Page 4 of Power
Tonight was about finding a way for my brain to stop feeling like a pressure cooker of rage. Rage that had gone from burning-eyes frustrated toGame of Thronesseason finale in record time. Was this how all women felt in these situations? Or was this reserved for me: a woman who’d fought to build herself from the ashes of pain? A woman who’d sworn she’d never let a man control her again. The fact that it was taking everything I had not to cry? That just pissed me off more. I refused to let that piece of trash break me.
“We could go over there together,” Dakota suggested. “Confront him, united front and all that.”
“Pass.” I took another fortifying sip. “If I saw him right now, I would kick him in the dick, andaggravated assault against your boss’s penisdoesn’t look great on a résumé.”
“We could call him. Really let him have it.”
“Knowing my luck, he’d record it. And then I wouldn’t just be out of a job; I’d be unemployable.”
“We have to do something,” Dakota insisted, drumming her fingers on the bar with increasing intensity.
“I will.” I shifted on the barstool, trying to find a position where my spine didn’t feel like it was made of glass. “Monday. But right now, I just need to vent until this rage stops feeling like it’s going to choke me. I can’t face HR if I’m still seeing red.”
“We can do better than that,” she declared. “It’s not fair for you to sit here and feel like crap while that walking HR violation is probably somewhere high-fiving his reflection in the bathroom mirror.”
She was right. He didn’t deserve this anger.
“You should let a guy take you home tonight and bone his brains out.” She waggled her eyebrows.
I gave her my bestare you serious right nowglare. “Yeah, nothing heals the wounds of sexual harassment like having random sex with strangers. Brilliant plan. Got any other gems of wisdom?”
“Sex always makes people feel better.”
“Hard pass.”
Dakota tapped her chin, and I could practically see the light bulb appear over her head. Never a good sign.
“Okay, if going off on Douchenozzle and picking up men are out, then let’s do something about that rage.”
“I’m not picking a bar fight, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Writing helps with anger, but we’re going to make this one fun.” She waved at the bartender, who was too busy flirting with some college kids to notice.
“Funanger? What the heck does that even mean?”
“Okay, you know all those things that float through your mind for a hot second when you’re upset with someone, but you would never actually do? Like when someone cuts you off in traffic, and you think,God, I’d love to shove an ice pick through their skull?”
“Remind me to never ever cut you off in traffic,” I muttered intomy glass.
“We’ll make a list of imaginary ways we’d get revenge if we could. Pure fantasy, totally therapeutic.”
“Get him fired,” I offered.
She cocked her head. “That’s boring. Think more fun like …” Her eyes lit up with unholy glee. “Undoing the seams of his pants so they split open in the middle of a board meeting. While he’s presenting to the CEO.”
I couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto my face. That would be pretty satisfying, watching Mr. Grabby Hands try to maintain his dignity with his tighty-whities on display.
“Excuse me!” Dakota called to the bartender, finally catching his attention. “Can we get a few napkins?”
She produced a pen from her purse. By the way, Dakota’s purse was like a doomsday prepper’s bunker: prepared for everything from nuclear winter to impromptu revenge plotting, though, ironically, not a single scrap of paper today. With a small sigh, she unfolded one of the napkins.
“What are you doing?”
At the top she wrote in bold capitals:REVENGE LIST.
“Writing this down. It’ll be fun.”
“So you say.”
