Arrogant Devil(11)
I’m truly on my own.
Everything in my possession sits in my purse on the floor of this dwelling.
I have nine wrinkled dollars.
I have a new boss who already thinks the worst of me.
I have a job that will put my face near men’s toilets every day.
I have a sad little apartment—okay, NO, a sad little shanty shack with mice and spiders and a blanket with an odious yellow stain. At first I was going to overlook it, but it’s like trying to overlook the damn sun.
Before I realize it, I’m marching back across the yard, toward the farmhouse. I’m sure Jack is already long gone, off taming wild mustangs or cutting cattle rustlers off at the pass, but I will sit outside his office and wait for him to return. I will demand that he see reason. Surely he’s playfully hazing me and doesn’t actually expect me to stay in that shack.
I yank open the back door of the house and immediately go on guard, tiptoeing with my shoulders up near my ears. He could be around any corner, sitting in any of the rooms I pass on my way upstairs, but the house is quiet and empty. My stealth is wasted.
On my second journey through, I discover that the farmhouse is extremely nice, new construction. There are hardwood floors, a pleasant pale gray color on the walls, and a lot of family photos and knickknacks. Somehow, it doesn’t feel cluttered. It’s warm and inviting—or at least it would be if there wasn’t a soulless monster lurking somewhere inside.
I hear his voice behind his office door and am grateful I won’t have to march all over the property hunting him down.
I shrug, roll out my neck, and prepare myself. Quickly, I run through my argument so I have all my points in order. I’ll tell him the shack is an employee health hazard and point out that his house is huge—there have got to be at least six bedrooms. I passed a game room, living room, and breakfast nook, and I will happily sleep on the ground in any one of them. I’m not picky.
I know I have a winning defense, but I still can’t work up the courage to knock on his door. My heart is beating so fast, no rhythm, just quick pulses. I’ve turned into a hummingbird. Is this what desperation feels like? It’s wild, like a drug.
I try to remember why I’m here, why I left Andrew in the first place. For the last five years, I was the perfect wife. I studied the news and stayed abreast of current events. I was polite and witty and funny, and when necessary, I was demure and thoughtful. I ate well-portioned meals and worked out every day, lathered myself in night creams and face masks and consequently have the skin and the ass of an eighteen-year-old, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
My mental pep talk works—I’m out for blood. I pound on his office door with the side of my fist then let myself in. Poor Jack. He doesn’t know what hit him. If he’d caught me last week, I would have been gentle and meek. I would have used a sweet tone, an “on-the-phone” voice when I spoke with him, just like Andrew preferred. Now, he gets the unfiltered version, the angry, wild hellion I’ve caged in for too long. I wouldn’t be surprised to find streaks of black war paint under my eyes.
“By all means, barge in whenever you please.”
His words drip with sarcasm. It’s clear he’s angry about the interruption as he glares at me from behind his desk. That look and his annoyed tone shift my perspective, and I remember I don’t feel bad he’s getting the unfiltered version. No, he started this mess by being rude to me: calling me a princess, dragging me away from the all-hands meeting, and then tossing me into that glorified lean-to that gives other respectable shacks a bad name. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat—no doubt the result of Helen’s handiwork—and instead of giving me the benefit of the doubt, he’s done nothing but doubt my benefits. He’s been nothing but brusque and unwelcoming, so no, NO POOR JACK.
He’s still wearing that backward baseball hat, and he looks like the cool jock from high school all grown up. I try not to be intimidated. I give him what I can only hope is a serious, no-nonsense glare. My hands go to my hips. My elbows bow out. It’s a power pose, it’s Wonder Woman, and I’m nailing it.
“I’d like to propose an alternate living arrangement.” His brown eyes try to sear through me. Still, I continue. “I passed a bunch of decent rooms on my way up here. There’s a bedroom down the hall—”
“None of the rooms in this house are available to you. I’m not running a bed and breakfast.”
Obviously. If he were, it would be called Bad Manners Manor, and the one-star Yelp reviews would read, Surly owner scares would-be guests away.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to rent a better place after your first paycheck—if you make it that long.”
“Fine. When exactly is payday?”
He leans back in his chair and rubs the scruff along his jaw. “Payroll went out last Friday, so you’ll get your first paycheck two weeks from now, just like everyone else.”
Two weeks? I won’t last that long. I have one pair of underwear.
“I could really use an advance.”
I say this very calmly, like I’ve seen in movies, and I think he will respond in turn. He doesn’t.
“That’s too bad.”
“Signing bonus?”
He really laughs at that, cracks up like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever encountered. His laughter makes me feel a little sick, and my hands form little fists by my sides. If we were closer, I think I’d swing and try to give him a black eye, just to see how it’d feel. He’s at least twice my size, but I’m scrappy. He’d never see it coming.