Page 17 of Forced Proximity

Such bullshit. I tell my staff to call me Justin. I cook my own food. I pick out holiday presents myself for my team. And she’s acting like I’m some sort of spoiled asshole, snapping my fingers at servants. ‘I don’t know what sort of delusional outlook you have on me, but you know nothing about me.’

The blush that fanned her cheeks a moment ago is now splotching at her neck. ‘I have a stack of files at the office about you. I’ve seen the pictures, I know almost everything there is to know on your background. You’ve had the kind of life that people fucking wet dream about.’

My files? I know what my life looks like on paper. That doesn’t mean any of it’s true. A heavy pulse thuds against my chest. ‘Is that what you think?’

She just lifts an eyebrow. Anger rises inside me, fierce and hot, spreading like a virus. Did the files tell her that when my father died my first reaction was relief? Or that my mom’s a narcissistic master manipulator?

I clamp my molars together so tight I’m pretty sure they’re going to crack. ‘You have no idea what it was like. None.’

I’m half a second away from unleashing an unholy diatribe, so I storm from the kitchen and try to regulate my ragged breaths. My footsteps thud as I rush upstairs to my room and slam the door.

I kick off my shoes and pants and throw on workout clothes. This image Doc has shouldn’t surprise me. In the beginning, my PR team put this persona out for the public, latching on to the carefully curated online life my mother had already created for our family. Growing up, my mom spun our story like a master puppeteer: advertising this perfect suburban family with matching Christmas sweaters, designer-bred dog, trips to Bali and lavish parties. They bragged to the neighbors about their spectacular children and how they were so thrilled that all their hard work in ‘raising kids right’ paid off. And the moment social media was invented, my mom was obsessed with the family’s online image.

No one knew about the darkness once the cameras were off. They can’t fathom how confusing it was for me as a kid to be so heavily admired by my mother until I got older, when she flipped. How she was so awful to my first girlfriend that she left our house in tears and lectured me on how lucky I was to have a mom that ‘cared so much’ because I ‘clearly couldn’t make the right decisions’. Or how she’d say I was ‘too sensitive’ and ‘embarrassing’ when I cried. And the few times I grew a backbone and actually said something, she’d twist the situation, cry and I’d end up apologizing. So sure, to some, it may look like privilege. But to me, my childhood was a nightmare. Someone like Doc would never understand.

I put in my AirPods and increase the volume until my eardrums throb and the beat tears through my body. Please, please let it drown out these thoughts. Nothing good can come out of me reliving any of these memories.

Even though it’s my goddamn house, I don’t want to go to the gym downstairs and see Doc’s face. I grab a jump rope, alternate foot jumps with cross leg jumps, but fail to force my mind to concentrate on my footwork and not childhood memories.

The heaviness of my parents’ footsteps was the first indicator of the mood. I read their facial cues and analyzed their words. My mom was brutal. She’d scream at Mia and tell her she was a whore. Or make comments that it was so sad that Mia didn’t have better control over her weight like her friends, or didn’t understand why Mia refused her offer to pay for a nose job for her fourteenth birthday. I’d break shit, throw temper tantrums, do anything to try and deflect the attention from Mia, to protect her, and I failed. It’s no wonder Mia turned to drugs to ease the pain shortly after I left for college. I was given an unfathomable decision: USC football – my dream – or stay at home and protect Mia. It wasn’t like I could take her with me, and I still hate myself for being so selfish and taking the opportunity. Mia told me to go, promised me she’d be okay, but she wasn’t.

I increase the speed until I finally break out in a sweat. My heartbeat thuds against my chest. Soon, I start to feel a little better. My anger isn’t completely at Doc, although I still don’t understand why the hell she’s so judgmental. But if things don’t change around here with her, I’m doing something drastic.

An hour later, I hatch a plan. And if I’ve judged Doc correctly, this will change everything.

Chapter 8

Lexi

Before my noon shift, Marcus meets me in the office gym to focus on kickboxing work. The intoxicating first break of sweat reaches my forehead, thank God. Sweating is more than an indication that my heart rate is properly rising. It’s therapeutic, allowing my brain and body to release pent-up frustrations.

High on the list this week: Justin.

Even higher: me.

I’m still sick thinking about how things escalated. In my line of work, I’m trained to de-escalate. And yet, I spouted off like an annoyed child holding on to a fifty-pound grudge. Clearly, I misjudged the hell out of him, at least when it comes to his family. I saw the moment he broke and I hated it.

Sure, this is not a professional low. The Incident captured that title. But this ranks right up there.

‘Were you out this morning? I swung by your office and all I saw was your sad-ass bonsai tree that you never trim,’ I say to Marcus, keeping my focus on the punching bag.

‘I trim that thing all the time when I’m alone,’ Marcus says as he puts on his gloves. ‘It’s a meditative exercise, meant to be a relaxing, solo activity. You should try it sometime.’

‘Trimming a bonsai tree?’

‘Relaxing.’ He smirks and raises his fist to the bag.

Heavy breaths fill the space as we focus on our technique. ‘How’s it going with Justin? The investigative team’s still coming up empty-handed. Anything I should know about on your end?’

Hmmm. Should I count my immature and extraordinarily unprofessional fight with Justin where I basically blamed him for my deep-seated feelings on socio-economic inferiority? ‘Nah. It’s only been a week. Nothing to report.’ The slap of my fists hitting the bag echoes in the quiet space as I alternate jabs with cross hits. ‘The gate security is top-notch. I’ve been impressed with everything they’ve shown me.’

Marcus taps his gloved hand to the bag. ‘And how are you two getting along?’

I’m not even looking at him and can still feel his dad-eyes bore into me. I avoid his gaze so he can’t read that I screwed up. I continue in my left punch, right punch, duck and kick routine. ‘His schedule right now is light. We’ve gone to the studio twice, he sits in a room with some people, and at night, so far, he’s wanted to go home. I guess he’s less irritating than when we started.’

‘Fascinating.’ He sounds like he’s stifling a chuckle.

Hit, hit, duck. ‘What?’