I look up at him innocently. “Nothing. I’ll get it done, sir,” I say, trying to roll my chair under my desk and hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.
He takes the chair and whirls it around so I’m facing him. He’s so small that I’m not much shorter than he is, sitting down in my task chair, but he must love the power of putting me in this position. “Your attitude is unacceptable, Katherine.”
The way he says my name only grates on me. Or maybe it’s just the name. It’s too formal, too professional, too . . . not me. Once again, Dax was right.
“Katie,” I murmur, my eyes drifting to the never-ending pile of work laid out upon my desk.
“What?” he snaps. “Enunciate when you speak. None of this mumbling like a child. Has no one taught you proper elocution before?”
“My name is Katie.” I stand up so that in my heels, I’m towering over him. I stare him down so that he has no choice to take a step backwards. Then I say, “You want me to enunciate properly? THIS. JOB. IS. BULLSHIT,” I shout into his face, making his hair blow back from his face and so loud people in other offices can hear.
Heads swing towards me. Fowler is staring at me too, ready to spit out something about my being out of a job, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. I shove the offending brief into his arms and say, “Find another person to treat like garbage. I’m done here.”
I pull my badge from the lapel of my dress and toss it so that it hits him square in the forehead. He grabs it, blubbering, and says, “You can forget ever getting a job with a decent law firm in this city, state, or country. This is a smaller industry than you might imagine.”
“If you think that you have any power over my life or career from this point forward, you must be as delusional as you are short and rude,” I sneer at him. I gather my things, then I stalk into his office, grabbing a sesame bagel for good measure.
Every eye is on me as I come out, holding it in front of me in victory, like a trophy. “And another thing,” I shout at him. “You never fucking paid me for the Thai food, asshole.”
The last thing I see is his bewildered expression before I hurry out of the building and into the street.
The second I do, it’s like a massive burden slides off my shoulders and into the gutter. The sun is shining, and birds are singing overhead, as if approving of my latest act of insanity.
By the time I get back to my apartment, my stomach is full of bagel and I’m determined. I kick off my shoes and my silk dress and throw them in the trash. Then I change into my cut-off jean shorts and tank top, take my still-unpacked duffel bag, and shove it into the back of my VW.
I drive straight through, without stopping except for a little rush hour traffic in Worcester. By the time I get into Friesville, the sun is setting. Since Dax has always put in 12-hour workdays, I head straight for the garage. I’m surprised not to see his Mustang parked out front. I pull up and see Tom stepping out of the office, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Hey,” he grunts.
“Hi. Is Dax here?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head. “Nope. He called it a day early and went to Murphy’s.”
He called it a day early? The boy gets his lifeblood from cars. He doesn’t simply call it a day early for any reason.
I get back in my car and drive across town, my palms sweating when I pull into the Murphy’s parking lot and see his Mustang. I get out of the car and walk into the dim, dark cave of a bar.
It’s just as scary as I expected. The second I set foot inside, a bell overhead jingles, announcing my presence, and a dozen grizzled, time-worn faces much like Mr. Harding’s glare back at me. I suck in a breath, searching through the haze of cigarette smoke for Dax.
My heart does a little flip in my chest when I spot him, slumped over his beer, unruly hair tumbling into his face. I take a step in his direction, and freeze.
His broad shouldered body was hiding a slight girl with bleached blonde hair and a halter-top exposing the tattoos on her shoulders. The girl is hot, definitely, and just the type of girl someone like Dax ought to go for.
Someone who fits with him.
I steel myself and crane my neck around the bartender to get a better look. Upon second glance, they don’t fit. She’s hanging onto him for dear life and giggling at something he said, but his mouth is a straight line.
He isn’t enjoying himself. As much as he wants to think that this is his life, that screwing girls with no attachments makes him happy . . . it doesn’t.
And for the first time ever, I really know it. I know what makes him happy.