by JD Nixon
Unfortunately for him, considering the shitty day I was having, he chose me, probably figuring me for the softer target. Even though I darted sideways at the last second, the wrench clipped my shoulder, nicking the skin, a thin trickle of blood oozing down my arm. You shouldn’t have done that, arsehole, I thought savagely. At no time throughout history had it ever been a smart move for any guy to annoy an already upset and scorned woman, and today was no exception. I needed to take my anguish out on someone.
I pushed Trent roughly to the ground for his own protection and stood glaring at IB, hands on my hips with anger. He deliberately took his time selecting another wrench. But if he was asking for a flinging bitch fight, then I was the right woman for the job.
Without taking my eyes off him, I felt around on the workbench, picking up the first thing my hand closed over. I glimpsed down in disgusted disbelief. It was a paintbrush. Shit! Maybe if I had three hours, I could clog his pores with low-sheen acrylic and slowly suffocate him, but that wasn’t going to help me much right now.
IB flung the second wrench at me but I ducked, in the process getting a good whiff of the paintbrush, which I still clutched. Turps! I searched in desperation for the source and saw a lidless jam jar of cloudy liquid perched precariously on a teetering pile of sandpaper sheets. I tutted to myself at the shocking workplace health and safety practices on display. Knowing it was cruel, I still dunked the paintbrush into the turps and flicked the brush without mercy into his eyes. He would either kill us or we would escape, and unsurprisingly, I felt a strong preference for the latter option, leaving no place for misguided compassion.
IB dropped his next wrench, howling in pain. He stupidly rubbed his eyes, only increasing his suffering. While he was distracted, I raced to the other side of the workbench and jammed his hand into a vice, frantically turning it until he stopped shrieking about his eyes and started noticing the pain in his hand. A sickening, crunching noise matched the agonised expression on his face as I twisted the vice as hard as it would go. I didn’t want him to inconveniently free himself as we hauled arse out of there.
He bayed like a wounded rhinoceros. I yanked Trent to his feet and clasped his hand with one of mine, the distraught cameraman’s with the other. We scrammed the hell out of there, almost stumbling over ourselves as we ran.
Our station wagon, the network’s logo conspicuously plastered over the sides and roof, thankfully still waited at the curb for us – something not guaranteed in this neighbourhood. Safely locked inside, I called Brian. Although he worked homicide, I thought one of his colleagues might be interested in a tip-off about a chop shop. He impatiently promised to pass the information onto the auto theft team and hung up without another word. I hoped he’d do it quickly, if they wanted to nab IB. It wouldn’t take him too long to get out of the vice.
I’d just hung up when the back window of the car smashed in, scaring the crap out of us. Trent screamed. A wrench flew through the interior, narrowly missing the cameraman’s head, landing with a clatter on the dashboard. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw IB, a tyre lever raised to his shoulder, javelin-style, ready for launching. He must have exhausted his wrench supply.
“Shit!” I squealed in unison with the car tyres, as I planted my foot and recklessly steered us away from him. He chased us at an astonishing speed for such a large man, and I had visions of him morphing into a Terminator-1000, pursuing us relentlessly all the way back to the station. He released his tyre lever javelin with the timing and skill of an Olympic athlete. It sailed gracefully through the air, but was just a tad too high, scraping along the roof of our vehicle with a spine-tingling screech, dropping down on to the bonnet, scoring deeply into the metal as it travelled along before falling off the front of the car with a loud clang. I accelerated harder and we sped off, IB soon a tiny figure in the distance, shaking his miniature fists.
“Oh dear,” I said sheepishly, biting my bottom lip and throwing Trent an uncomfortable glance. He sat staring ahead, his features stony and irate. He didn’t say a word until we arrived back at the office, where he stood in the carpark, viewing the car with a grim face. It was the second network car that I’d damaged. The first time involved an incident with a chauvinistic, fat-bellied taxi driver who implied that I was too oestrogen-laden to understand the road rules relating to roundabouts. I admit that I’d become a little tetchy over that comment, resulting in a minor physical altercation that I’d won. But the taxi driver had showed his displeasure in being bested by a woman by breaking every window of our vehicle, ironically enough, with his tyre lever.
