Chapter 63
Sixty-Three
T he shit hits the fan two weeks later when Don calls me into his office. He positions me in a chair in front of his imposing desk, assessing me with his pale eyes.
“Are you happy here, Jacqueline?”
“At the magazine?”
“Precisely.” His eyes remain fixed on me, reminding me of a lizard that never blinks.
Why not say it out loud, call him out on his bullshit? “I’m unhappy with the prejudicial way assignments are distributed among our section.”
He doesn’t react. “Be more specific.”
Like you don’t know . “Ever since a complaint was filed—full of false allegations—I’ve received significantly fewer features and top-tier stories.”
“Why do you assume the allegations are untrue?”
“Because I’ve done nothing to compromise my ethics, and previous assignments were awarded on merit.”
He clasps his hands. “Perhaps the quality of your writing deteriorated.”
Or maybe I just refused to fuck the boss. “That’s not the case, and Tyler can verify. Even these past months where I’ve been unjustly underutilized, I’ve given a hundred percent, like always.”
He straightens his fingers, leaving them threaded, and points them my direction. “How do you propose resolving it?”
“Let Tyler decide who deserves assignments based on merit.”
Don stands, walks to my side of the desk and sits against it, arms crossed. “You know you have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
His proximity sends a jolt of adrenaline through my bloodstream. The door’s closed, louver blinds drawn, and he’s standing close. Too fucking close, lording over me in a power play.
“Sure do. It’s called work ethic.” Or we could just go with ethics, something you’re severely lacking.
“About that.” He cocks his head, tapping a finger against his lips. “I heard something interesting about you through the grapevine.”
The way he hovers, casting me a glib smile, gives me a vivid flashback to the children’s tale about the spider with the fly. Tornado-alert panic rushes through my system.
“I hear you’re looking for another job.”
“Excuse me?” How could he know that?
He arches an eyebrow, and maybe I’m reading into it, but his expression turns victorious. “I see my comment hit the mark. You are searching for employment elsewhere?”
I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.
“Additionally, you’re consulting on a magazine for the president of a company you met working for us. There’s nothing ethical about that, sweetheart.”
My heart falls. Did Gus tell him this? Why? I grasp for something, anything to say. “You spoke with Mr. Hamilton?” Shit, now I’ve confirmed his suspicions.
“It matters not where this knowledge was derived. What matters is, one,” he extends his index finger, “you go behind my back to work with contacts you made through Virginia Now —at the very least, ignoring professional courtesy. And two,” he uncurls another finger, “sneaking around to secure employment elsewhere is just ungrateful. You’ve only worked here a year, and we’ve invested in you.
Now you’re complaining about assignments you deem insufficient instead of buckling down and being a team player. ”
My breathing labors, heart jackhammering against my ribcage as I stare at the ground. I’m about to get fired.
I’m barely cognizant of Don standing until he moves closer, his voice next to my ear. “But you and I both know how easy it would be for me to forgive these transgressions.” His hand grazes my breast through my blouse, and my body jerks so violently, I lift from the chair.
Was that an accident? It happened so fast. Yes? No? He’s still uncomfortably close but not touching me as I perch on the chair’s edge, ready to bolt.
“You can open your mouth, or you can collect your things.”
My gut roils. Is he saying what I think—? My lips part, my response stalling as I grapple for words.
“Good choice,” he says, unzipping his slacks in front of my face.
“N-no, no!” I push off the chair and his hand whips out, digging sharply into my shoulder and forcing me back down.
He looms over me, confidence written all over his face. When I thrash, he smiles, using both hands to restrain me. “I knew you’d be a tiger.”
Revulsion shudders through my body, my limbs trembling uncontrollably. I summon my voice. “I said no ,” I croak. Goddamn it!
“Be a good girl and stop fighting. This was inevitable,” he grits out .
He grips my throat, pressing against my windpipe, and fresh panic rises. With the other hand, he releases his engorged, veiny penis, cloaked in an angry purple hue.
My eyes widen as adrenaline and fear pump through my blood. Bile bucks from my stomach, and I dry heave, choking and sputtering.
