Page 126 of Catfish

"What happened with Mila?" I don't bother looking up from my laptop. I might as well add her to the list of everyone who wants to kick my ass today.

“What concern of that is yours, Miss Shelton?” She walks deeper into the room, tempting me to soak her and that dress into memory.

Isn’t that one of the Ten Commandments; Thou Shall Not Give In To Temptation? Maybe I should take up going to church, if it didn’t spark the thought of getting smited down as soon as I parked in the parking lot.

“She left crying, is she alright?” Her voice is full of concern for someone she hasn’t worked with for very long. I envy her for being able to feel for someone she hasn’t known for very long. To have natural and real empathy for another human being when it has nothing to do with her.

“She’ll be fine,” I grumble.

Taking it upon herself, she takes a seat, alluding that this wasn’t a quick ass convo but something she wants to gossip about like we’re girlfriends.

My fucking God, I have to deal with Emmy, I’m not about to deal with my party planner too.

“Is there anything I can do?” she frets. “I feel so—I feel bad.”

Against my better judgment, I steer my attention up at Reagan to witness her eyes filled with the same emotions her voice just carried.

It must be a female thing.

Mila has only been here less than a week, and the girls have formed some sort of Three Musketeers over the course of those days. They clicked so easily and I can barely get along with the maintenance guy here in the office.

"She's trying to help her family with bills, and she really likes it here," Reagan continues, then something flashes over her face, and she leans back in my chair. "You fired her.”

“What made you come to that conclusion?” I ask dully, looking back at my laptop and continue— attempt—to finish my email.

“Because of what Emmy said.”

“Which was?”

"That she'd help her, which means Mila would need assistance doing something. And the only thing she needed help with...is money." I'm waiting for her to snap her fingers next like she just solved the mystery of the century, but I get a scowl instead.

"Good job, Sherlock."

"Are you serious right now?" Her pitch lifts like we're about to have a lovers quarrel. But I have yet to reap those benefits.

I keep my face somber, which is starting to become harder and harder with each passing day that I have to deal with the tag team of Em and Reagan. “Was there anything else?”

She stands, and I don't look at her again. "You're a dickhead."

"So, I guess I can count on your vote then?" She doesn't respond but starts for the door.

I'm so fucking pissed at being teamed up on lately that I do something I never do.

I lose my shit.

It isn’t her name in the mix of over a dozen potential candidates trying to climb the ladder to get to the White House. She doesn’t have to deal with the bullshit I go through and the secrets I have to keep. She isn’t nailed down by lies and a family who’ll use you until their dying day.

She may have grown up in the slums of Daphne and lived a fucked-up life, but I'm still living in mine. I’m in a prison under society’s rules, etiquette, and my own principles.

Making me the warden and the convict.

“Reagan.” Her name is a warning—for the both of us— as I stand from my desk and round it to her.

My conscious is telling me to back the hell off, to let her leave and stomp off to go bitch about me to Emmy because nothing is going to change the fact that I had to send that poor girl off. I didn't plan on it being that way, but it was either her getting a very nice sum of cash or me losing everything.

I think we’re both winning here.

Reagan hears me approach because she's already turning towards me. Indignant eyes shooting daggers, bullets, and anything else she can think of into my face.

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