I made a gallant effort to laugh off my little wrong address error, though in reality, I never felt like laughing again. Trent stalked into the station without a word, and in his office afterwards, dragged my arse over the coals, pointing out all my faults in great and furious detail. Everyone else in the section pretended to work, but listened avidly to each scathing word he uttered.
“You are irresponsible and a complete trouble magnet. Everything you touch turns into a disaster. I should have been suspicious right from the beginning when Heller let you come to work for me. He probably couldn’t wait to get rid of you.” Trent didn’t realise how much that comment cut me to the bone today. I blinked rapidly, forcing back tears while he continued to rant. I’d be damned if I was going to cry in front of him. “I will be reamed to the end of the world and back by management over the car damage. It’s the second car you’ve ruined in two months!”
I jumped in to defend myself. “Neither was ruined. That’s an exaggeration. And you know the first time wasn’t my fault. That taxi driver was a jerk and I was right about those roundabout rules. He didn’t give way to me properly.”
“Do you think management give a shit about whose fault it is? All they know is that two network cars I’ve been in have been damaged. Not to mention that camera today. Do you know how much they cost? Do you know what those bastards upstairs are going to say to me? They’re going to say . . .”
For my own sanity, I disengaged from his lecture. I stared out of the window instead, wondering if I’d ever felt more miserable and watching the two meatheads swagger around as though they shared more than one ball between the both of them.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself about that?” he demanded, hands on hips. I quickly turned my attention to him again, wracking my brain, having no idea what he was talking about. I made an intrepid attempt to answer.
“I guess it depends on which position you’re looking at it from, Trent,” I said in a small voice, but not unpleased with that response. It was a good generic answer that would cover a lot of topics, hopefully even the one he’d been talking about.
But he wasn’t fooled for a second. “You weren’t even listening then, were you?” he shouted in frustration. I shrugged at him with mild guilt. He ran his fingers through his hair. “You know what? I keep trying to defend you in this place, but you’re driving me insane.”
Brady stepped into the office.
“Do you mind? We’re having a private discussion,” Trent snapped at him.
“Not anymore you’re not. Seems like someone . . .” And he tried out an ‘innocent’ face that somehow managed to look like a maniacal psycho-killer had joined us for a cup of tea and a spot of slaughter, “told the bosses about yet another mishap to a company car involving Trent Dawson’s inept researcher.”
“Hey!” I protested. “That’s a bit harsh. Why don’t you focus on all the good work I do for once?”
“And what’s your point, Brady?” Trent asked impatiently.
He smiled at us. Brady actually smiled, so I knew it wasn’t good news for me. “And now the station manager wants to see her in his office immediately.”
Chapter 25
I ascended the floors in the lift with dread. I presented myself to the manager’s personal assistant, the perfect embodiment of Corporate, with her perfectly coiffed hair and a tiny skirt suit that probably cost as much as my weekly pay packet.
“May I help you?” she asked, with all the warmth of a frozen mammoth.
“I’m here to see Mr . . .” I realised I didn’t even know the guy’s name, though I’d seen him swanning around the station. I pointed a thumb at his closed door and gave her my most charming smile. “Him.”
“Mr Reynolds,” she said with added emphasis for my benefit, “is busy at the moment. Take a seat.”
And I sat and sat for about an hour, growing more impatient with every minute. The PA didn’t even offer me a glass of water and tried to look busy so she could ignore me. I knew this was a way to remind me of my lowly status and importance in the organisation, but the rudeness irked me. So I pulled out my phone and pretended to nonchalantly play games on it until I was – finally – summoned to his lordship’s chambers. And I knew I hadn’t miss-seen his hand patting his PA’s butt when she left after bringing me in – a rude git and a chauvinist. Yippee! I really hit the jackpot today.
