Page 21 of Heartless Boss
“Fine, I love to bake, take pictures, and scrapbooking. Also, I love to collect knee-high socks—especially in bright colors. Ilove,love rain.” Her smile is radiating love and passion. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long-ass time. “The sound of it tapping against the roof, the smell of it, especially when it’s a day in April.” She pauses. “Rain is beautiful even though it smells musky, and the sky is gray. Most people say rain is depressing, but not for me. It’s peaceful. It’s like a slice of heaven on earth.” Her cheeks are flushed, and she pulls her legs to her chest to rest her chin on her knees. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”
Happiness stamps her face and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. A mouth I want to use and abuse with my dick.
“Hell must have frozen over if you’re having a conversation with someone.”
“I don’t talk to people I don’t know or feel comfortable around unless I have to.”
That explains why she’s standoffish with people at work. Mason asked me during a lunch meeting if she was gay because when he spoke to her she treated him like he had an STD, avoided shaking his hand, and when he asked her for a lunch date, she told him flat-out no. I was relieved she turned him down. When it comes to other women, there isn’t a possessive bone in my body. I don’t care if they fuck around on me if I decide to keep them around for a long time—which is very rare, like every-blue-moon rare—but with Gia, I wanted her all to myself. Even back in college when she wouldn’t give me the time of day.
“Why did you drop out of college?” When I read her résumé she only needed sixty credits to graduate with her business degree.
“Life got in the way.” Sadness seeps through her face. “Wolf ...” This is the second time she’s called me that, and I don’t mind it either.
“Yes, Rainbow?” My tone grows uneven, and my raging cock is reminding me I’m hornyier than a dog.
“Get the lead out your a-s-s.” She spells out the word. I don’t know what cuss words ever did to her for her not to use them. “And hit play.”
I grab the remote from my pocket, hit play, and her eyes are glued back to the screen.
I want to drink Gia like my favorite whiskey so I feel her seeping through my pores.
Chapter Eight
Gunner
Q: What is pain?
A: Usually localized physical suffering associated with bodily disorder (such as a disease or an injury.) -Webster Dictionary-
My feet pound on the wet pavement as heavy rain beats angrily against my body. I can barely see the mansions that decorate my neighborhood in Bedford, NY.
When I started therapy six months ago, Dr. Hannah asked me the same question.What is pain?
I gave her the Webster’s dictionary version. She responded with, “Wrong answer.” Then I accused her of being a quack and shot her idle threats about firing her.
Every session.
Every. Fucking. Session.
She asked me that same question, and I gave her the same answer. A few times, I asked her if she’d snorted coke, and if she did to pass some my way. (FYI, I was willing to try anything to make me feel.) Then she told me once I understand the meaning of the question I’ll have the right answer. For weeks, I thought I was dealing with the Riddler fromBatman. Instead of her feeding me the answer, like any therapist would, I had to go on a goddamn scavenger hunt for the answer.
That fucking question bothered me like a crackhead begging for coke.
Then one day, the answer clicked in my brain. Real pain is not from hurting yourself like breaking an arm or leg. Sure, it hurts like a motherfucker, but that pain is temporary, the wound will heal, and you’ll move on like it never happened.
Real pain lies in what’s in your head, the mental scars people imprint on you or the ones you inflict on yourself. My mental scarring is at war with my mind. Most days, my mind wins and other days it loses. When it loses, that’s when I down liquor like it’s water. Today, I’m losing the war.
My chest tightens like a snake is squeezing it, and my heart beats faster than a drummer at a concert. My mind is fucking my brain sideways scissors style.
Gunpowder invades my nostrils, and I rub my nose until it’s sore.
Breathe, Gunner. You smell musky rain, not gunpowder.
A revolver fires off in my ear like a bomb.
Relax. You’re running.
Gray brain matter splatters across the pale white walls. A hole the size of a grapefruit indents his forehead as blood gushes down his face, and his eyes roll into the back of his head.
