Page 99 of Roommate
His lip curls, and I know he’s not going to back down. “Just do half the sketches the way I’m asking for, and the client can decide.”
And, yup, that’s when I sort of snap. “Seriously? You’re going to waste my time just so you don’t have to admit that you didn’t do your homework?”
“When you’re here, your time is my time,” he says in a low voice. “So just do what we pay you for.”
“Your father pays me,” I say, digging in. “He mostly pays me to clean up your messes. But a check’s a check.”
“You arrogant prick. Get the fuck out of this office and do your JOB!” Deacon shouts.
Well, fuck. I should have seen that coming. With my face reddening, and my pulse ragged, I turn around and walk back to my desk. I never argue with him, because there’s really no point. And it only leads to more of his bullshit.
The truth is not always an option. Nobody knows that better than me. So why did I just step in that? Helen, the receptionist, is sneaking nervous glances at me.
Sure enough, Mr. Pratt steps out of his office a minute later, phone pressed to his ear. “What the heck is going on?” he stage-whispers. “I’m on a call.”
Whatever. Even if a client heard Deacon yell fuck in the background, the world won’t end. But this time I’m smart enough not to argue. In fact, I say nothing at all. I simply shrug and pull up the Mayer Farm files where I’ve hidden them—so Deacon can’t tweak my work. And I squint at Mr. Pratt’s notes about the typeface.
“What’s the problem?” he whispers from the doorway.
“I don’t have a problem,” I say carefully. “I’m changing the typeface now.”
“And the cows!” Deacon yells.
“Not the cows,” I say in a low voice. “There is nothing wrong with these cows.”
Apparently Deacon’s only life skill is supersonic hearing, though. Because he comes storming out of his office. Never mind his father’s call. He’s out for blood. His face is red and getting redder. Spit starts flying as he shouts. “I asked you to change the cows. And you will do it.”
“You asked for a change the client would never approve,” I say in a low voice. “So I’m going to prioritize the typeface.”
“It’s not your call,” he says through a clenched jaw, as his father stands there just observing this ridiculousness, his phone pressed to his ear. “You don’t make the decisions around here.”
“I make plenty of decisions when I make art,” I point out. “We all do. And as an owner of cattle, maybe this is one moment when my opinion is especially useful.”
“Bullshit. You think you’re such an artist. With your new design classes and your faggot boyfriend.”
My head actually jerks backward like I’ve been slapped. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Deacon rages. “Get off your high horse and do the thing we hired you to do. You’re still an hourly employee after all.”
I look down at my hands where they’re gripping the armrests of my chair. My heart is thumping loudly, but I am not about to let this go. “Just because you’re the owner’s son,” I say, lifting my chin to look him in the eye. “Does not mean you have the right to use a slur. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
And then I stand up—all six feet and one inch of me. Now I’m looking down at Deacon, who’s clearly stirred himself into a rage.
His father slides his infernal phone into his pocket. So much for his super-important call. “Boys, this has gotten way out of hand.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” Each of my words sounds like ice chipping.
“Let’s have everyone go back to his corner and cool down. Deadlines are stressful,” Mr. Pratt says, in a tone of voice that implies he’s the sane one here.
But he isn’t. “I can’t hear the word faggot and then pretend it’s just a little deadline stress that’s turned Deacon into a raging homophobe.”
“You’re not even gay,” Mr. Pratt says. And then his eyes widen, as if he’s realized that maybe he missed something. “Are you?”
“Maybe I am, but that’s none of your business,” I say coolly. “And now you’ve both gone too far.” I feel surprisingly calm as I open the desk drawer and retrieve my truck keys and my phone. I glance around the desk and spot only one other thing that belongs to me—a pencil cup that Roderick bought for a quarter on one of his thrift shop runs, because artists need pencil cups.
I pick up the pencil cup and grab my jacket off the back of the chair.
“Where are you going?” Mr. Pratt’s voice is worried. “The cow art is due at four.”
