I lie back and pull my favorite fluffy comforter over me. I love it so much; I never travel for pleasure or work without it because I simply can’t sleep without burying myself under all this fluff. But even my comforter can’t pull me back to sleep—I keep thinking about Archie and him finding love.
And to be honest, his call couldn’t have been timed better—I’m ready to take a small-town vacation.
ChapterTwo
JOSIE
The next morning, I take a long, hot shower before standing in front of my closet, trying to decide which outfit I want to wear since today promises to be not a very good one. And not because of lack of sleep.
I decide on my favorite power outfit, consisting of super tight red pants that make my butt look on fire and a red, matching blazer. A tight, black camisole accentuates my boobs, making them demand attention. I finish it off with black stilettos, grab my keys and water bottle with a sticker about ‘Bat Bitches’ I purchased from Etsy, and head into the office, dreading seeing my ex of one whole day who happens to work at the same company I do.
Well, he doesn’t just work there. He owns it.
Yes, I made a big mistake, and yes, I learned my lesson. A bit too late if someone asks me, but it is what it is.
A dozen curious pairs of eyes greet me the moment I step out of the elevator and onto the thirty-first floor. As I move toward my desk, the whispers start. I look around, feeling myself transported back to my old high school cafeteria—even in our small Shit-town, kids were ruthless, and I dressed differently. You know, how every school has an emo kid everyone hates? Well, my school had me. Needless to say, I was not popular.
The sound of my pumps clicking against the marble is deafening, and with each step, dread settles deep within the pit of my stomach. And it’s not because of who I am about to face. But because of the odd silence. Even the buzz of fax machines and printers stops, whichneverhappens.
As I round the corner to where my desk is located, right by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the busy city, all of it suddenly makes sense. Because the person sitting in my comfy chair is not me. And it’s not me who moved my cactus to the side, killing the fresh pink blossom by squashing it into the ugly, stained, dented, and just overall offensive cardboard box sitting on the corner of my desk. Yesterday, it had finally bloomed after two years of waiting, and I was looking forward to enjoying the prettiness in the upcoming horrible day. And he went and killed it.
Weaponized by the protectiveness over my murdered flower, I narrow my eyes at the man who just yesterday brought me coffee in a lackluster, shitty attempt to kiss my ass.
“What’s going on?” I try to keep my cool and sound like theBat BitchI’m supposed to be, according to my water bottle.
“Well.” He leans back in my chair, a smug look on his perfectly symmetrical face. Gone is any shred of desire. Instead, it’s replaced by the haughty look of someone who knows they have the upper hand. “This is my desk now. And the chair.” He pats the armrests. “Very comfy. Did you save it for me?” He shoots me an awful wink that looks more like a seizure.
I take a deep breath, attempting to calm my rapidly increasing pulse, and instead of arguing with the imbecile or smacking the cactus pot over his smug face since he’s already slain the plant, I march past my desk toward the office of my boss, Randy. Who also happens to be my ex. And here comes the worst part of my day. Or so I thought.
I open the door without knocking. This is not a social visit, and the angry clicking of my heels is a clear warning that he should be scared.
“Hey,” he quickly says into the phone, “I’ll call you back, baby.”
Baby?Baby?He broke up with meyesterday, for fuck’s sake.
“Can I help you, Josephina?”
Josephina?Josephina?Yes, this is not going to be good—he knows I hate the full name my soap-opera-loving parents gave me.
“Why is Johnthe Thirdsitting at my desk?” I’ve always found his desire to be called by his full name ridiculous, but I am Josephina, so who am I to judge, really.
“Ah, yes.” He smiles as he moves pens on his desk, sounding like he’s completely forgotten about another dude taking the place of his senior designer until I remind him. “John the Third has been promoted. Did you congratulate him?” His smile is so sugary it gives me an ulcer.
“Kudos to him.” John is bad. Every other contract he’s had for the past two years he’s been working here ended up with the client firing us, but his father goes to the same country club with Randy. So here is the non-logical explanation of why John’s still employed. “But why my desk?”
“You’ve been demoted, Josephina.” He tilts his head to the side, trying to appear regretful. I know because I told him he looks more compassionate when he does it.When you attempt to sympathize with someone, you’ll get further with them,I had told him one day after he threw a fit that a client walked out on him due to Randy ‘not understanding his needs.’ “Quite frankly,” he clicks his tongue, “you haven’t been doing a great job recently, and we’ve had a few complaints about you.”
I rear back—the only time I had a complaint about me was when a client tried to put his bony, sweaty hand inside my shirt, and I had to smack him stupid with my vintage Prada bag. Randy knows because he refused to work with the client again, protecting the honor of his employee and girlfriend at the time.
“Please, don’t act so scandalized. Rachel Rune said you took longer than promised for her kitchen renovation, therefore pausing a complete remodel of her penthouse.”
“Yes, and you are well aware that was because we couldn’t pull permits from the city since she owed five years of unpaid taxes!” I want to facepalm myself, but instead, I imagine how I’d smack the ever-loving crap out of Rachel first, the greedy bitch who lives in one of the most expensive buildings in the city and still doesn’t pay her bills, and Randy second, the cheating bastard who looks way too happy with himself right now.
“That’s not the point, Josie,” he says with a sigh. “The point is you’re demoted. We got a desk ready for you at the end of the hallway.” He points behind me.
I know the desk he’s talking about. It’s the only desk that’s unoccupied. I still ask, hoping I’m mistaken and he means John’s old desk next to the window. It’s not mine, but it will do. Even though it might be hard to explain the relocation if clients ever drop by unannounced. They do that quite often, I might add. “By the toilet?”
“You go there so often,” he cackles, “it’ll be very convenient for you.”
