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Just like your soul. I add a spiky, evil looking scepter. Forget water from a stone, this is like trying to keep an ice cube from melting in the depths of hell.
“You’re wearing a navy polo shirt.”
David glances down at his attire and looks back at me, raising an eyebrow. “So?”
Arrogant. Arrogant. Arrogant. I fashion the chair I have sketched him on as an over-the-top throne complete with ugly gargoyles.
“So… the couch set in your office is navy blue as well.”
He shrugs but doesn’t speak. Sighing, I glare at him. “Is it safe to say you like the color navy blue?”
He snorts again. “I didn’t pick out the furniture in my office. An interior designer did. This is the first shirt my hand landed on this morning.”
I want to clock him in the head with my iPad. No jury in the world would convict if they’d ever met him. Damn it. Maybe I need to try a different tack.
“If you bought a Lamborghini, what color would it be?”
He stares at me uncomprehendingly for a long moment. “Yellow.”
Yes! I bite back a smile. Progress. “Because you like yellow?”
He snorts at me again. It’s quickly becoming the most irritating sound in the world. “Because who the fuck buys a dark colored Lamborghini?”
I grit my teeth. I can’t hit him. I can’t. I’ll be out on my ass with no job and no references. I need to take a deep breath.
“What color is the tie you most often wear?” Irritation is creeping into my voice now, but I really don’t care.
“It depends on the suit.”
I think I might actually cry. But I won’t give this asshole the satisfaction.
“Just tell me your fucking favorite color!” My voice echoes in the silence that follows my scream. We’re both staring in shock, like we can’t believe I just yelled at him. My chest is heaving, and he leans forward, his voice quieter than I thought it would be.
“Why the fuck does it matter what my favorite color is? What’s it going to tell you? My star sign?”
“It might give me an idea of the color to base the new designs around. Unless you want everything in shades of fucking gray.”
Shoving to my feet, I storm away from the table, clutching my iPad to my chest as I run up the internal stairs, slamming the glass door at the top. It doesn’t make me feel better, but the view does. Crossing to the wet bar, I pour myself a glass of red wine. I know that it’s only a little after eleven o’clock but fuck it. I’m day drinking. Dropping onto the couch that affords the best views of Central Park, I tug my knees to my chest, nursing my wine as I stare moodily at the trees.
Maybe I’ll be fired, anyway. At least I get to see this view one last time before I’m unceremoniously dumped at the airport. Damn it. I canhearAndrew’s laughter in my ear, egging me on for yelling at that asshole. That totally wasn’t like me. I’m more likely to cry in confrontations. Andrew was the shouty type.
David
I stare in shock at the bottom of the staircase that Anica hightailed it up. She better not have broken the fucking door when she slammed it. The last thing that I want is to have to get workmen in. I told her everything she needed to fucking know about me. All this favorite color shit is just that. Bullshit. Moodily, I glare at the abstract on the wall above the chair she sat in.
I suppose it kind of makes sense that she wanted to know what colors I like. Sheistrying to design a whole theme based around me. But what self-respecting adult has a “favorite color”? Pulling out my phone, I open WhatsApp and click on the group chat named “The Boys”. They’ll back me on this.
DAVID: Probably a stupid question. But what’s everyone’s favorite color?
I’m expecting a bunch of WTFs to come back, and not for a while yet, so I drop my phone on the table and resumemy moody staring. It’s less than five minutes when my phone buzzes. Picking it up, smirking that Max at least will be asking what the fuck I’m on, since he’s the only one on this side of the country, I blink in shock as it keeps buzzing with message notifications.
MAX: Green. But like, forest green, not pale green.
RYAN: I like bright blue. But also that dark red color.
TIMMY: Chocolate brown.
BEAU: Silver.
