Page 48 of Naughty-ish

Clicking on the email, it opens, and I scan the notice.

I read it twice. Blink. And read it one more time.

Tears should be clouding my vision, but I’m too stunned to react. Or maybe I’m too angered to respond.

My hands begin to shake, though. My breath holds for a second as disbelief and bewilderment kick in next. Then an ache presses at my sternum, and squeezes my ribs, suppressing my airways.

This cannot be happening.

Hastily, I exit the lunchroom, leaving my unfinished sandwich behind and cross the bank lobby to the manager’s office. My low heels clack against the tile floor, matching the heavy rhythm of my heart, until I reach my boss’s office.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, holding up my phone, face out for Dominique to see.

“I’m afraid not.” Seated behind her desk, Dominique lowers her eyes.

“What does it mean?” I ask as if I hadn’t read the simple words three times.

“Just what it says,” she lowers her voice. “The bank is downsizing, and—”

“You couldn’t have warned me?”

She rolls her lips inward. What a fucking coward. She had to have known this was going to happen.

“It’s Christmas.” My throat clogs and I choke on the sob that hasn’t quite decided if it wants to be disbelieving laughter or a sudden burst of tears.

“I’m sorry.” There’s no sympathy in my boss’s apology. “You’re free to leave early. And you’ll be paid for the next two weeks.”

I’ve taken my remaining vacation days for the year to accommodate the kids’ school break. I have the next two weeks off.

This is bullshit, I want to scream but I’m trying to remain professional despite the fact the bank management clearly is not.

Because at noon on a Friday, days before Christmas, I’ve been told by email, that I’m being let go.

Chapter 11

I don’t remain in the bank. I don’t say goodbye to my colleagues. I don’t explain myself to Dominique. I leave and drive straight home.

There I kick off my heels and peel myself out of my work slacks. I nearly rip the buttons from my blouse while removing it as if the clothing is burning me alive.

I can’t believe this.

Within minutes, my phone rings, but I ignore it. I’ll need to call my parents and tell Mitch, although explaining what happened to all of them will feel like another failure. I’ve done nothing wrong, other than be the last person hired in the hierarchy of seniority where the bank decided to make financial cuts, including downsizing staff, before a new year rings in.

Slipping into comfy leggings and an oversize sweatshirt, I ignore my phone as it rings again. I’m not ready to talk to anyone, and I can’t imagine someone from the bank calling me to either apologize, admit they made a mistake, or ask me to come back.

I’m simply a cog in their business wheel. One they no longer need although I need to pay a mortgage and feed my kids. Mitch has been late on child support again. And he never offered to pay half of the overly expensive Christmas presents he promised our children Santa would deliver.

As I slowly descend my stairs, a sharp hammering on my front door rattles the thing. Through the transom window, I see a familiar red cap.

Is he kidding me? Now, he wants to see me.

Still, I reach for the knob and hastily open the door. Our eyes lock.

“You’re home early.” The corner of his mouth curls in that sexy manner that might have me begging him to tear off my panties if my mind wasn’t other places.

“What do you want, Nick?” I snap.

“What’s wrong?” His flirtatious smirk slides away as he stiffens, straightening to his full height.