Page 31 of Kneel with the King
“The name’s Ambrose,” I say politely.A please would be nice, too.
“Yeah, sorry. Can you get me another drink,Ambrose?” Kevin says, his voice slightly slurred.
“Sure. No problem.”
Turning and walking away, I mutter expletives under my breath as Christmas music permeates through the building. Feels strange to be celebrating Christmas when we’re in the middle of a California heat wave, but whatever. Being from upstate New York means that upward of eighty-five degrees in December is… strange.
But I’m here nonetheless, sweating my balls off and fetching drinks like I’m the bus boy and not the intern.
Once I have Kevin’s drink in hand, I quickly march back to where he’s sitting, telling a story with a voice that’s too loud and teeth that are too white.
“Hey, Glasses. How much did that hurt?”
I turn around and narrow my eyes at Arnold, the boomer senior vice president.One day, I’ll have your job, Arnold.
“How much did what hurt?” I ask, crossing my arms and lifting one side of my mouth into a smirk.
“The nose piercing. My granddaughter is sixteen and she wants one, but I told her it’s hard to be taken seriously when you look unemployable.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t tell him to fuck right off. The thing about these guys is that they’re not used to seeing punk kids like me in their building. They’re not used to the short hair I dye black, or the piercings and tattoos I hide behind my Brooks Brothers jacket by day. I’m the only one here in a black button-up and slacks instead of a suit. The shirt fits a little too loose, hanging off my scrawny body, but I’ve never needed size or bulk to get under someone’s skin.
I don’t fit their mold.
But one day, I’ll break it.
“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say, giving Arnold my best polite-but-fuck-off smile.
“Next time,” Arnold says, patting my shoulder in the patronizing way he loves to do, “ditch the Halloween costume. We’ve had complaints from middle management.”
I don’t flinch. Instead, I just tilt my head and smile, wondering if he feels good about putting an intern down.
I’m just about to retort when someone speaks up.
“Aw, give him a break, Arn. At least he’s got his own sense of style.”
I turn toward the voice.
Asher Harrison.
He walks into the middle of the group like he belongs. Broad shoulders. Loose tie. Laugh already halfway out his mouth. He’s a walking, talking Ken doll, and he makes me nervous as hell. His eyes and smile are easy, like he’s never had to work for anything in his life. He’s the kind of man who makes you forget how to breathe just by standing under good lighting.
Or maybe it’s just me.
For a second, our eyes meet. Something flickers in his expression—curiosity, maybe? But then he looks past me. Over my shoulder. He’s already turning away, saying something to another associate, glass tipping toward his mouth.
He looked at me.
He lookedrightat me—and then looked right past me.
And I felt it. That split second of… something. Then, the drop of disappointment.
I’m invisible to him.
As always.
I excuse myself and walk over to the bar, despite not being able to legally drink yet. The woman winks at me and slides a beer over to me discreetly, and I tip my head as I walk to the back of the bar. Taking a seat on a barstool, I slowly drink my beer as Christmas music assaults my eardrums.
“Don’t you ever smile?”
