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Confusion wrinkles my brow, the muscles of my face contorting as I grapple with the unexpectedness of his question. It’s not that I didn’t anticipate them, but this one catches me off guard, the weight of it sinking in like an anchor. The furrow in my brow deepens, stretching the skin on my forehead taut, as I process his words. His voice seems to echo in the air around us. I don’t understand the barely controlled anger in his voice.
“Excuse me?” I reply, a touch of incredulity lacing my voice. My confusion morphs into a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “Are you mad at me?” I inquire, unable to fully mask the bewilderment that colors my words. The stark contrast between his previous demeanor and this newfound anger leaves me struggling to comprehend the shift.
The tension between us is almost palpable, his clenched jaw and flaring nostrils painting a vivid picture of his simmering anger. It’s as if his whole being radiates irritation, and the air itself feels charged with his frustration. Something’s not right, and his sudden hostility throws me off balance.
“Am I mad at you?” he retorts, his words snapping like a whip. His tone drips with a mixture of exasperation and something else—something that I can’t quite put my finger on. The intensity in his eyes seems to sear right through me, demanding an answer I’m not quite ready to give.
“You weren’t cleared to work Monday nights,” he goes on, his voice like a tightrope stretched between anger and accusation. Every word feels like a dagger, punctuating the growing sense of unease within me. “You weren’t cleared to work that night, Charlotte,” he emphasizes. “Tell me why you were here.”
His demand hangs in the air, a stark challenge that forces me to confront the reality of my actions. The pieces of the puzzle that I’ve been carefully avoiding are now laid out in front of me, and his anger seems to amplify the gravity of the situation. There’s more at play here, something beneath the surface, and his anger seems to be a reflection of it.
“Sal needed me to cover the closing shift. He demanded that I take over for Harlow, who won tickets to a concert she’d been dying to see.” What was the band? It doesn’t matter though, because the more I talk, the angrier Desmond gets, and it’s like a whole new person emerges.
A mask drapes over his features. He’s surpassed anger and entered a deadly calm that rocks my foundation. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life, as though Desmond has the power to raze the world to nothing more than ashes.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” I whisper, my voice shaking ever so slightly. Confusion clouds my thoughts, and a sense of vulnerability washes over me. I’m caught in the whirlwind of his anger, trying to make sense of my perceived transgression, but it’s more than that. There’s fear—fear of losing my job, of disappointing the boss who seems to have a larger-than-life presence, and fear of what might come next. The desperation in my voice betrays my worries as I scramble to make amends. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Black,” I continue, my words tumbling out in a rush. “If you could just tell me what I did wrong, I won’t do it again in the future.”
“Fuck, Charlotte.” Desmond’s voice softens, and his touch is unexpected, a pinch that redirects my gaze to meet his. His fingers on my chin feel like a mix of reassurance and a subtle command. The gesture is strange, but his intention is clear—he wants me to look at him, to engage in whatever conversation is about to unfold.
“I’m not going to fire you,” he says, his eyes searching mine. There’s a genuineness in his tone that momentarily eases the knot of anxiety in my chest. It’s a fleeting moment of relief amidst the turmoil of the situation. “I promise, and I’m not angry at you.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Could have fooled me.” His touch sears me, and I pull my head away to take a deep, cleansing breath.
“You just complicated a situation.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, then he looks behind me at Milo. “We will finish this conversation in the morning.”
“What?” Confusion ripples through me.
“Milo is falling asleep, and you only have twenty more minutes of daylight. Get home before dark.” He hands me my check, and as I take it, he holds it tight. “And, Charlotte, don’t let me catch you out after dark.”
What the hell?
I don’t know what to say to him, so I don’t say a damn thing as I slide off my chair and tap Milo on the shoulder. His head bobs from the sugar crash, and I practically have to lift him up to get him to wake up.
“Come on, tot.” I grab his bookbag and throw it over my shoulder, leading him out. I dare one more look at my strange new boss, who remains seated on the chair, looking at his phone as his fingers fly across the screen.
“One more thing, Charlotte.” He barely looks up. “Dinner will be at your house in twenty-four minutes.” His eyes peer up at me from beneath long lashes. “I promised you dinner, and I always keep my promises.”
Uncertain of how to respond, I turn around and just walk away. My fingers instinctively intertwine with Milo’s, a simple touch that grounds both of us amidst the bewildering situation. Leading him outside, I hope the fresh air can help clear my mind.
As we walk down the street, a strange silence blankets the two of us. I can’t help glancing back over my shoulder, my gaze returning to the sight of Desmond still perched on that stool. It’s as if his eyes follow us, an unsettling sensation that makes my skin prickle.
When we turn onto our street, though, something shifts. The weight of his gaze lifts, and I allow myself to exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The familiar surroundings of our neighborhood offer a brief respite from the intensity of Desmond Black.
I squeeze Milo’s hand gently, seeking comfort and offering it in return. My mind races with questions, uncertainty swirling like a storm inside me. As we approach our home, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to all of this than what meets the eye, that Desmond’s words and actions are just the tip of an iceberg I’ve yet to fully comprehend.
True to his word, and in a manner that seems almost magical, a takeout bag from the local Italian restaurant waits on the porch. The mere sight of it sends a rumble of hunger through my stomach, a stark reminder that we’ve neglected dinner amidst all the turmoil.
“What’s in the envelope?” Milo asks as we stomp up onto our porch. The same cruiser is parked across the street.
Milo’s question about the envelope makes me pause, my curiosity mirrored in his eyes. With the keys handed over, I let him unlock the door, a strange warmth unfurling inside me. There’s an odd sensation that lingers, as if Desmond’s presence still hovers around us.
Stepping onto the dimly lit porch, I carefully tear open the envelope containing my paycheck, but the numbers that meet my eyes are anything but ordinary. Disbelief strikes me as I read the amount. It’s not just my regular pay, it’s a bonus, a generous one. It’s as if Desmond has extended his assistance in a way that reaches far beyond my expectations. The figures on that check will cover so much more than bills and necessities.
“My paycheck.” Whispering to Milo that it’s just my paycheck feels like an understatement.
There’s a sense of something more beneath the surface, an unspoken gesture that goes beyond the norm.
Who is Desmond Black, and why is he going to such lengths?
