Page 22 of Fox
She got us donuts, again.
There is commotion behind me, and before I can look over my shoulder, At and Ash are flanking me, looking like a pair of starving lions, and that donut box is a wounded antelope.
“Oh my god.” Ash breathes. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. There’s a beautiful woman in our shop holding a box of those fancy-ass donuts.”
Stevie shifts uncomfortably and averts her gaze. I elbow Ash in the ribs. “Try to control your dick.” I hiss as I walk up to take the donuts and relieve the poor girl.
“Thank you, Stevie.” I smile softly as I open the door for her to walk out. “I appreciate you delivering these. You have an amazing day.” She gives me a short wave before all but running out the door. As I shut the door behind her, I turn and shoot Ash a dark, disapproving glare.
“Just for that, you get no donuts.”
Walkingfrom my bathroom to my bedroom, I listen asThe Officeblasts in the background while I grab my pajama pants and slip them on before looking in the mirror next to my closet.
“Jesus, I’m going to need the gym if she doesn’t stop with the donuts,” I mutter while slapping my stomach and jiggling it. Chuckling to myself, I grab my cell phone off my dresser before falling into my bed. I grab my glasses from my nightstand and slip them on. I don’t need them all the time. At least, that’s what I tell myself to feel better about my aging eyes. I’ve always been okay with getting older. Mainly because being in my forties doesn’t feeloldto me. I’m active. I have no trouble getting a girlif I want one,and I can keep up with Atlas and Ash without a problem. But lately, I’ve caught myself doing math on things I’ve never thought about before. Like how old I would end up being if I started dating and married someone. Or how old I would be when my kid graduates from high school if they were born now.
I don’t want kids. I don’t want a wife or even a girlfriend. Yet, I feel an odd pit in my stomach when I think about those final ages. Commitment isn’t my thing. Not that I’m like the guys who like to hop from bed to bed as though there’s money on the line. I just know what happens when you allow love to shield you from seeing a person’s real self. It can be catastrophic. I grew up watching my mother smile brightly every time my father walked through the door, even though she was sporting bruises he’d given her the night before, and it made me realize that I just couldn’t risk it. Not that I would ever raise a hand to a woman, but there’s no way I would ever risk a woman looking at me the way my mom did him, and I end up hurting her in any way. I couldn’t live with myself.
Shaking my head to clear it of memories I’d rather forget, I absently rub my pec while surfing through the emails I have. It’s such a pain in the ass to decipher what I need to read and what is junk. We’d never gotten around to setting up individual emailsfor every artist, so all inquiries for appointments and consults come to me. Half of them end up in my junk folder, and I can barely keep up with the constant influx of emails.Maybe her streamlining things would be nice, not that I’m willing to tell her that.
Flipping from my email to Instagram, I chew on the inside of my cheek as I stare at the search bar. Why am I even thinking about stalking her?
Fuck it, what was her online name?
I type in “J-A-” and the suggestions begin to pop up. There are hundreds, all with pictures of Janie, but the top one has that little check mark thing, proving that’s the real her. Clicking on the “Jai’s World” account, I nearly burst out laughing at her bio.
“I’m Beyonce always.”
There’s zero chance she knows aboutThe Office. My guess is it’s a sound she heard that was trendy, but it still makes me laugh. I stare at her profile picture, and my laughter dies. Her hair is pulled in a tight, straight ponytail, and she has on bright makeup and a pastel-colored leather mini skirt and tube top to match the candy-themed background. I scroll through her photos and feel somewhat disappointed and annoyed. I forgot how staged her life is outside of Hel’s. Everything is photoshopped and fake. Most of them had her with straight hair, and her freckles were missing. It’s pretty alarming to see her without them, not to mention the filters that are literally changing the shape of her face.
I scroll back to the top to see the two newest photos and feel the smile tugging at my lips again. One is from the day ofthe incident.She’s in front of the donut shop. No makeup, no Photoshop. I look at the comments, and I feel my blood heatingup. Who the fuck are these people? I thought people were on here talking about how amazing she is.
“POV - You think you are important enough that people care that you are at a donut shop.”
“I’d like to taste her glazed donut.”
“Eat shit and die.”
“You think the carpet matches the drapes?”
“So I need to stalk that shop and I’ll get to meet her?”
“GOOD GOD is this a freckle filter!? If so, it’s gone WRONG! You look DIRTY!”
The angry grip on my phone is so intense that I might crush it. I take a deep breath and scroll to the next photo, taken three hours ago. Janie sits with her chin resting on her palm while staring out a window. The image is black and white, and she has her curly hair and freckles showing. I read what she had written in the caption.
“Sometimes that ‘Happy Glow’ is just a filter.”
The comments under this one are similar to her other pictures. They hate her hair and her freckles; she’s attention-seeking. Why does she do this? If this is commonplace, why would she put herself through that kind of mental torture? I consider myself a well-rounded man; I can handlehate,but even I would feel beat down after reading these.
“No wonder she hides her tremors,” I mutter. I can only imagine what they would say about her disorder over the internet. It angers me to my very core that she could very well be sitting at her place, alone, reading these comments.
No, she’s probably out with that purple-haired nimrod.
As I exit her profile page, I freeze as I watch a heart pop on the screen.
Fuck, I liked her photo.Quickly, I tap it again, not wanting her to know that I’m stalking her profile.Shit. Will it still show up and then she will see I unliked it? Should I like it again?
As I go over the dilemma in my head, my phone vibrates, scaring the shit out of me. Looking at the offending device, I pick it up, and my rapidly beating heart nearly stops when I see I have a message from Janie.It’s all I can do to tap on my screen and bring up the text thread.
