Page 12 of Reluctantly You

I run a hand down my face and lean back in my chair.

Fuck this. I’m not going to go above and beyond for any of them. I’ll spend my time in any virtual meetings submitting my resume to other companies. I don’t even care if the job pays less. I just want to make sure that I’m out of here by the year’s end. I need to be out of here sooner rather than later.

A knock resonates on the door and I watch as the pretty twink in pink makes an appearance.

“Hi, Mitch. I’m Shiloh. Sorry I just stared earlier. I didn’t realize who you were until Gus told me. You were moving pretty quickly.”

Who the fuck is Gus? I cock my head at him.

His eyes meet mine, and he looks almost contrite. “I’m really sorry about the situation with your office. I did tell Gideon not to upset the order of things, but he insisted. And you’ll learn that there’s really no telling him no. He’s a stubborn little shit.”

I can imagine that, and I hate him for it.

The way he made me feel small…

“Why are you here?” I finally ask, and he places a hand on his narrow hip and shrugs, his pretty eyes batting subtly.

“Just wanted to apologize. I really don’t want any hard feelings with this transition.”

“Nothing you can do about it,” I reply, and then narrow my eyes, wanting to proposition him, but realizing that’s crossing a line.

No, I have plenty of options. I don’t need things getting complicated with the boss’s assistant.

“Right, well, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you.”

I don’t say anything because for me, it’s not on the wrong fucking foot. This whole transition is on the wrong fucking continent.

“Anyway, I’ll see you around,” Shiloh tacks on, and I watch as he gives me a sweet wave and then shuts the door quietly.

I let out a shaky breath and crack my knuckles. Fury pushes through me, and I stand up and move to the other side of the room, the peeling dark green paint staring back at me. My fists squeeze as I try to breathe deeply.

“Fuck this. Fuck this,” I grind out.

After work today, I’m going to need to beat the shit out of something or I’m going to put a hole through this wall. Goodthing the gym is close by because if I have to see Gideon before I manage to express some of this rage, I may find my fist connecting with his jaw.

And I don’t want to go to jail for assault.

My hands flex and I pull them up to the back of my neck, holding on as I try to gain my bearings. I manage to bring myself under control after a few minutes before sitting down at my desk and pulling up my schedule. I have a shit-ton of meetings. But I don’t want to be on camera. I feel too vulnerable today. So I make sure that I keep my video off, working on my resumé, not paying much attention to anything being discussed. I want no part of it. I don’t fucking care about the performance of the different departments or reviewing actuals versus budgets.

Why did I ever want to do this?

My mind zones out, and for a moment, I think back to a time in high school when I wanted to be an artist. When the colors swirling all around me were put to canvas. That dream lasted a few years until my dad crushed it.

Art is for pussies. I won’t have my son become a limp-wristed fairy.

I rub at my chest and look at myself staring back in the small, blank space on the computer screen.

Who the fuck am I? I’m just a man trying to live up to the expectations of a father who never loved me, who was so quick to disappear when he found out it was all a lie.

I’m a fucking lie.

“Mitch, we’d like to hear from you,” a familiar voice says, and I see the small blue box lit up.Gideon. He wants me to speak.

I have nothing to say.

I click on my audio and lean forward, still off screen. “I have nothing to report.”

Gideon is quiet for a moment and then moves on, his disappointment heavy even through the computer.

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