Dirty Legacy

1. Angie

ANGIE

Sorry, babe, but you fuck like you’re making a spreadsheet.

I stare at the text message as I click send on an email to the Big Boss.

I’ve read this same line over a dozen times in the last two days and I’m constantly moving from agonizing heartbreak to psychotic fury.

Years of my life vaporized in one casual message.

Right now, I’m in a downswing and feeling pathetic.

It can’t be true though, right? The sex thing, I mean.

I don’t have a ton of experience, since Brad was the first guy I ever slept with.

He seemed like he enjoyed it though, especially considering half the time he finished in like five minutes and left me to handle what was left of my own personal enjoyment.

I really tried with him. Like way more than he deserved, especially in retrospect.

But like with everything in my miserable life, I wasn’t good enough.

I open a folder hidden on my work computer titled Stock Photos (real clever, I know) and scroll through dozens of sexy pictures I took for him over our two-year relationship, photos which he was constantly begging me for.

It was annoying at first, but I started to like it.

I got good at lighting, outfits, poses, all that stuff.

I flip through a particularly hot series involving nothing but a fluffy vest and fake handcuffs.

I look goddamn good and he should’ve been worshipping at my feet every day and thanking the Almighty I ever let him touch me.

The rat bastard.

Bad at sex, my sweet ass.

“Angie, I can hear your teeth grinding again.”

I pop my head up and look over the wall of my cube.

My best friend Nadia’s watching me from her area, one station down, on the other side of an older guy named Rick (who exhales through his nose and puts on headphones trying to drown us out).

We both work in the accounting department of Washington Tow and Salvage, which isn’t glamorous, but the hours are good and I can’t complain about the pay.

“I’m fine. Honestly. Totally fine.” I click out of the sexy folder angrily, smashing the mouse with my finger. “Totally, absolutely, a hundred percent fine.”

“You’re abusing office equipment.”

“I’m fine!” I slam my hand down on the keyboard and rub my face with a groan. “Okay, sorry, you’re right.”

“That computer didn’t dump you for another woman. Pretty sure that was Brad the Douche.”

“Seriously, listen to this. It’s not you, but maybe it is a little bit. You organized my underwear drawer, you know what I mean? I love you, babe, but I want to live, and I don’t think I can if I stay with you. What the hell does that mean?!”

“Did you really organize his boxers?”

“He threw them in a bin under his bed! Honestly, Nadia, he can’t live with me? So he had to leave me for freaking Lavender Lane?”

“She does have an absolutely monstrous name.”

“Right! The most unserious human in the entire world!” Now I really am grinding my jaw thinking about Lavender.

I’ve known her since grade school. She was always a pretty, flighty, outgoing, adorable party girl, and she hasn’t changed one bit over the years.

The total opposite of me in every conceivable way.

Now we’re twenty-two and we’re supposed to be adults. Except Lavender spends all her time streaming on TikTok and trying to sell herbal supplements to men who only watch in the hopes they’ll see her hard nipples through her obscenely thin baby doll t-shirts.

And Brad would rather be with that?

“I’ve been saying it for a while.” Rick pops an earbud out, eyebrows knitted. “You should’ve dumped him a year ago.”

“Thanks for the insight, Rick,” I grumble and slump back down into my chair.

Where the heck did I go wrong?

Two years with Brad.

Two of my prime years, the best years of my life, the earliest of my early twenties, dumped down the drain for that loser.

Even Rick could see it, while I’ve been blind this whole time.

As I mutter angry curses to myself and plan elaborate revenge murder schemes, ideally live on Lavender’s stream, I get a text. I check my phone, halfway thinking it’s Brad the Douche, but instead my mom’s name pops up.

Dawn: hi hi can u bring home soap?

Me: Uh, sure, what kind of soap exactly?

Dawn: hahahaha great question!

Me: So what kind?

Dawn: laundry!! Stain remover!!!! For that cute romper you have? The one I stole hahahaha.

How is this my life? Another chore from my mother, who texts like a teenager but is in her late fifties, and of course she also ruined a piece of clothing I like.

It’s fine, I was going to the store anyway, since Dawn Bellandi is mentally and emotionally incapable of taking care of herself, but it does annoy me that she assumes I’ll do whatever she asks.

I’m frustrated about it for ten seconds before moving on because that’s our relationship.

She fucks things up and I clean the mess.

