsongs when she comes in the door. “Smells good in here! I’m starving and I’m so lucky to have the best roommate in the world who cooks for me.” Harper and I have an easy division of labor in the apartment—I cook, she cleans. That’s a deal I’ll take any day of the week. “How was work?”
