Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
THEO
Fuck, my head is pounding. Whose stupid idea was it to go out drinking on a school night?
Oh wait. Mine.
I’d face palm myself, but I don’t think my head can take it. Sitting up just enough, I reach for the Advil on the side table, then swallow them down with a glass of water.
Who left that here?
I’m gonna go with James. He’s such a sweetie. Insert heart eyes.
Ooooh, I’m sappy this morning.
I wipe a tear that’s collected from my lash line and sniffle. Alcohol always makes me emotional the next day. I really don’t know why I do it to myself.
Dragging my ass out of bed is a chore, but the shrill of my damn alarm tells me I really need to get up.
I very rarely take a sick day, but with the emotions from Blake being back threatening to swallow me, I’m really fucking tempted to call in.
Then I remember how much joy it brings me to ruin her day and career with my gifts.
I’m pretty sure she’s due for her next one, anyway.
Turning the shower on, I wash quickly, the steam waking me up to something a little bit more human.
Dressing in my power suit perks me up even more.
I have different suits depending on my mood, because honestly, I need the extra boost when I’m mentally feeling like shit.
I’d surmise it’s also what women do when they don’t feel great—hair, nails, new outfit.
The cut of this one fits me like a glove, tailored to my muscular frame and large build.
At 6’4”, I’m a force to be reckoned with on a good day.
My long blond hair sits on my shoulders, though nine times out of ten it ends up being put in a man bun because I can’t be fucked to have it in my face, and I’ve been told my piercing blue eyes are what draw people in.
One particularly drunk encounter told me they look like the sea on a summer's day, the sun reflecting off the water and making it brighter. I’ve never forgotten that.
Insert fake sniffles and a fake tear.
I walk over to the sink and quickly trim my beard.
It’s gotten longer than I’d like, but it's still enough to grab hold of.
Once, I tried shaving it off and going bare, but it ended up being the biggest mistake of my life—next to Blake, of course—because I looked ridiculous.
Some men were born to be clean-shaven, and some men were born to have a beard. I am that man.
Feeling better about myself, I head into the kitchen and take my medication—Sertraline for mood, anxiety, and depression.
Mike swears therapy’s essential for someone with BPD.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it someday.
But not today. Today I’m going to take my meds like the good boy I am and try to keep things less chaotic.
The pills help more than people realize. If they think I’m intense now… well, they haven’t seen me off them. And I’d rather not go there—I’m already enough to handle.
Swallowing them back with the rest of my water, I make a cup of coffee to go and head into the office.
“Theo!” Frank barks as soon as I walk off the elevator. “My office now.”
Oh shit. I’m in trouble.
“Coming,” I reply, trying not to let his sour mood affect me. I hate it when people are mad at me; it makes me feel really uncomfortable.
Walking into his office and acting as if a lecture doesn’t fill me with dread, I sit in the chair opposite him and cross my right leg over my left before relaxing back.
“Everything okay, Franky baby?” I ask, swallowing back the bile creeping up from the leftover alcohol in my stomach.
“No, everything is not okay, Theo. You’re acting like a fucking child, and Michael’s not impressed,” he shouts, the vein in his forehead popping out.
“Sort your shit out. You’re supposed to be teaching, not playing silly pranks.
Get it together before you lose your promotion,” he rages, aiming a finger in my direction.
Hmm, maybe I’ve been going a bit too hard on Blake? I’ll need to be sneakier about it.
“I apologize, Frank,” I reply, giving him my best puppy dog eyes. “I was just welcoming the new girl. I didn’t think she’d bite back like she has. I’ll stop.”
Like fuck I will.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me, and I try not to squirm under his gaze. For an old dude, he can be pretty scary when he wants to be. “How’s Blake getting on? Other than the games you two keep playing with each other?” He gives me a look of derision, his lips pursed.
Guess he doesn’t find this half as funny as I do.
I rub my thumb across my bottom lip, wondering what to tell him. I could go with the truth—she’s been working day and night and has probably done more work than I have. Or I could lie and tell him she’s not been pulling her weight, and she needs to be fired.
“She’s… okay,” I say with a shrug. “I’m not seeing what everyone else sees, but it’s still early days. Hopefully she picks up soon, otherwise I might have to cut her loose.”
I went in the middle. Sue me.
“Hmm. Okay. Well, keep me updated. I’ve heard nothing but good things about her, which is why I gave her the position. Maybe I was wrong?”
“Maybe,” I agree, trying not to let my grin out.
I love it when a plan comes together.
“What’s happening with this contact of yours, and how does it fit in with Harper?” he asks as he sits down.
“I have a meeting with them this week to set up the details. I don’t want to give anything away just yet.
The severity of the situation is paramount, and I don’t want anything fucking this up,” I explain, a cold bite to my tone.
“I’ll make sure she’s safe and watched at all times. You have my word.”
Frank nods. “Make sure you do. I want that fucker behind bars where he belongs.”
“Same.”
“Starlight Children’s Charity is holding a gala this weekend,” he continues. His abrupt change in conversation gives me whiplash, but I already know about the gala.
“I know. I’m going as a guest of James Smith.”
He nods. “The senator will be there and will be expecting an update,” Frank says, steepling his fingers. “Take Blake with you and introduce her to a few people. See if you can get her some potential clients.”
Over my dead body.
“No problem,” I agree, smiling yet dying on the inside at knowing I have to spend even more time with her.
I leave Frank’s office, trying to come up with a way to get out of having to take Blake to the gala. I suppose I could forget to tell her… my memory is terrible these days.
Rounding the corner of the office, I come across the bane of my existence standing with Aimee. My heart pinches in my chest as I watch Blake laugh at something she said, how she throws her head back and gives a throaty laugh.
