I open my Instagram account and make a quick post about it, then tap my desk. I guess my personal happy ending would come with a new job. No callback from Sabrina yet, but I have two more interviews lined up. Thankfully, Jack’s been busy with a new actress client who needs to get into shape for an action flick, and he’s currently out of town for some fitness seminar in Vegas, so that gives me some time away from the boob talker. Hopefully he drunk-marries the love of his life there and never comes home. That’d be another form of happy ending—for me.
In reality, though, he’s scheduled to be back this weekend. I wonder if I have enough vacation days to not come in for the next two weeks. I check my HR record, but nope. Just barely enough for four days off.
I could take them all off and go on a trip with Nicholas. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I walk toward the breakroom. The free-weight area where Dana and her gang used to hang out is bereft of their pink presence. Dana quit coming to the gym since she made her account private. Her friends also started to skip their workout sessions. They’re trying to distance themselves from Dana, lest they be found guilty by association.
Some friends.
It’s sad and shocking how shallow some friendships can be. So many people are just worried about their “brand,” like Owen. But then, a lot of people can’t even work out without taking photos to show the world they’re doing something good for themselves.
I step inside the breakroom and make coffee. I’m tired during the day—it’s hard to sleep at night when Nicholas is an insatiable fiend and wants to play all sorts of sex scenes from my romance novels—but I can’t complain too much. After all, he keeps me up in the most pleasurable ways. In addition, he doesn’t try any scenarios from books that I don’t feel comfortable with. Certain sex scenes are better left to fiction.
I add some sugar to my brew and turn around—and almost have a heart attack when I see Jack standing right behind me.
“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, placing a hand over my chest.
He laughs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to.” He puts a hand on my shoulder…where it lingers.
I shrug a little bit, but he hangs on.
“I need to go back to my office. Excuse me.”
“What’s the matter? You can take a break,” he says without letting go. “You did that before with your boyfriend.”
I should’ve expected this. “Well, my boyfriend isn’t here, is he?” I give him a pointed look that says,You aren’t my boyfriend. “Can you please let go?”
“Why? I’m not hurting you, am I?” He rubs his hand against my shoulder.
“That isn’t the point.” I try to jerk away, but he merely tightens his hold. “I said let go, Jack.”
“What’s the matter? Why do you have to be so unfriendly?” he says to my breasts.
Ugh.“I saidno.” I shove him.
He stumbles back—probably didn’t expect me to push him away like that. His face turns red-purple, and thick veins stand up and pulse like worms around his forehead and temples. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he yells to my face for once. “You can’t just smile and be friendly and nice?”
“I asked you to let go repeatedly. I don’t owe you any ‘friendliness’ or my shoulder. And I certainly don’t owe you a conversation with my breasts!”
“What’s wrong with looking at them when they’re hanging out?”
“Hanging out?” I look down at my shirt, which has a neckline higher than the Great Wall of China. I purposely wear tops that hide everything because of him! “Nothing’s hanging out.”
“Fine,stickingout! Same difference. And what’s wrong with looking? You check me out, too.”
“Oh my God, I so donotcheck you out! I look for you so I canavoidyou.”
Now tendons are standing out in his neck. “You’re such a cold cunt! You think you’re special because somebody paid five million for you? Have some respect for yourself, Molly! Only whores are proud of how much money they make for a date.”
Rage swells.Is this how he always saw me? Something snaps in my chest. I pour my coffee into the sink. “You know what? I quit!”
“What? You can’t quit! I’m not done talking to you!”
“Really? What are you going to do? Force me to talk to you? You can’t pay me enough, you sexist, handsy, leering jerk!”
I try to storm out of the breakroom, but he catches my wrist.
“Ow, let me go!”
