AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I grimace at the nickname. Nobody calls me Dar except for Lucas, even though I’ve asked him not to half a dozen times. “I was about to get a drink actually,” I say quickly, glancing down at my phone. The screen remains dead and quiet. No reply from the piece of crap that ruined my life. I’m thinking about calling the police, about getting the FBI involved, but mostly about tracking him down myself and killing him with my bare hands.
But I know it won’t help.
Because whether I catch Lucas and strangle the life from him or not, my heart’s still broken.
And my bank account’s still empty.
“You should come with me, Patagonia Bro 1, and Patagonia Bro 2 over to McNally’s. Come on, Dar, you seem fun. Let’s have a good time, yeah?”
He doesn’t actually sayPatagonia Bro, but I blank out their names on purpose. I don’t have time for this, but Johnnie’s my manager at a heavily male dominated accounting firm, which means I have to smile, bat my eyelashes, and play nice. Otherwise, they call me a bitch behind my back, and I don’t get promotions or raises.
“Sorry, I’m meeting a friend,” I lie, shifting uncomfortably. “Otherwise, I’d totally come.”
“A guy friend?” Johnnie sits next to me while his Patagonia Cronies leer at me, both of them grinning, like this is totally normal behavior. Johnnie’s breath reeks like liquor. Did he cut out early and start drinking or something? “What’s his name? Actually, don’t worry, it’s fine. I just figured, you know, since there’s a vibe here, it might be fun to explore it outside of a professional setting.”
His eyes are glassy as he glances down at my tits. Yep, definitely shitfaced.
“I’m sorry,” I say, blinking rapidly. “A vibe? What are you talking about?”
“Ah, damn, don’t get all feminist on me, okay, Dar? It’s just, I notice the way you look at me when you come into my office. I notice the blouses with the top two buttons undone? You’re pretty hot, you know? A solid six, but you could be an eight if you worked out more. You wear some borderline inappropriate attire, but nobody cares because you have absolutelyfantastictits.”
I feel like my head’s about to explode.
Johnnie’s always been a prick. He’s one of those Nantucket Assholes with a trust fund the size of Georgia and a yacht to match. He only has this job because his uncle’s a founding partner. Johnnie’s got fewer brain cells than my bank account has dollars, which is still zero, by the way.
“There’s absolutely no vibe,” I say quickly, standing up. “And you have to be absolutely fucking batshitinsaneto talk about my clothes and my fucking tits right now.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d never talk to a vindictive little prick like Johnnie like that, but I’m way past my last nerve, basically working on reserve nerves at this point, and I’m lashing out.
Johnnie’s face falls. His Patagonia Cronies stare at him like they’re about to laugh—which makes his face turn a disturbing shade of pink.
“You fucking bitch,” he says, standing up to stare down at me. “You do realize I’m your manager, right?”
There it is. I was waiting for that. The threat in his tone is clear.
“I’m not in the mood for this,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave me alone, okay? I’ll pretend you didn’t just say the most asinine, sexist thing in the world, and you can swallow your pride for once in your life.”
“Fuck that,” he says quietly. “You can’t talk to me that way.”
In all my time at Bankman Associates, I’ve held my tongue. I’ve kept my head down, smiled politely, nodded at inane comments, laughed at inappropriate jokes. I’ve done all the things women have to do in a toxic workplace environment. I’ve done it, because the job pays exceedingly well, and I was raised to value money more than anything else.
More than my own self-esteem, apparently.
But this is too far.
Ten hours ago, I had a boyfriend.
A nice boyfriend. Nothing spectacular, but still. A guy I thought was going to propose soon. We had plans, long-term plans. We were merging financial assets. I had a lot of hard-earned money saved in the bank, ready to be spent on a wedding, or a down payment for a house, or maybe on baby clothes and a crib.
Now, I’m twenty-four years old, and I have none of that.
Instead, a white-hot rage (admittedly pointless and impotent) burns in my belly.
I jab a finger at Johnnie. “Listen to me, you walking stock option. I need you to apologize right now. I need you to accept the consequences of your actions, because other people have feelings. You realize that, right? You can’t go around saying whatever you want, fucking whatever moves, stealing whatever you need, throwing away whatever you don’t care about, cheating on me with my fucking roommate, all because you’re a selfish piece of fuckingtrash.”
I’m projecting here.
A little bit, anyway.
