Page 36 of Broken Headboards
“They can’t just fucking do that!” I shout and rise to my feet. The random trinkets on my bookshelf vibrate from the volume of my voice and sudden weight change, but I don’t fucking care.
What can I say, baby? I’m a fucking man with too much testosterone running through my veins.
“Did they say why? Any details as to why they fucking left us in the fucking dust like this? Right in the middle of our fucking competition?” I pound my fist onto the desk.
Miranda jolts up and wraps her arms around herself. I glance down to see Taylor on his phone, ignoring the whole thing, despite him listening intently I’m sure. He’s heard me scream before, so I doubt this is any surprise to him.
“No, sir. They didn’t. All the man said was that they we’re out and send Mr. Randall their best regards,” Miranda says softly.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I run my hands through my hair, fighting the urge to punch something or throw my computer across the room.
This is fucking bullshit.
“Get me Arnold’s direct phone number now, Miranda,” I instruct, and she scurries out of the room to her desk, diligently.
“Listen to my warnings next time, bitch,” Taylor adds sardonically.
“Fuck you,” I snarl. But I especially hate when people double-cross me and fuck me over. “First, I need to figure out why these assholes quit.”
Tess.
She’s the first thing that comes to mind. Tess has to be behind this somehow.
What the fuck did she do now?
Miranda runs back into my office, holding a sticky note with a phone number scribbled on it.
“Thanks,” I swipe it away from her and instantly start dialing the numbers on my keypad.
With every ring that passes, my anger rises. I am fuming and seeing nothing but red.
Five days until the next competition, five fucking days. And, this shit has to happen. My main fucking supplier bails on me last minute with nothing to show from it.
“A&S Woodworking and Leather, this is Arnold. How can I help you?” Arnold greets me, too pleasantly.
“Arnold, what the fuck?” I skip the bullshit and head right for the jugular. Why act professional when he doesn’t know the first thing about professionalism?
“Pardon me?” He says in his thick southern accent.
“Why did you just quit? You know who this is, don’t play stupid,” I yell at him.
“Austin? Is this Austin from Oakmont Furniture?” he asks, innocently.
“Yes, dumbass. Now, tell me. What the fuck happened, man?” I have no patience now. If I was with this weasel in person I would’ve fucking slapped him across the face for acting like the bitch that he is.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Randall. We’re not usually one to do such a thing on short notice. But we had a better offer on the table,” he admits, stumbling out a few of his words.
“A better offer? From who? How could you get a better offer than us? We’re paying you more than a five hundred thousand for your material.”
“Mr. Randall—”
I interrupt him. “And who the fuck is better than Oakmont?”
“I never said anyone is better than Oakmont. We appreciate having the opportunity to work with you. However, we received an offer we couldn’t refuse. You understand business, dontcha?” he pleads.
This is just fucking crazy.
“Who is thisbetter offerfrom?” The words taste like bile of on my tongue.
