Page 6 of Breathe for Me

I wave her away, suddenly irritated. I don’t need help, nor a witness to my failures. And I don’t need advice, especially from the likes of her.

The air in the room changes. Goes shivery and cool. Did I…

Did I say that out loud?

My assistant’s cheeks are bright pink before she turns away. “Noted, sir.” I did. Oh god, I did. How unforgivably rude.

Pushing to my feet, I clear my throat. “Georgina, wait a moment—”

“No, I don’t think I will,” she calls from halfway to the door, sing-songy and so furious. “The likes of me should be home in bed by now.”

My eyes skate to the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. Christ, I’m such an ass. “Georgina—”

“Night, Mr Laurent. Remember, the elevator’s broken. Enjoy the stairs.”

“Wait.”

The door slams, echoing in the quiet. My breaths are labored. Everything aches.

It takes a long time for me to get back to work, but I do.

It’s just one more disaster for the list, after all. This really is the week from hell.

* * *

Was I always like this? Driven and joyless. Obsessive and stressed. So fucking tired that it feels like the weight of the world is pushing down on my bones.

I swear I remember lazy summer days and nights spent laughing, not working, but they’re a hazy memory. Maybe even a dream. When I play them in my mind on late nights when I can’t sleep, it’s like watching an actor in a movie.

Tonight, I can’t sleep, but for a brand new reason. Usually it’s my greatest hits: my Ignis tech will never work; my father died without ever respecting me; I’m going to die alone, etc, etc.

Predictable woes. Almost soothing with how cliched they are. But tonight…

I flip my pillow to the cool side, burying my face in it with a groan. Tonight, it’sher.

Georgina. My bubbly assistant. The woman who makes the world’s worst coffee then stands over me as I drink it; the woman with a front row seat to my many failures. She’s barely been my assistant for a month, and already she’s seen so many disasters. I’ve never had such a terrible quarter.

It’s humiliating.

So why, when everything goes wrong at every turn, do I so desperately want her there?

Something about her… soothes me. Whenever Georgina is near, my racing heartbeat calms and my muscles relax. Just for a moment, I’m looser and lighter. Free.

The likes of me should be home in bed by now.

Fuck.

If she quits, I deserve nothing less. Maybe I’ll offer her a raise.

My bedroom is cool and dark and quiet. Stars glitter through the open drapes, and up here high above the city, the sounds of traffic and bars and sirens are muffled. Where does Georgina sleep? Does she go to bed alone?

There’s no ring on her finger. Believe me, I’ve checked.

“Ass,” I mutter to myself, flopping onto my back and scrubbing both hands down my face.

It’s late. So late, it’s practically early. And I’m dizzyingly tired, my brain still whirling with a thousand thoughts, and sometimes I think I’d give anything for eight straight hours of deep sleep.

My hand drifts to my cock. Would I give my dignity? For the chance to drift off before dawn? Right now, I certainly would.

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