His hand relaxes. “Don’t gag yet. You haven’t even had a taste.” He lets out a low chuckle, lines up in front of my face, and yanks my neck toward that disgusting violet monstrosity.
I reel back, my neck springing loose from his grasp and nearly hyperextending.
He scrambles to straddle me, trying to bridge the gap.
I rally every ounce of courage and strength to launch one leg skyward, kneeing him in the groin.
The squish of his genitals is unmistakable.
He falls back against the desk with a strangled groan.
“You bitch!” he hisses.
I clamber to my feet, dodging his flailing arm. Don staggers in my direction. Clenching my fist like Butch taught me, I assume the stance I’ve practiced for months and punch his jaw as hard as fucking possible.
Don reels, eyes flying wide, and drops to his knees.
My hand stings like hell and I debate whether to throw another. “Fuck you, you predatory asshole.” I turn on my heel and reach for the door.
“You’re fired,” he rasps. “And you’re through in this industry. Should’ve played ball, you stupid cunt.”
“You’re pathetic.” With a final backward glance, I rip open the door with enough force it nearly flies off the hinges.
Adrenaline rampages through me as I stalk past the empty desk where Don’s secretary greeted me fifteen minutes ago. My eyes dart like a wild animal as I continue down the hall and into the sea of cubicles, the roaring in my ears eclipsing thought. Focus. I need to focus.
Clean out your office.
I chuck essentials from my desk and shelves into a canvas bag. Souvenirs from companies I’ve profiled. A paperweight Emmy made me. My movements are jerky, my thoughts careening all over the place.
Leave the building.
I stride to the elevators, avoiding curious stares, desperate to flee.
I have no idea what Don’s capable of anymore.
Will he sic security on me after spewing lies?
There were no witnesses. The only potential for that would be his secretary—and she was conveniently, conspicuously absent.
The elevator arrives, and I scurry inside, depressing the button for the garage a dozen times until the doors close, fervently hoping no one else gets on.
Get to your car.
Full-body trembling hits once I’m in my Toyota, but I manage to start the ignition, reverse out of my parking spot, and screech out of the garage…
for the last time. I’ve been fired . The absolute nerve of that fucking asshole.
Fresh anger blazes a path from head to toe.
I floor the gas, racing recklessly through the streets.
Butch.
He’s the only person in the world I want. Need . I veer away from my apartment and head south.
“FUUUUUCK!” I scream, pummeling the padded seat next to me. My hand vibrates, stinging from that punch. I’ll take pain in exchange for the satisfaction of hitting Don—and hurting him—any day of the year. I hope I bruised his dick.
What a motherfucker. Loser. Douchefuckhole.
And he’s going to get away with it. How many times has he already? How is this right?
It’s egregious. Unfair. It must be illegal.
But what recourse do I have…really? It’s my word against his again .
If anything, he might press charges. For assault?
Or is it battery? Both? Technically that may be accurate, but what of his despicable actions?
Attempted forced oral, strangulation, coercion, manipulation. What’s considered rape ?
A wave of revulsion ripples through me, what could have happened…what nearly transgressed. Watch me go to jail and Don live to fuck another employee. I bark out a sarcastic laugh. What a fucking joke.
It’s not like I want my job back. I can’t— won’t —work there ever again. And how did he know?—
It doesn’t fucking matter. Can he blackball me industry wide…is that even possible? Is he going to ruin my life?
With a sinking realization, I start to understand I blew it.
I should have screamed at the top of my lungs, not slunk away out of fear just because Don ordered me to leave.
Now he can spin this story any way he wants.
He’s just the type to lie his ass off…say I’m crazy, or a nightmare to work with, or that I came onto him and then went ballistic when he refused my advances.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck!”
As the hopelessness of my situation invades, my fury and ire recede liked scared rodents.
A sob catches in my throat…followed by a deluge of tears.
The desperate, alien sound of my keening fills the car and my chest heaves as hyperventilation nears.
I steer through the blur coating my eyes and soul, unsure how to deal with it all.
Butch.
I cling to that name, and the waterfall emanating from my eyes slows. Pull yourself together. He will help me sort this out. He loves me…and he’s there for me.
But I haven’t said one word about my problems with Don, and I have no idea if Butch will understand my reasons why.