The Hating Game(28)

“You and him? It’s getting a little pathetic.” Joshua is testy.

The word cuts me deep. Pathetic. He’s called me that before. We’ve circuited back neatly to the same place we’re most comfortable. I had wondered how things would play out after the kiss, after the tears, the wounded sadness in his eyes. The apology. The silence that has stretched through each day since.

According to Joshua, we’re back to hate, and I can’t do it much longer. I can’t keep it going. It’s taking too much out of me. What was once as easy as breathing is now an uphill battle. I’m so tired I’m aching.

“Sure. I’m pathetic.” I watch the road ahead, and the Staring Game is going on, one-sided. I ignore him. No one can see us except the driver, if she chose to look, but she’s got traffic to contend with.

“Shortcake.”

I ignore him.

“Shortcake.”

“I do not know anyone by that name.”

“Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing.

“HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.

“Are your roses still alive?”

Is there anything this man does not know? I try to not notice that our elbows are touching a little. Elbows are not erogenous. At least, I didn’t think they were.

“Who’d you hear about them from?”

“Well, everyone knows Danny Fletcher is your dream man. Roses and whatnot. Candlelit lunches for two in the work kitchen.” He looks at my lips, and I lick them. He looks at my bra strap, and my knees press together.

“Who’s your source?”

His eyes are getting darker. The pupil is eating the blue, and I think of his elevator eyes. Murderous eyes. Passionate eyes. Crazy-person eyes.

“Inside source? Like magazines have for celebrities? Are you a celebrity, Lucinda?”

“I don’t know how you know so much.”

“I’m perceptive. I know everything.”

“You know I have roses in my bedroom because of what, body language? Mind reading? You’re so full of shit. You probably look through my window with a long-range telescope.”

“Maybe I have the apartment opposite yours.”

“You wish you did, you creep.” I’m beginning to feel the first prickles of sweat on my spine. If he did, I’d probably be the one sitting in the dark with binoculars.

“Well? Are they?”

“They wilted. I had to toss them out this morning.”

His hand slides down my arm, slowly, softly, pressing the goose bumps flat. His hand is so cold I glance up at his face. His face is set to a default frown.

“You’re pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but that’s common knowledge.” I’m sarcastic as I pull away. The bus jolts around a corner and a little wave of dizziness blurs my vision and nausea turns my stomach over. I’m not getting sick. My body is probably reacting to the stress of the job application process, the kiss, and the murder-glint in Joshua’s eyes.

“Looking forward to being annihilated?”

I manage the best retort I can.

“I’m going to destroy you. The Hating Game. You versus me. It’s the only way this can possibly end.”

“Right,” Joshua barks abruptly, standing up and kneeling in his seat to address our colleagues. They all reluctantly stop talking, and I sense mutiny is afoot.

I kneel up too, and wave at everyone. They all smile. Good little cop, universally despised cop. I notice the Gamins are sitting to the left, the Bexleys to the right.

“There will be a total of six challenges today,” Joshua begins.

“Seven if you include him,” I add and get some cheap laughs. He scowls sideways at me.

“Six teams of four. Each challenge you’ll be in a different group. The aim is to get to know your colleagues in an outdoor, active environment. As teams you’ll come up with strategies to get the flag first.”

There are blank faces, and he sighs heavily. “Seriously? No one here has ever done paintball? You will be trying to get the flag before the opposing team. Main rule is no paintballing the flag marshals. Or each other’s faces, or groins.”

Darn it, that’s all I’ve been dreaming about.

“Marion, Tim, Fiona, Carey, you are flag marshals. You are assessing the team participation from the vantage point beside the flag. Scoring people, if you will.”

I’m slightly impressed. I was a bit concerned imagining those four heaving their heavy, pain-riddled, aging bodies across a paintball course. Carey and Marion nod to each other self-importantly as Joshua passes back four clipboards. I wish he’d discussed all of this with me. He’s in complete control and I don’t like it.

“After we finish, we will convene up on the deck for coffee and to discuss what we’ve learned about each other today.” He slithers back down into his seat.

“Any questions?” I look around and a few hands are raised.

“Do we get overalls?”

Joshua says something under his breath that sounds like fucking morons. I’ll field this one.