After the wait and witnessing that little spot of sexual harassment, I probably wasn’t in the most respectful mood. I flopped into the chair in front of his desk with some injudicious attitude.
He didn’t even make eye contact with me, instead choosing to look down at some paperwork in front of him.
“That reverend weirdo person is filing a lawsuit against the station. So is the animal trainer. And you’ve wrecked two fleet vehicles.”
“They’re not wrecked, just a little damaged. And it wasn’t my fault either time.”
“You’re fired. Collect your personal possessions and leave.”
My cheeks burned and blazed as if he’d slapped me.
“What?” I asked, incredulous, even though I’d heard him loud and clear. “You’re firing me? Without even giving me a chance to explain? Without even a warning?”
“Yes, you’re fired. We’re running a business here, not a circus. Do you realise that? Go pack up your stuff and leave now. Security will escort you out. I’ll get someone to contact you with details about sorting out your final pay and all those other boring HR things.”
He turned his back on me and pulled out his phone to make a call.
I appealed to him. “Mr Reynolds.”
“Goodbye.” He swung back and looked up from his phone screen briefly. “Best not to cause a scene.”
Stunned and stung, I stumbled back to my desk to pack up my belongings. Trent came out of his office and squeezed my shoulder. Everybody knew what had happened to me without me needing to say anything.
“I’m so sorry, Tilly. That guy’s a bastard.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do? I need this job.”
“I’m sorry. I’m at management’s mercy as much as you.”
And with my last flame of hope extinguished, I finished packing up my things. I didn’t say goodbye or speak to anyone as I left the building, humiliated by my situation.
I drove in a total daze, completely unaware of my surroundings. A fleet of police cars could have chased me home, flashing lights and sirens, and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Back at the Warehouse, I trailed up the stairs to the rooftop. It was empty. I took off my watch, my shoes and took my phone from my pocket, grabbed a wineglass and a fresh bottle of wine, and slid into the hot tub – work clothes and all. And for the rest of the afternoon I sat in the hot tub drinking wine and crying, undisturbed by anyone.
Later in the evening, Sid and Clive walked through the door, bickering over something. Clive took one look at me and fled to safer, less emotional, parts of the Warehouse. Sid approached me warily, patted me on the shoulder a couple of times, made some vague comforting noises, helpless to know what to say or do. He soon fled after Clive.
A while later, when Daniel came up, perhaps tipped-off by the twins, he didn’t desert me. Instead, he refreshed my wine, poured himself one and joined me.
“Come here,” he demanded, holding out his arms. I scooted over to be hugged by him, taking comfort from him in a way I hadn’t even realised how badly I’d needed until then.
I leaned against his shoulder and let it all flow out – detailing every little thing that made my life such a stinking pile of flyblown shit. Somehow he managed to decipher my snotty blubberings to learn about my recent double-whammy with Heller and the station.
“So what are you planning on doing?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, heaving in great breaths. “Leave? Go home to my parents? Go back to live with Dixie and starve to death? Heller won’t let me stay here without a job and I don’t even want to stay with him after this. I have to sit here tonight while he’s off fucking that other woman. I refuse to do that even once, let alone all the times he’ll probably want to do it in the future, ‘for the good of the business’.”
“Hard as it is to take, that’s what he genuinely believes, Tilly.”
“That’s bullshit, Danny! He just wants to screw around with whomever he wants, whenever he wants. I was stupid to ever think I was special or different to him. I was just another woman to conquer.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all. I’ve never seen him spend so much time with a woman or pay her so much attention. I truly, honestly believe that he loves you, as much as Heller can love anyone.” We both sipped on our wines. “Tilly, you know I love you.”
I managed a weak smile. “That, I don’t doubt for a moment. And you know I love you too.”
