Page 8 of Heartless Boss
I was proud I was able to get something on my own. Not only was it a place for me to live, it was my sanctuary.
No matter what I do, I can’t catch a break. I take two steps forward, and I get knocked back a step.
Before I enter Gunner’s office, I school my features and put on my best poker face. I set the thick paperwork on his desk and turn on my heels. I stomp to my desk and lay my head down while tears rush down my cheeks.
I don’t have family I can move in with. My mom was a prostitute and got T-boned by an eighteen-wheeler when I was a baby. She died on impact. According to my mom’s old friend, Petra, who died from AIDS a few years ago, my dad was one of her johns.
My childhood was as lovely as eating flour. I bounced around from foster home to foster home and then three group homes. When I turned eighteen the state kicked me out into the real world with no survival skills. I had to learn how to raise myself.
Just when I can see the light at the end of a tunnel, something is always coming along blocking it.
Gunner barges in, and I crane my neck to the computer so he won’t see me cry.
“Bring your tablet, we need to rearrange my calendar.”
I try my best to hold my sobs in but I cry even harder. Snot slithers from my nose, and I pluck a Kleenex from the box, wipe it, and toss it in the wastebasket. Shuffling papers on my desk, I pretend I’m busy.
“Gia?” He spins my computer chair around to get a better view of me sobbing.
Straightening up my spine, I say, “I-I need a minute.”
As tears leak down my cheeks, he leans closer and uses his calloused thumb to wipe each one. His eyes are glued to mine as a shiver tickles my spine.
Then he does the unthinkable—he pulls me up to my yellow oxford shoes and yanks me into a hug. His gigantic frame engulfs my small one. My body is wound up like a toy, and finally, I accept his warm embrace.
I hate myself that I like his warm body.
I hate myself for loving the way he smells—cinnamon and expensive cologne.
I hate my stupid dumb heart for going haywire in my chest; it has a burning need to break free from my ribcage.
“What’s wrong, Rainbow?” I feel the vibration of his voice through my bones. I want to bleed my heart out onto his expensive loafers, vent to him about what’s wrong and how ever since I was born life has been screwing me in the butthole, and it continues to screw me.
But I don’t tell him any of this because I doubt he really cares, and if he were to offer help, it would come with a price. Most people want something in return, and my pride won’t let me ask him for help. I’ve been surviving on my own since I was eighteen years old. I’ll get through this.
I break from his embrace and faint streaks of my foundation smear his white dress shirt. “Nothing.”
“Last time I checked, women don’t cry just to cry. So I’m asking you again, what’s wrong?”
“Why do you care?” I snap. He fixes his mouth as if he’s about to respond, so I shake my head. “I’m fine, really, but thanks for your concern.”
“You sure?” He parks his butt on my desk.
I feel my makeup clumping around my eyes; I bet my mascara is running down my cheeks, and I probably look like a raccoon. As he raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, I flinch out of habit. Like the saying goes, old habits die hard.
I know Gunner isn’t going to slap me, but I can’t help the reaction.
He studies my face like he’s reading a newspaper.
I reach around him and grab the tablet, tapping the red button, and the screen comes alive.
“What do you need me to change on your calendar?” Tension is as thick as a marshmallow.
I peer up, pity dances in his eyes.
“Change the meeting with Kirk Jones to Monday. Sundays are off-limits.” He stands up from the desk and swaggers to the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Kirk is one of the shareholders in the business.
