Page 87 of By A Thread
The name of the game was avoidance.
After a long, sleepless night punctuated by not one but two icy showers, endless mental pep talks, and searching the internet for “distraction techniques,” “how to stop picturing my boss naked”—don’t Google that one, by the way—and “how to become a monk,” I’d come to the conclusion that my only rational course of action was to pretend that Dominic Russo didn’t exist.
I’d been furious with the man. And then one glimpse of the purple-headed sea monster in his pants, and I’d gone all pizza delivery porno on him.
The pain on his face when I’d walked in on him had burned into me. As had the vision of him fisting that magnificent fucking erection through his open trousers.
Me.He’d been thinking aboutme.And when I made it clear that I was available, that he could have the real thing, he’d shut me down. The man was masturbating to a fantasy about me, and he still didn’t want the real thing.
The only thing that made any kind of sense was that he was hiding behind the rules, using them as an excuse. Because I was Elizabeth Bennett and so far beneath him it made him sick to entertain the thought of actually being with me.
That pissed me off all over again.
The next morning, I slunk into the admin pool, surveying the room like a gentle woodland creature scenting the air for… whatever eats gentle woodland creatures.
“Nice of you to join us,” Malina said snidely.
I was beginning to think she did everything snidely. Today, she was dressed in a winter white sheath dress with her hair scraped back in a perfect platinum bun. Her mouth looked as if it had either had a run-in with some bees this weekend or she’d paid a visit to a syringe of fillers.
“You look nice,” I observed.
She rolled thickly lashed eyes with contempt. “Ugh. Shut up.”
I shrugged, then flopped down in my chair to boot up my computer. While it chugged to life, my nice new work phone signaled a text.
Charming: We need to talk.
My brain screamed, “Oh, hell no,” as my traitorous lady parts started an inappropriate celebration.
I wasnotputting myself in a situation where I could see, hear, smell, or be within fifteen feet of the man. I didn’t know what was going on biologically with me, but I was an adult, gosh darn it.
I was not a hormone-driven teenager with no respect for consequences.
The one thing that I’d managed to drill into my head overnight was that this paycheck was the only thing keeping my father where he needed to be. And I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that. At least, that’s what I’d told my vagina last night.
Panic danced its way down my spine. If he walked in here and demanded to see me, I didn’t trust myself to not do something stupid. It was fifty-fifty on whether I’d punch him in the face or just go straight for his zipper with eager hands.
Fortunately, salvation arrived in the form of my supervisor. Zara was hustling down the aisle between the rows of cubicles, sticky notes in one hand, Sharpie in the other. “I need a volunteer to go out and—”
“I’ll do it!” I shot out of my seat like I was spring-loaded.
Zara looked at me like the weirdo I was. “You don’t even know what the assignment is.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said desperately. “If it’s out of the building, I’ll take it. I’ll takeallof the out of the building tasks.”
“It’s ten degrees and sleeting outside,” Gola said, appearing behind Zara. She looked concerned. I didn’t blame her.
“I like the cold. Love it,” I insisted. Words I’d never strung together in my entire life.
“Well, that makes my job easy,” Zara said. “I didn’t even have to bribe anyone with lunch.” She handed me six sticky notes and then snatched her hand back when I ripped them out of her grasp.
“What’s the hurry? Is there a sale at the soup kitchen?” Malina sniffed, giving my outfit a judgemental once-over.
I wasn’t head-to-toe in designer labels, but I looked good.You know, in case I accidentally ran into a certain someone who ceased to exist.
I was wearing a swingy plaid skirt over ribbed tights. Solid thrift store finds. Linus had liberated my last season thigh-high boots from “the closet” for me. My turtleneck was a leftover from my Colorado life when I’d actually had more than thirty-two dollars in the bank after bills.
Come on, Payday Gods, and smile your blessings upon my bank account.
