Holiday Wishes and Tentacle Dreams (Tinsel and Tentacles 3.0 #15)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

JAKE

Jake wasn’t getting the job.

No. That didn’t have to be true. He took a deep breath and brushed aside the negative thought as he walked through the glass revolving doors of the towering high-rise.

As he threaded his way through the lobby, dodging harried people in suits and sweater sets, the words of his boyfriend Phil echoed in his head.

“Picture yourself getting the offer. Imagine yourself succeeding. Manifest the job.”

Despite his annoyance at the aggressive, self-helpy pep talk, Jake had spent the entire train ride into Manhattan doing just that. In his fantasy, the hiring manager was a woman in a fashionable red pencil skirt and a severe bob. She smiled wide and offered her hand.

“Pleasure to have you on board.”

In his vision, her voice was even and her handshake was firm, but she’d had a kindness in her eyes. He’d conjured up the salary amount, imagining her offering enough money to live comfortably in New York City. Finally, after years of struggling and six months of total unemployment. A real paycheck.

Phil would stop giving him those judgy looks and remember what it was like when they first dated. Sweet. Fun. Hot as hell.

Unfortunately, when he reached the office his interview was in, his imaginary woman in the red pencil skirt was nowhere to be found.

Instead, he was greeted by an arrogant-looking man in his forties wearing a navy fleece vest. His khakis were the most unpleasant shade of beige Jake had ever seen, and a college-branded mug sat on his desk, insignia turned carefully to face the door. The guy stuck out a single pasty hand.

“Chuck Ferguson.” He said his own name as if it was an honor for Jake’s ears to receive the component sounds. Chuck looked him up and down, a slight grimace appearing on his face. “Take a seat.”

As Jake sank down onto the cold wooden chair, Chuck opened up a manila folder, taking a cursory glance at Jake’s resume before rolling his eyes.

Picture yourself succeeding.

Jake held on to the dimming spark of his hope with every ounce of his being. He was more than qualified. He’d served as executive assistant to several high-powered finance executives, and they’d adored him. Keeping a dozen balls in the air without breaking a sweat was his specialty.

“If you’d like to contact my references, each of them would vouch for my ability to—”

Chuck waved Jake off.

“References don’t mean a damn thing. We both know that. Interviewing someone for a job isn’t about blowing smoke up their ass. It’s about being a detective.”

Chuck’s bony finger stopped at a single spot on Jake’s resume.

“You have a year and a half gap in employment. Four years ago.” Every muscle in Jake’s body tightened at the accusatory words. “Where were you? Rehab?”

Of course, he would zero in on the one thing Jake had prayed he wouldn’t notice. Honestly, it would have been better if it had been rehab. This guy had definitely done his share of party drugs on oversized yachts. He’d be fine with rehab.

No. It was much, much worse, at least by the standards of an aging finance bro. Phil and he had strategized about what to do if this happened. He was supposed to say he had a sick mother. Jake had put his life on hold to nurse his mom through her illness. A simple, harmless lie.

What came out of his mouth was defiantly not that.

“Mental hospital.”

The man’s eyes widened at Jake’s words. “What?”

“I had a breakdown and joined a full-time outpatient program.”

For a long, awkward moment, Chuck Ferguson said nothing, his jaw hanging open. Jake was a little proud he’d broken through the asshole’s arrogant facade.

The thing was, Jake hated lying. Beyond that, he was bad at it. Whenever he did, he turned bright red, and sweat poured from his forehead. Plus, he was terrible at keeping his facts straight.

Besides, this guy had written Jake off before they even started talking. Jake didn’t know if it was his chubbiness or his effeminate mannerisms, but there wasn’t a chance in hell this New Jersey cul-de-sac dweller was going to give him a job. So why not come clean?

Unfortunately, Chuck recovered the next instant, and when he continued, his eyes were dull and hard. “It’s important for our workers to take care of their mental health,” he said in a flat tone that revealed how little he believed the words.

Jake nodded, not saying anything.

“So, tell me about a time you had a conflict with a coworker.” Ah, he was going with a classic. Jake could roll with that.

“Well, I pride myself on getting along with…” As he spoke, Chuck pulled out his phone and scrolled through text messages. Confused, Jake pushed through and finished. There were a few seconds of empty silence before Chuck noticed he’d completed the answer.