I fucking hate her and how she makes me feel.
“Aimee,” I bark. Her head swings around to face me, her eyes wide at my tone. “I need some paperwork filed.”
She waves a hand in the air. “I’ll get to it in a minute.”
“Now, Aimee,” I grit out, hands clenching at my sides.
Fuck me sideways, I’m being a dickhead right now.
I know that, but the alcohol is making me more emotional than usual.
I mean, I can barely cope on a good day, and today?
I’m not at my best, especially after being hauled into Frank’s office.
The guilt hits me when Aimee’s eyes narrow, but I can’t take it back.
Blake has the ability to turn me inside out, and I never know which fucking way is up or down.
Blake says something to Aimee that I don’t catch.
Aimee nods and walks off. I give Blake a scathing look, then head into my office, slamming the door behind me and throwing myself into my chair.
I swear that’s all I’m doing lately—slamming my office door.
It just feels too good not to when my anger is at a near-boiling point.
Mike says I’m like a pressure cooker—I take and I take until I can’t take it anymore, and then I explode, letting anyone and everyone have my wrath. It doesn’t usually end well for me or the person my ire is directed at. Then I feel like a cunt and spiral for weeks, thinking the person hates me.
Oh, the joys of mental health.
My door opening has my head jerking up. Blake stands in the doorway with the file from Aimee in her hand. She’s wearing her hair down today, the strands moving around her shoulders with each movement she makes. I watch her, almost like I’m in a trance, unable to take my eyes off her.
“I, uh, got these from Aimee,” she says quietly, placing them on my desk and brushing her hair behind her ear.
I nod, too afraid to speak. I’m worried if I open my mouth now, I’ll never be able to take the words back.
Blake shuffles on her feet, a move so unlike her. She’s fierce, she doesn’t back down, and she’s confident. But how she is now? This is not her.
“Can we start over, Theo? These games are getting tiresome.”
I say nothing. I keep my eyes trained on her, even though I’d rather be looking at anything else.
“You got me, I got you, can we just leave it at that?” she asks, her eyes pleading in ways her mouth won’t. “I need this job,” she whispers.
The physical ache in my stomach hurts just as much as if someone had punched me there, and trust me, I know what that feels like.
Why her words get to me so much, I’ll never know.
I hate this woman. I don’t want her here.
I don’t want her anywhere near me or the life I’ve created, but there’s still that part of me—the people pleaser—that can’t bear to see the look on her face—the one I caused.
My mind is a whirl of different scenarios, thoughts, and feelings, but I can’t figure them out. It’s all too much.
“Get out,” I growl.
Blake’s head shoots up, her gaze questioning as she takes me in. “Theo?”
“I said, get out.”
Make it stop. Fuck, make it stop.
Blake crosses her arms defensively. “Stop being so dramatic. I’m not going anywhere until you give me something to work with here. You have all the goddamn files for fuck’s sake,” she says, lashing out.
My chest aches, my head feels like it’s about to cave in from the weight of the pressure behind my eyes, and my hands begin to shake.
“Go find Aimee,” I sneer, but it comes out more of a whispered groan.
I can’t breathe.
“No, I won’t go find Aimee. I want you to start acting like a professional.”
My chest cracks open, and the pounding in my head makes everything muffled, tunnel vision homing in and threatening to take me out. With one last push, I roar, “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Blake huffs. “Jesus, you’re pathetic. You need help.”
After she leaves, I stand up from my chair and walk to the window. I look out over the city, my head a jumbled mess. The thoughts get louder, the compartments start to open, the flashbacks begin, and I crumble to the floor.
This. This is exactly why I hate her. Why I can’t have her near me. I can’t function. I can’t cope. She makes me feel, and I don’t know what the fuck to do.
Shakily pushing myself up off the floor, I wipe the few tears that have tracked down my face and sit at my desk. My top drawer stares at me, and I don’t think. I do.
Opening it up, I push everything frantically to the side until I find what I’m looking for.
Wrapping my hand around the item like it’s a warm, comforting blanket, I start breathing easier.
The pain in my chest lessens a fraction, and the boxes start being packed away neatly again. But it isn’t enough. It never is.
Walking to my en-suite, I open the door, then close it behind me and lean against it, my head falling back with a thud.
The scalpel feels like a heavy weight in my hand, but one that’s so familiar I welcome it.
I don’t even bother worrying about anyone else or the possibility of them finding me; I’m too far gone in my own mind to care.
I just need it to stop. I need it all to go away.
Unbuckling my slacks I slide them down over my hips just enough to get them where I need them.
Then I pull the skin on my left thigh taut and drag the scalpel across it.
I throw my head back, exhaling as the sting of the blade brings me back into focus.
The first glimpse of red bubbling to the surface dries my tears.
The second drag of the sharp edge across my skin has the pain in my chest easing to a more manageable level.
The third drag—this one deeper than the others—closes the boxes, shoving every memory, feeling, and thought back into them and sealing them away.
The fourth and final drag has me fully coming back to my senses.
Fuck!
What have I done?
Blood pours from the cuts, not enough to be life-threatening but enough to warrant a bandage.
I swipe a couple of tissues from the dispenser on the wall and mop at my leg, then throw the scalpel into the sink like it bit me and pull my pants up.
Blood starts to seep through the fabric, and I know I’m fucked.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, my hands shaking, and make a call. “I need you,” I murmur when the call connects.
“My office. Ten minutes,” Mike says, then hangs up.
Putting my phone back in my pocket, I stand up and leave, sending Aimee a text telling her I’m working from home for the rest of the day.