“Yes, I do.” He kissed my forehead. “So when I say that I – that we all – want you and Heller to succeed as a couple, I mean it in the best, most respectful, way.”
I stared at him, my wine glass halfway to my lips. “What are you saying, Danny? That whatever he does, I should just suck it up and forgive him?”
“I’m saying you’re good for him. He’s calmer when you’re around. But he’s not perfect, Tilly. You know that. And he’s never going to be. And he’s not good with relationships. He’s going to make mistakes along the way. Sometimes they’re going to be of epic proportions like this one. Sometimes you might get hurt.”
Fresh tears poured down my cheeks. “I’m hurting badly now.”
“I know you are. But we all desperately want you to stay here.” He contemplated the swirling, steamy water, taking a sip of his wine. “I don’t know what he’ll be like if you ever leave.”
“Thank you, Daniel. That’s enough for now. Matilda and I need to talk.”
I spun around, not having heard Heller approach. I looked at Daniel with dismay. “Did you set me up for him?”
“No, of course I didn’t. You know he sees everything with the cameras. But in any case, he’s right. You both really need to talk. At least hear him out, Tilly.” He left as quietly as Heller had arrived.
I swiped my eyes with my wrists, a bit of a mistake as the chemicals from the hot tub water only made them redder. We sat in silence for a while.
“You look upset, my sweet.”
I stared down at my wine. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I replied flatly.
He put a finger under my chin and raised my face, so I was forced to meet his eyes. “I don’t think you are.”
I stared at him defiantly. “I was fired. There! You can laugh about how useless I am if you want to; about how I couldn’t even hold down the job I got when I lost my job with you. And don’t worry. I won’t be a burden on you. I’ll pack up all my things and leave tonight, now that I have no job and no way to support myself.” I sniffed a few times feeling more than a little sorry for myself. “And I’ll catch the bus too, so you don’t have to fret about me taking your car.”
“You’re not going to leave here. You’re not going to leave me.”
“I’ll do what I want to. You can’t stop me. And you can’t make me stay here if I don’t want to. I want to go back to my real home.” I started crying again. “I need to be with my mum right now.”
“Daniel and Niq need you to be here.”
“Don’t try to guilt me out.”
“I need you to
be here too. What if I told you I decided not to go out tonight?”
I stilled, blinking tear-drenched eyes at him. “Why not? You seemed pretty adamant about it last night.”
He half-smiled. “I thought about what you said, and realised you were right. You spoke from your heart and though you were angry, what you said was true. My business is mature enough now not to need to do that anymore, even though it’s been a huge business advantage to me so far.” He shifted closer. I moved farther away. “I tried an experiment this afternoon. Instead of delivering the surveillance contract personally for her to sign tonight –”
“Followed by a reward of you,” I snapped, moving away again when he closed in. At this rate we’d soon be setting off a whirlpool.
“So instead of me delivering it myself tonight, as I would with many female clients, I sent Sid with the contract to her this afternoon. She signed it without any quibbling, and that was that. I have a new client and I didn’t have to become personally involved with her.”
“Fantastic. I guess as long as your business is functioning well, that’s all that matters to you.” I stood up, ready to climb out. I’d heard enough.
He grasped my hand and yanked me back down. “That’s not all that matters to me. Why do you think I tried that experiment and will keep doing that from now on, now I know it’s successful?”
I shrugged with feigned indifference, looking away. “I dunno. Maybe you’ve grown bored of putting it about.”
“Maybe I have. Maybe I don’t have the need to do that any longer.” He sank down in the water, stretching both arms out on the rim of the hot tub. Though he cast his eyes to the sky, pretending to contemplate, the fingers of one of his hands brushed my bare shoulder. But when his fingers began to delicately caress my skin, I knew it was no accidental encounter. “Why do you think I don’t have that need anymore?”
“I don’t know,” I said, almost in a whisper, loving the sensation of his fingers on my skin.
“Maybe there’s someone in my life giving me what I need every day.”
