Page 11 of Implode

The sun has already set, and the city of Portland is lit up by the moon and the lights from the buildings. I check my email at a stop light and see that Tyler has sent me the new information on the building and the unit which Claire is renting. From the street, I am able to see which room is hers. Everything seems secure. Quiet. So, at least I can attempt to rest knowing that she is tucked away safely inside the walls of the building.

My phone buzzes with an incoming email alert, and I nearly choke on my spit when I see that the new arrival is from Claire, time stamped one minute ago. I stay parked, trying to imagine what she is doing right now.

I read the email that basically gives me a list of best man duties for the rehearsal night, the wedding, and the reception. I can’t help but smile over her need to micromanage me. I need it, though. It’s not like I’ve been in many weddings before, but I don’t think she has either. I archive the email and double check that my calendar has the appropriate dates marked.

I glance up at the window that should be hers, wondering how I’m going to get my next fix. Driving away feels like leaving empty-handed. It’s as if I’m pining for someone who no longer wants me. I feel conflicted inside and don’t know which way to turn. One minute I want to avoid commitment at all costs. The next minute I am secretly paying for used furniture and camping outside of apartment buildings.

When I get back to my place, I hit up the punching bag and then get ready for bed. Every corner of my room reminds me of Claire and how beautiful she looked sprawled out on my dark sheets or pressed up against my wall or leaning against the window as I thrust into her from behind. I hate myself for not being man enough to stay away from her. I hate myself for not being man enough to go to her right now and make her believe that we could be an “us.”

When I can’t get comfortable, I climb out of bed and raid the kitchen for the ingredients to make some pancakes. Claire’s love for them has rubbed off on me, and I now can’t walk past a breakfast shop without thinking of her. I pull out the almond flour, sugar, milk, eggs, and butter. I decrease the recipe amounts by a fourth and mix all of the ingredients into a bowl while the skillet heats.

When I plate up my pancakes, I garnish them with fresh fruit and whipped cream. I snap a picture of my plate—something I would never typically do—and send it to Claire with the caption,Thinking of you…

It is an impulsive decision to text her, especially this late at night. When the dots appear on the screen indicating that she is responding, I wait eagerly for her to send her message. Except it doesn’t happen. Every minute that passes lets me know that it isn’t going to happen. I am just wasting my time. What did I want to accomplish anyway?

Claire is better off without me. Even she has come to that conclusion. So, even if I get my head out of my ass and work through my own issues, there would still be no point.

I eat my food and load the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. What am I doing here? I feel like I’m mourning the loss of something that I claimed to have never wanted in the first place. My brain hurts from thinking about her.

I can’t sleep without verifying one more time that Claire is still at her new apartment building. If she found out I have been keeping a close eye on her, she would go ballistic. I hope that day never happens.

* * *

I get to my office a little late on Friday morning, because I stop at the coffee shop on the way in to grab a to-go cup of coffee. My new personal assistant is arriving midday today, and based on her resume, she should be able to handle anything I throw at her. It’ll be our first time meeting. I bypassed the in-person interviews because this is a two-week trial period to see how we mesh. I’m sure she’ll learn early on that I’m a picky bastard with some OCD tendencies. The healthy amount, of course.

I touch base in the HH lobby with my security workers. After cleaning house weeks ago, I’m confident that my current staff is top-notch and dedicated to the job. Either that or they are terrified of being let go, which is always a possibility if I see any red flags. The one way to get workers to perform well is to show them that they are replaceable. For as much as I pay my staff members, they can afford to do exactly as I instruct.

I take the elevator up to my floor. I unlock my office door and walk over to the desk. I turn on the wall of televisions and double check that Claire and Angie arrived safely to their office. Graham texted me this morning that the girls were going to meet for an early walk and then go to breakfast prior to coming into work. I placed a camera right outside of Plus None and set a motion detector alert to inform me of any movement.

A knock sounds, and I glance at the door wondering who it is. I rarely have unexpected visitors, so this is definitely out of the norm. My personal assistant, Brenna, isn’t scheduled to arrive until later.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Dan King, sir. You have several deliveries.”

“Deliveries?” I ask. I never scheduled any deliveries. I grab my phone to check for alerts and—

“They’ve been approved,” Dan states, before I have a chance to ask.

He has been trying to prove himself to me ever since the change in power was made public to the building staff. His partner, Eugene, never made the cut. After several weeks of being here as head of security, I am certain that I made the right choice. Dan has been doing great work, and there’s a chance I may move him up in rank if he continues to prove to be a valuable asset at HH.

“Fine. Come in,” I say, staring at the door in anticipation.

The door opens slowly and three delivery people come in, followed by Dan. One is holding a huge sheet cake in a transparent plastic box. The other is carrying a gift basket full of what appears to be cookies and desserts. The last person is toting a large, wrapped box with a ginormous bow.

“What’s all of this?” I ask, staring from one person to the next. “Who is this from?”

“Oh, there’s a card attached to the box,” the one delivery person answers. His voice comes out almost as a snicker.

My gifts are placed beside each other on my desk. I reach into my suit pocket and pull out some cash to hand to each worker as a tip, except for Dan whose tip is a paycheck. I say the appropriatethank yousand then my office clears out again, and I am left with just myself and my packages.

I look through the top of the cake box and—

“Fuck, no,” I exhale to myself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

On the top of the cake is the image of my dick in full technicolor with the words “Go Fuck Yourself” written in elegant script frosting at the bottom of the picture. I recognize the photo because it is the exact one I sent to Claire as a semi-joke in Vegas. It is mine. All mine. The cake makers had to have laughed their asses off over this odd request that could have only come from my little spitfire. Not to mention how many of my employees must have seen this masterpiece being delivered straight to my office.

I tear open the plastic of the gift basket and am not surprised to find that there are dick-shaped cake pops, cookies, pastries, donuts, and eclairs stashed inside under some tissue paper. There are even lollipops, various chocolate molded dicks, and a dick-shaped fuzzy stuffed animal with cartoonish eyes that wiggle when you shake it. My finger touches the tag, and I see that there is a button that can be pushed.

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