“Bastard,” Tom grunts in agreement, handing my phone back.
“He was upset,” Tash reasons. “Obviously he wasn’t expecting the wedding to be called off…”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” I growl. “I don’t care how upset is, or how badly his heart was broken—that doesn’t give him the right to take his anger out on you. You were just doing your job, Tash. What were you supposed to do? Tell the woman to go ahead and get married when she clearly wasn’t in love with him?” I hold my phone up. “Judging by this, she clearly dodged a bullet.”
Here’s the thing: way back when I was in uni, before I started apprenticing here, I used to work at the customer recovery centre for a major airline. That’s actually where I met Natasha. She was always good at dealing with the arseholes who complained about everything from lost luggage, to flight delays, to not receiving a vegan meal even though they didn’t actually request a vegan meal on their booking. I, on the other hand, was not so great at it; two whole years of biting my tongue and grinding my teeth have left me with permanent damage.
But I don’t need to bite my tongue now; I can give this arsehole a piece of my mind.
“I’m going to write back,” I announce.
Tash gasps, her blue eyes wide. “Don’t you dare!”
“Why not? This guy needs to know it’s not okay to behave like this. Fucking entitled.arsehole.”
“Wesley Alexander Holt, promise me you won’t write back to this guy,” Tash says, eyes narrowed.
I let out a heavy sigh of resignation. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d better go. Work to do,” I say with a nod in Tom’s direction.
“Your real name is Wesley?” Tom asks once I’ve ended the call with Natasha and resumed my seat in the stool next to the tattoo bench.
“What did you think Wes was short for?”
“I don’t know…Wesmond?”
I let out a soft chuckle as I tug on another pair of gloves before picking the gun back up. “You need to stay off the weed, mate.”
I had every intention of actually cooking dinner tonight, but I’m completely wrecked by the time I get home, so instead of the pasta I’d intended to make, I opt for a cheese toastie instead. Not the gourmet fare I’d imagined, but it istechnicallysomething cooked.
I grab a beer from the fridge and take it and my toastie over to the couch, where I sprawl out with my feet up on the coffee table.
I should just turn on the TV and watch the football like I normally would, but my phone feels like it’s burning in my back pocket, and I can’t seem to stop myself from digging it out and bringing up that fucking email again. I know I promised Natasha I’d let it go, but that’s just bollocks. Why should this tosser get away with behaving like this? Maybe I’m just experiencing a little PTSD from all the times I had to let shit like this slide back when it was my job to make angry people happy again, but there’s just no way I can drop this now.
And, really, what’s the worst that could happen?