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“Er,” he starts. “N-no. Not that I can think of.”
Pressing my body upright, I twist to face him, one arm hooked over the back of the chair, while the other holds the crystal glass. Slowly, my vision rolls over Samuel, and I abandon the drink and take another method.
My reaction isn’t courteous, but it is graceful as I slam the prongs of a discarded fork into his thigh, piercing skin and muscle with force. I’d replaced glass for metal so quickly he didn’t even see it coming until his pain receptors screamed to life. My knuckles are white from the grip I apply on the handle, and my body stiffens in the pose I took to make this happen. My eyes burn into Samuel’s.
“What is it about you men who think you have some God-given birthright to think you know everything?”
I twist the fork a few millimetres clockwise. The muscles on his thigh fight, and his jaw clenches down harder.
“Ma’am,” he grounds out, his face reddening.
“You have questioned my every move since you took this position and I let it go. I allowed you to feel like you could do your job, but now you’ll let me do mine. You don’t question a single of my moves unless I ask you to do so. Am I clear?”
With a stoic look, Samuel nods.
“Just because you have testicles does not make you superior to me.” I laugh, not out of actual humour, but for his misguided innocence. “Different utensil and you’d be holding them, got it?”
