I flip on my work computer and wait for it to boot up as I eye the stack in front of me. The sheet of paper on top is a photocopy of a receipt for a turkey sandwich from two years ago. I can’t understand why Jim would have kept this, much less photocopied it, but it’s not really my call. I set it aside and scribble RECEIPTS on a sticky note, for later reference.
The old desktop computer is up. I spend a good half an hour poking around to see what kind of software Jim has installed on this thing. He has small business accounting software, a spreadsheet program, and some kind of part-ordering program. The first thing I do is find the operation manuals for the programs online and save copies to the hard drive just in case I need them in the future. The rest of my morning is spent sorting through the paperwork. I find more receipts for luncheon items and even a few for beer runs. There are, maybe, five receipts that relate directly to the business in here.
My head pounds in confusion. Surely there must be a good reason Jim has all of these food receipts that date back some more than three years. I mean, how else do you explain stacks and stacks of photocopied receipts for everything from fast food to condoms? After finding that one, I’m just glad I didn’t find one for an escort service. Not that the guys have to pay for it—they might—I just have no idea what to expect anymore. Giving up for the time being, I rest my head on my desk and let the world slip away.
THERE’S DROOL POOLING in the corner of my mouth, and my heart’s beating a million miles an hour. It takes me a moment to figure out what’s going on. Last I remember, I was laying my head down to try to clear my thoughts. A chorus of laughter sounds from around me. Picking my head up quickly, I try to wipe the drool away as inconspicuously as possible, but I’ve been caught.
Duke and Ian laugh heartedly from across my desk. It’s the first time I’ve seen Duke since the fourth of July. That lingering residue of shame is suddenly thick on my skin once again. Unable to meet his eyes, I focus on Ian.
“What do you guys want?” I pull myself up straight in my chair and wait for a response.
“Just saying ‘hi’ is all,” Duke says. Out of habit, I look at the person who’s speaking to me. Duke’s blue eyes betray his smiling face and relaxed demeanor with their intensity. I don’t want to notice this, but I can’t help it. No matter how difficult the answer, but I can’t stop myself from wondering why. Why did he take me to that field, and why did he use me, and then just leave me there?
“You’ve said it. Now I’ve got work to do.” I look away from both of them to re-straighten the stacks on my desk. Ian leaves without a single word, but Duke remains. Now that we’re without an audience, I feel on slightly better footing.
“What do you want?” I snap. Duke’s blue eyes bore into mine. He takes long strides to reach me, and, when he does, I’m cornered. Standing up from my seat, I pull back into the wall behind me. Invading my personal space, he places his hand on my hip, fingers splayed across my backside, just like the other night.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper. He doesn’t retreat. Instead, he moves in closer, blocking everything else from my line of sight. All I can see and smell is him. But everything about him reminds me of Ryan, and that’s painful. Because while Duke may be a dirt bag, Ryan’s a bastard, but the bastard doesn’t want me. Neither is any better than the other, but at least I don’t feel as inconsequential with Duke as I do with Ryan. He may have left me in that field, but at least he saved the degradation for afterward, which is more than I can say for Ryan.
“You like it when I touch you, Princess,” he breathes into my ear. Pulling back to meet my eyes, he licks his lips. With all my might—which isn’t much—I shove back on his chest. At that exact moment, the office door opens and there stands Ryan. He’s got a few days’ worth stubble on his chin, a dirty, wrinkled white shirt on under his leather best, and once again, black jeans with black boots.
“Give us a minute,” he grinds out. For a split second, I pray he’s talking to me. I’d gladly leave right now if only I had the option. But it’s Duke who removes his hand from my hip and steps away, leaving me in an even less comfortable situation than I was in when Ian left me alone with him.
“Are you fucking him?” Ryan asks. He’s in a mood where he apparently can’t be bothered with pleasantries, not that he and I have anything pleasant to say to one another. All I really want to tell him is to go choke on a sock, but since I know I don’t have the courage to do that, I lift my chin, refusing to answer.
“I said,” he repeats, moving closer. “Are you fucking him?” He stops at my desk and, instead of coming around, cornering me like Duke did, he places his hands atop the Formica surface and leans in. “Well?”