Always been that way, always will be.

The day drags past. I have about ten thousand spreadsheets that need updating (shut the hell up, brAD) and can’t seem to concentrate for more than a few seconds.

I keep looking at Lavender’s socials, which is extremely bad, and flipping through pictures of me and Brad, which is probably worse. The office starts to empty out.

“Still here?” Nadia posts up at the entrance to my cube, her bag slung over her shoulder.

She’s a few years older than me, started here at WashCo before I did, and is maybe the coolest person I’ve ever met.

Her blonde hair has pink highlights and she dresses like she’s going to Paris fashion week every day, even to a dump like this.

Today it’s combat boots with slacks and a vintage top that’s borderline inappropriate, but she pulls it off with a slubby cardigan.

“Unfortunately.” I spin around and lean back, clicking a pen manically. “You’re done already?”

“Yeah, you know, because I actually work during office hours. Come on, get out of here and have a drink with me.”

“I really can’t. I’m slammed.”

“You’re a data entry monkey. You move numbers from one chart to another.”

“Thank you for that.”

“It’s true. WashCo will be fine if you cut out and finish up tomorrow. You need some time off.”

She’s right. Nobody would notice or care if I left and wrapped all this up tomorrow.

But I can’t do it. I told my manager Robby I’d get this data off to the Big Boss and I still haven’t finished it all.

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

Nadia lets out a breath and shakes her head. “How are you going to meet your next man if you’re stuck in your cube all the time?”

“Tinder? Craigslist. Facebook Marketplace. I have options.”

“You’re sick but I love it. You sure you won’t change your mind?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Love you, girl. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.” Nadia gives me a tight smile before stomping off, her boots clomping on the carpet.

I watch her go. What’s the matter with me?

This data stuff isn’t even that important.

There’s no way the Big Boss even looks at whatever I send him.

I’m about the least important person in this place, while the Big Boss built WashCo with his bare hands, if the story is true.

I’m not sure how much I believe about the lore around here, but everyone swears Big Boss turned what was once a tiny little towing operation into one of the most lucrative in New York City, all before he turned thirty.

Now he’s an ancient thirty-five, thirteen years my senior, and he’s done more before forty than I’ll do in my entire life.

I could blame Brad, or my mother, or Lavender Lane, but the truth is I’m stuck in my rut, trapped wriggling around like a worm in my narrow patch of dirt, and I’ll never get free.

I push on for another twenty minutes when I get an email. I’m ready to ignore it until I notice the name. It’s a reply to a message I sent hours earlier, and it’s from him.

Connor Maguire.

The Big Boss himself.

He has never written me back before. In all the time I’ve been here, which isn’t really that long, but still, I’ve never gotten anything from his email address. Part of me thought it might be fake.

But there he is, waiting in my inbox. My heart skips a beat as I remember the last time I caught a glimpse of him.

Surprisingly tall, dark hair, thick brows, a shocking number of tattoos for a corporate CEO.

Obscenely handsome in a way that even makes Nadia stutter like a little girl when we talk about him.

I eagerly read the message, afraid I screwed up somehow, and my stomach sinks down to my knees.

Ms. Bellandi, please come meet me in my office. I know you’re still here.

Nothing else. No explanation. No signature. Just, he knows I’m here, and he wants me immediately.

What the hell is happening?

My mouth goes dry as I push myself from my desk.

How does Big Boss even know I haven’t left yet?

Probably because I’ve been sending him a steady stream of bullshit reports, the last one ten minutes ago.

My knees feel weak as I step into the hall and check both ways.

Everyone’s gone though; the office is desolate and quiet, almost creepy.

I wish Nadia were here. Heck, I’d even take Rick right about now.

I try not to breathe as I walk to the back corner of the building where Big Boss has his huge space.

I’ve seen the door, but never been past it.

Nobody has, not that I know of, at least. Big Boss comes in, does whatever he does, and leaves again, barely acknowledging the workers around him.

He’s more myth than man, a beautiful creature that haunts the halls.

Nadia says he’s shady. She also says Bigfoot is real and the Chupacabra is the Jersey Devil, so I don’t put much stock in that.

I try to get myself under control as I approach his door. This shouldn’t be happening. Is he going to fire me for being late with my reports? Did I make some horrible error bad enough that he’s going to toss my ass to the curb?

Wouldn’t that be perfect. Dumped and canned in the same week.