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12
Rowan
Ididn’t hesitate when I grabbed the half-assed drawing from Zahra’s cubicle. Nor did I even flinch when I purchased a pack of a hundred colored pencils and drawing paper from the local craft store. In reality, the hardest part of everything was forcing Martha to take the rest of the day off so I could have some privacy.
My hand clutching onto a number two pencil trembles. With a stiff arm, I press the tip against the paper. The lead point snaps and rolls away from me, leaving me with nothing but a useless piece of wood.
“What are you doing, man?” I grumble as I drop the pencil and throw my hands in my hair.
“Being a stupid fuck for some unknown reason.”
Her drawings are shit and you know it. She almost cried during her presentation when you called her out on it, and it was painful to watch how nervous she was about it.
And you care because…
Because a happy Zahra means a creative Zahra and a creative Zahra means I get the fuck out of here as fast as possible.
The battle between my evil and too-stupid-to-live brain cells wage war against one another. I swipe Zahra’s drawing out from under the blank page and look at it. Her idea is well-thought-out. She chooses to highlight our more diverse characters who often get left behind in favor of our more popular princesses.
It’s that thought that helps me reach for the pencil sharpener and try again. It keeps me grounded despite the rapid beat of my heart as I reconstruct the idea Zahra had.
It doesn’t take long for my palms to become clammy. My emotions are turbulent and bordering on volatile. I remove my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my button-down shirt, desperate for some reprieve from the rising temperature of my body. It’s as if I’m sweating out my demons, one stroke of the pencil at a time.
Drawing is a useless hobby. Real men don’t draw, my father’s voice whispers. I clench the pencil tighter at the memory of him ripping up one of my art class sketches.
Yellow wood splinters as the pencil cracks in half.
“Shit.” I throw the broken pieces in the trash bin and wipe away the remaining dust off the paper.
What the hell was I thinking by pretending I knew someone who could help Zahra? There’s no way I can do this.
My chair rolls back as I jump up and swipe my forehead with a shaky hand. I grab the paper and tear it to pieces. White shreds flutter into the waiting trash can like snowflakes of my failure, falling on top of the broken pencil.
I expect to experience some relief, but all I’m left with is a sick feeling in my stomach and a racing heart that has yet to slow. My eyes slide from my bunched-up fists to the pail filled with the tattered remains of my drawing.
There’s no one here to yell at me or make me feel like I’m worthless. I’m a grown man who can handle anything slung my way, including a stupid harmless drawing.
I can do this. If not for myself, then for the future my brothers have dreamed of. Instead of focusing on the past, I remind myself of the future. One where Declan becomes CEO with me serving as his CFO. Of Cal finally finding his place within the company once we take control.
I take a seat, grab a fresh piece of paper and a pencil, and get to work.
* * *
I stop at the entrance to Zahra’s cubicle and take a moment to observe her. She bobs her head to whatever plays out of the white earbuds while she taps away at her keyboard. Her pin of the day flashes under the overhead light. Today’s choice features a salt and pepper shaker with the phraseSeasons Greetingswritten below it.
Who could hate themselves enough to wear something so atrocious?
My gaze flickers across her body before landing on the curve of her neck. The soft skin is meant to entice. To kiss and mark while she’s fucked into oblivion. There are plenty of things I’d want to do to that pretty little neck if given a chance.
Except, that’s not possible.
My moment of weakness won’t happen again. She might claim she won’t report me to HR, but I haven’t made it this far in life by trusting anyone but myself. Her options are endless, and she has every opportunity to squeeze money out of me like a wet rag. The media alone could pay for her to retire at her whopping age of twenty-three. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth, making my tongue dry and my throat tight.
I stomp toward her desk and slap the drawing on the surface.
She jumps up in her seat before dropping back into the cushion. “Hello! Can you announce your presence like a normal person?”
I don’t reply because I’m afraid to breathe while this close to her. All it takes is one scent of her perfume for my blood to reroute its path from my brain to my dick.