Jake wasn’t getting the job.

The whole interview lasted all of twenty minutes. Chuck asked a few more cliché questions before wrapping up. By the time Jake stepped out of the glass skyscraper onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk, any hope he’d had of gainful employment was long gone.

And not just regarding this one job. The market was a disaster, and Jake was damaged goods. He might have excellent references, but no one would ever call them. They’d take one look at his employment gap alongside his recent stint of joblessness and write him off.

How had he gotten the interview in the first place? The HR lady must have been feeling generous. Maybe she was a lesbian and could sense the queer vibes wafting from his resume. Solidarity.

The trip back took two trains, and both of them were running behind schedule.

Jake sighed when he squeezed his way onto the first one.

Delays often meant crowded trains, and crowded trains meant humiliation.

New York was a diverse city, but one thing united the citizens.

People from all walks of life gave him the stink eye when he tried to squeeze his large body into the throng.

He’d gained a good amount of weight. Antidepressants would do that to you, and he’d never been thin to begin with.

The medications had also saved him, so he couldn’t be too annoyed about it.

But it made him the target of all the skinny New Yorkers’ ire.

The grumbling and theatrical sighing he heard when boarding was ridiculous.

Chubby people had the right to ride the train, too.

Not that he’d complain about it. Instead, he wedged himself between an electric bike and an oversized piece of rolling luggage and held on to the pole.

An hour later, he exited the subway station a total mess.

His lower back was damp with sweat, and his deodorant was struggling to do its job.

All he wanted was to get home and collapse on the bed.

New York apartments were tiny, but the one thing Phil and he had splurged on was a big queen-sized bed with an expensive, supportive mattress.

He could forget most indignities after a decent night’s sleep.

Dragging his ass up the four flights of stairs, Jake was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the entryway to their flat. He paused outside the door to catch his breath, his hand pushing against the dimpled plaster for leverage as he bent over at the waist.

Jake wasn’t in any mood to hear Phil’s admonitions about how regular exercise would help his mental health and make it easier to get up the stairs.

He knew that already, but when it took every ounce of energy he had to force himself out of bed, a trip to the gym wasn’t in the cards.

Besides, wasn’t the mile and a half he’d walked going to and from the job interview enough of a workout for the day?

When his heart rate had slowed a bit, he swung open the door, hoping that Phil had at least started on dinner.

There wasn’t a meal waiting for Jake. There wasn’t a boyfriend waiting for Jake. There wasn’t even furniture waiting for Jake.

It was all gone.

For a long moment, Jake just stood there, frozen a few steps into the narrow galley kitchen. His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing.

The coffeemaker was missing. So were the canisters and spices. So were the couch and television in the living room just beyond. As well as all the chairs. Every piece of furniture. The acrid smell of lemon-scented surface cleaner filled the air.

The only thing left was a single piece of white paper, sitting ignobly on the beige laminate countertop.

Jake stumbled toward it, his feet leaden. He leaned over the counter. There were words on the paper, that was for certain, but he’d lost the ability to read.

He stared at the note, reminding himself to breathe. Some part of him, some primal instinct of self-preservation at the back of his brain, understood what this letter meant, but it wasn’t sharing with the class. So, against his better interests, he forced his eyes to focus.

Jake,

I’m leaving and I’ve taken my stuff. You need someone who can take care of you. Maybe a sugar daddy who’s also a psychiatrist or something. I can’t support you while you keep screwing up.

I assume you didn’t get the job, but if you did, give me a call and we’ll talk.

Phil

That asshole.

Jake glanced around the kitchen. Had Phil taken everything?

Technically, it was all his. When they’d moved in together, they’d decided that, since Phil’s furniture and kitchenware were nicer, Jake would get rid of his old ones.

But didn’t that mean that what they had was community property? He shouldn’t end up with nothing.

The betrayal cut deeper by the second. Had Phil left anything for him?

Jake would be fine.

He opened one of the kitchen drawers. Empty. All the drawers were empty. He swung open a cupboard to find…nothing. The bastard had taken the food! Sure, Phil had paid the last few times they’d gotten groceries, but he couldn’t leave Jake a few packages of oatmeal or something?

As he opened the refrigerator door, Jake let out a sob. Phil had cleaned it out. The fucker had even snatched the damned condiments.

Jake would be okay. He’d be fine.