Page 8 of The Librarian of Souls
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it. You need me to take those off your hand?” He points down at the files like the mind reader he is.
“Yes, please,” I say, picking up the mug with both hands.
“Don’t forget, Gary over at the armoury site wants to have a call before we leave for the day. Something about some of the guys not being up to snuff.” He tucks the files under his arm.
I want to roll my eyes, but I’m scared that if I do, they will just roll back into my skull and stay there.Lance is doing me a solid, I remind myself. He doesn’t actually have to be on this call. It isn’t in his job description to handle these sorts of problems. He is only supposed to be dealing with our safety compliances and making sure the labourers are trained and wear their PPE. Gary just listens when Lance repeats what I’m saying. I am used to it with these guys.
“Does five work for you?” I ask, already setting up the calendar invite so neither of us, mainly me, can forget it.
“Sure, but I need to be out the door by 5:30. I’ve got tickets to the theatre tonight.”
Even though he says theatre in a silly, fake aristocratic voice, my gut still twists up with guilt. If the calls I got last week were anything to go by, Lance is going to be late for his show. It will be my fault, too, if it has to do with how screening these new hires has been done. If they aren’t up for the job, that’s on me for being negligent, spending too many evenings in the library. Hiring the contracted staff has been solely my job for two years. I don’t normally have any issues, but it seems like whatever lucky streak I had in that regard has vanished.
“You know what?” I force a confident smile. “I’m sure I can handle Gary on my own. I don’t want to risk you being late, but I want to hear all about it, okay?”
“You’re really sure, Joanna?” When he asks me this, he looks at me like he is gauging something more about me. Like my answer will tell him something more than a simple confirmation.
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, well, if I don’t see you again before I head out, have a good night.”
Lance points at my coffee before turning on his heels and leaving. I look over at my computer screen, the pink sticky notes littering the frame with reminders and requests. Three more hours until I have to call Gary, and by the time I am done with that call, the office will be empty. Then I will be able to make some real headway on my to-do list. I promise myself I will only stay a couple of hours late, and then I will go home and treat myself to a bubble bath. I’m not even going to bring any work home with me tonight.
I slump into my chair, the security lights on the main floor already flicked on. Only the light in my office is left to illuminate my work. The call with Gary did not go well. Beyond not being able to get a word in edgewise, he had already gone over my head and fired two guys. More paperwork to do, files to find and reorganise. That also means I need to find two people to fill their spots, which means calling eight different people from the backlist to ask if they are still available and could start tomorrow.
I hate making these calls. It feels skeezy to say, ‘oh you didn’t get the job the first time, but hey look for reasons I can’t disclose, we now have two positions open’. I did it though, because this contract means a lot to the company, to me. This is the first big win I have worked on as the lead. I created the bid proposal, negotiated and worked and lost countless hours of sleep for this job. If this goes well, it means I am good at my job. It’s tangible proof to Patrick that I am loyal and know what I am doing and deserve more– praise, recognition, money. It’ll show him that I belong in this role that he has somehow shoehorned me into.
I am too deep into it to let it fail because someone didn’t meet Gary’s standard.
It is well after the time I said I would leave. Even though I knock a couple of big items off of my to-do list, I add a half a dozen more tasks for myself to do tomorrow. The biggest of those being finding the fired employee files to hand over to accounts so they can be taken off the payroll. The work is never-ending.
For a second, I think about my bath at home, the warm water easing the ache in my body and soul. Even if my body is too big for the tub and the water gets cold too quickly, for a brief, blissful moment I can be weightless. The world almost fades away, and I can almost forget about work and the pathetic amount of money in my bank account that has to last me another week.
Sometimes in those moments, I think about what life would be like with a new job. If I got a position at a different construction company, would I still get the odd glances and disrespect? Am I the reason those things happen to me in the first place? I don’t dream of labour, but I think really hard about being in a new job and everything just clicking into place. My boss is present and appreciates me, co-workers who go out for drinks on Thursday night, a shorter commute to the office– all of these things fill my head with flights of fancy that I don’t ever foresee coming my way.
I am scared to leave, to abandon the first thing in a long time that has been a constant in my life. Since my moms died, I have been moved from one place to another over and over again. In college, that didn’t bother me so much, with roommates constantly fighting and burying myself in my studies. Even when I was looking for full-time work after graduation, I bounced or other people bounced from flatshare to flatshare. Getting the job at Concord meant having a form of stability in my life that I missed.
That I still miss.
The bath won’t help me fall asleep anyway. Taking a bath relieves some tension in my bones, but by the time I drag myself out of the icy water, my muscles have locked up again. Any relief I felt has gone down the drain with the lavender and honey bath salts I sparingly use. I can’t remember the last time I was relaxed, my mind not tormented with paperwork and deadlines and anxiety.
That’s a lie.
I can remember, but I’ve been forcing myself to not think about what caused it. The pulsing hot pain in my neck, the hot flashes, the cramps, thehorniness, those are all things I can’t ignore. My fingers have fumbled around in my sweatpants at least once a night since that dream. The aching in my neck will lessen for a while when the pulse moves between my legs. I’ve gotten short intervals of sleep that don’t allow for dreams, but I’m almost grateful for that. If I could dream, they would be about that night in the library, abouthim.
My fingers skitter over the open neckline of my shirt, the cheap material chafing against my skin as I pluck at it to fan myself. Almost instinctively, they reach up for the sore spot on my neck. It throbs as I swallow, trying to wet my dry mouth and throat. The gentlest touch makes goosebumps erupt across my heated skin. I close my eyes, slowly counting to ten before pressing on the spot, hard. Digging my fingers into the tendons connecting my neck and shoulder until tears prick in my eyes and my pulse throbbing between my legs makes me feel almost alive.
This pain feels good.
I close my eyes and focus on the feeling, the burning sensation coursing through my system. My thumb teases a line down my throat and, for a moment, I can imagine it’s his soft finger on my heated skin. I squeeze my thighs together, squirming in my seat until I can’t take it any more. Even though my back aches and the waistband on my trousers digs into my stomach, my hips roll forward.
My imagination takes over.
Clear as the day we were there, as the dream, I am on the beach. Sea foam bubbles up around my ankles and the setting sun paints a watercolour sky that I can’t take my eyes off. Hands caress my bare skin like I am fragile and breakable, a fine treasure that should only be touched with the utmost care, but I long to be grabbed, gripped, controlled with force. I want that more than anything. To be owned and used with purpose.
I inhale sharply, licking my lips before adjusting myself in my chair again. The metal frame creaks and I am reminded once again that love, carnal or emotional, like that doesn’t exist. Or if it does, the person is a walking red flag. I remove my hand from my throat and look at my computer again. It’s almost ten o’clock.
I want to say I can’t believe I did this again. Stayed too late, forgetting to eat and drink for most of the day, but I am not surprised. This is a classic Joanna move, which is always followed by a cheap kebab from the chippy around the corner from my flat. I know I shouldn’t. I can’t afford new clothes if I grow out of these ones, but god the thought of cooking anything right now feels like too much.
