Chapter 26 Dickhead David #2
If I'd thought I couldn’t possibly be any more bothered than I was before David walked into my office, then I'd been sorely mistaken.
In my mind I'm opening my office window and shoving him out, watching him bounce off the concrete sidewalk five floors below us.
Maybe being mangled as he hits a parking meter.
I suck in a calming breath, giving him my most professional expression.
“Sarah and I are not dating, David. Now," I say lightly, leaning forward to tap a key on my keyboard, reawakening my monitor.
"I'm not one to tell people's business, but I do not think right now would be a good time to enquire into a relationship with her. However, you’ll have to bring that up with her,” I say, sliding my psychiatrist mask smoothly on.
He taps his fingers on the armrest and nods his head, looking almost as if he didn't hear a goddamn word I just said.
“Good, because I’ve been waiting patiently for that piece of shit she was with to be out of the picture. I knew it was coming, and so did everyone else in our circle, and I can’t wait to dig into that tender piece of flesh. If you know what I mean,” David says with a self-satisfied smile.
My eyes slide to his, but I stay silent.
His words piss me clean off. The audacity of this fucker to have said what he just did is astounding.
I've never been one for male locker talk or disrespecting women, but for him to have compared Sarah to a piece of meat makes me sick.
However, I continue to stare at him impassively.
I'm not into fraternizing with colleagues, either. And I don’t plan to start or even insinuate that it's ever okay for any of them to come into my office and just start spewing off at the mouth about bullshit.
I lean forward and place my elbows on my desk, pinning him with my eyes; his eyes widen at my expression.
Good, you stupid piece of shit.
“I beg your pardon? What the fuck did you just call Ms. Johnson?” I quip, my fingers twitching as I steeple them together.
David’s grin falls as he realizes his offense wasn’t going to be left unacknowledged. “Okay, my bad. I probably shouldn’t have said that…but come on, you’ve seen her. She’s got the body of a—”
Heat creeps up my neck. Thankfully, though, his musing is interrupted by a loud ding from my computer, drawing my attention away.
My eyes slowly slide to my monitor, seeing the woman in question replying to me.
I flick my eyes back to David dismissively, ready for him to get the fuck out before I hurt him.
Coldy, I respond, “If that’ll be all?”
I let the question hang in the air, the dismissal not going over David’s head.
David gets up rather cheekily and slaps his hands on his thighs. “Yes, that’s it. Good talk. Hey, do you happen to know her office address?” David asks, already halfway to my office door.
I scoff. Fuck no.
I can't.
Clenching my jaw so hard I feel a tooth protest painfully, I retort rather coldly, “You’ll have to ask my secretary, David.” I arch a brow, uncaring when his face falls slightly as he walks out the door. Dickhead.
I turn back to my monitor.
Clicking on the email, I soften and smile as I read it. She's just so disrespectful. In the best way, though.
Mr. Alexander,
I will not be singing without a mic, band, and backup singers. Sorry!
I am sorry you aren’t having a good day. We all wake up on the wrong side of the bed sometimes. A little word of advice? Do this breathing exercise if you have a few minutes in between clients. Tap your chest rhythmically while you do it.
I know you have to attend and speak to us worthless peasants at the conference, but maybe you can find some downtime, and the trip can just maybe feel like a partial vacation?
I’ve let Frick and Frack know to get Indian food. I think they’ll get a little of everything. But we always end up fighting over the butter chicken, so I guess it doesn’t really matter to be honest. We may be fighting to the death tonight. Bring some boxing gloves.
Sarah B.
The irony of her sports commentary makes my smile broaden upon seeing the boxing comment, along with the box-breathing exercise YouTube video she’d attached to the email.
Figuring it can't hurt, I pull it up and begin to breathe along with it, closing my eyes, and tapping my chest the way she’d instructed.
After five minutes I note that I'm feeling much better and not like I'm going to jump out of my skin.
Before I know it, it's a little after four, and I say my goodbye to Cathy and make my way to my car. Jerome and Christopher had already texted me, letting me know I have about a thirty-minute head start on Sarah’s arrival at the apartment complex, and they're waiting in the coffee shop for her.
Taking the extra time to stop at a nearby nail salon by her new place, I walk in, scrunching my nose up at the strong smell of acetone.
The older, sweet-looking nail tech at a table looks up and greets me.
“Hi, may I help you, sir? You here for a manicure?” she asks, glancing back down to the nails she’d been filing.
“Uh, no!” I huff sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck, suddenly feeling embarrassed and way out of my element. The few times Hannah had begged me to get a pedicure with her, and I balked at the idea. I clear my throat, feeling myself beginning to perspire.
Jesus, why is this nerve wracking?
I clear my throat hard again to rid myself of the frog that's suddenly lodged itself in there. “I just wanted to know how much it costs to have a manicure?”
“Just a manicure? Or with gel or tips?” she asks, looking at me over her purple glasses.
I tighten my lips, pulling up a mental image of Sarah’s nails. “Gel, I think?”
“Manicure is thirty-five dollars. Gel is fifty dollars, and acrylic is fifty-five dollars.” She frowns, obviously irritated.
I grin at her, hoping to soothe her irritation at me. “Okay, then. How much is a pedicure?”
“Regular is thirty-five dollars. The extra deluxe is sixty-five dollars. It comes with seaweed scrub and oil massage.”
I quickly do the mental math. “Could I pay for a years’ worth of gel manicures and the deluxe pedicure as a gift to a friend?”
I bite back a grin as the woman who was getting her nails done snaps her neck to look at me with her mouth gaped open. “What kinda friend is that? Lucky friend, can I be your friend, too?”
The nail tech cackles. “Close your mouth, Brittany, you look like a fish,” she admonishes her client, letting go of the sputtering woman’s hand and getting up to hobble over to the register, giving me a curious up and down assessment.
“You realize people get two sets a month right? Otherwise they grow out.” She eyes me once more over her thick-rimmed glasses.
Not really.
Not wanting to look stupid I smile, nodding and waiting as she rings everything up.
When she's done, I pull out my card, not even balking at the total. I graciously accept the gift receipt and hurry back into my car to head to her apartment, pleased with myself. I don’t want Sarah to have to compromise on her looks while she tries to figure out how to navigate this new way of life.
Speaking of new, I make the drive to her in silence, contemplating this new thing between us that has caught me so off guard. I wonder if she feels the way I do, slightly out of sorts at this thing we've just been thrown into haphazardly with no direction or guidance.
I know I can confidently say I'm so off-center I don't think I'll ever feel the same way again.