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Sparring Space
august
Fucking Christian DeVerre walks through the double doors all suave and casual, looking like he just came from a wet dream, GQ magazine cover or similar. Even though it's like thirty five degrees and fucking sweaty everywhere, he looks as cool as ever, in all senses of the word. The little, pretentious bastard; I'm betting he knows everyone's shitting their pants just looking at him breeze in like some miraculous godsent. As he walks onto the office floor, from a distance, he gives me that smile of his...god, the one I hate so much but always manages to send the ladies on the floor reeling. I have no idea why. A few passing guys in the department greet him, all smiles and friendly waves like he's Jesus fucking Christ.
Ha...Christian fucking Christ, I think, chuckling to myself amusedly. Then I frown and realize I'm more of a loser than I thought.
David from records nods at Christian, slaps his shoulder amicably as if they are best buds, saying, "Christian, my man, how's it going?" The god himself grins in that same fucking way that makes everybody all dote after him--I snap my pencil in frustration at my cubicle, gritting my teeth--and returns the pat on his colleague’s shoulder. "Not too bad, Dave. Thanks for asking."
Leslie, the old bat from accounting who snaps at me whenever she gets a chance, walks by with a pile of folders; she shoots a disgustingly and may I say, disturbingly sweet smile at Christian when he helps her to pick up some fallen files. She places a hand on his elbow and says, "Thank you, Mr. DeVerre. You are simply a darling. So good to see there are at least SOME gentlemen on this floor." If it were me, I wouldn’t even let her get close to me, let alone touch my elbow.
I don't even have to look up to know the bitch is directly looking at me on the emphasis, probably attempting to fry my brains up with her glare alone. God knows it's scary enough. I'm burning to flip her a rude hand gesture but I hold off by sticking my hand roughly into my pant pocket instead, fingering the change I have there. I know if I saw Leslie drop some folders and bent over, trying to pick them up, I'd be incredibly tempted to give her a swift push in the upturned ass with my foot. What? The lady is truly the devil...she treats everyone like shit, except it seems when Mr. Sparkling, Do No Wrong, Let Me Kiss Your Ass, DeVerre is around.
I look down at the papers on my desk, pretending to work studiously when he continues walking into the floor, hoping to God he doesn't notice me or talk to me. I hear a bunch more people greet him, flocking to him like flies on shit, and I can barely suppress my growl. What is so cool, so utterly amazing, so fucking fantastic about the guy? Okay, besides the obvious like the looks, brains, and charm? Exactly--nothing.
He stops at my cubicle and I pretend to not notice him since I'm so hard at work and all that.
"Hey, buddy," he says all friendly-like to me, and the fucking worse thing is that I know he's actually genuine, unlike myself, which makes me feel like shit. That's the difference between people like him and people like me, I guess. Christian DeVerre can be cheerful and happy and even genuine being that, while I sulk and sulk and brood in a dark corner somewhere and swear lots, then pretend to be amiable all the other times...like right now.
Christian cups a rather tanned hand that I can practically see gripping a tennis racket all manly and crap around my shoulder and I force out a greeting in response, my smile strained. "Oh Christian, hey!" I say rather brightly, hating myself to the nth level and wanting to kill myself right there. God, I'm so fake. Even I disgust myself sometimes...but hell, I work in a big backstabbing office, I'm entitled to a little fakeness. Especially where DeVerre is concerned, anyway.
He doesn't seem to notice anything though, since his smile just widens some more, like he's so fucking glad I'm his friend and I want to kill him because his goddamn perfect face and body are right there, blatantly one upping me in contrast. Why does the guy always insist on making me feel and look like absolute shit in front of everyone? He steals everything from me, I swear it; my projects, my old office room so that now I'm stuck in a claustrophobic cubicle, my old mug (Yeah, why the hell does he drink coffee from an ugly ceramic cup that used to be mine until he "accidentally" took it when I was moving out of the office room?? It's weird and doesn't make sense. He has like a billion nicer ones.), my promotions, my everything. His grand entry into the marketing department six months ago equated to my descent into low class office fodder, always under his fucking shadow.
"How're things going, Jackie?" Jack. J-A-C-K. Not Jackie. He always does that, call me Jackie. I think it makes me sound like his damn pet dog...or monkey. Either way, not cool. Maybe that's why he does it, fucking insufferable prick.
The top buttons on his dark blue dress shirt--which most unfortunately looks great on him--were casually undone, exposing the hint of what I knew simply had to be smooth, toned pecs. If this guy seriously acted like an asshole, I wouldn't think anything of hating him...I mean, those stupid pecs alone made me hate him, but the irritating thing is that he's as friendly as a saint and couldn't be nicer to me.
"Fine," I try not to grit out, but I smile to make up for it so he doesn't think I'm completely off my whack, but you know, of course I am.
"Rough time in the bullpen yesterday, huh?" he says so sympathetically, I just wish I could punch that goddamn face of a model. He looks at me some more and says he wished I got the project instead of him. His pale blue eyes are soft and intense, and I can tell he feels bad and is sincere, but it doesn't help things at all, or change things for the matter. The bottom line is he ass-whipped me in the department and now I'm forced to eat humble pie doing crap assignments...again. Fuck it.
What I want to say is, "Well, you should feel bad. Really bad, you job-stealing git." However, being the fake-ass that I am, I know I couldn't say that but instead reply with a strangled voice I try to cover up with a careless tone, "Oh that? No, it's no problem. There'll be more fish to fry." And I want to fry your balls!! I gripped a pen tightly underneath my desk, my knuckles turning white.
Christian then has the NERVE to put his hand on my head and RUFFLE my hair a bit like I were his dog. His eyes go soft and he says, "I'm certain something will fly your way soon, kid."
When he leaves to go to his office, adoring gazes following him from everywhere, I get up from chair and walk out of my stuffy cubicle, into the washroom. No one there--good. I go to flush all the toilets and with the loud noises of rumbling water , I scream in frustration and kick the tiled wall. I don't even care that my foot throbs because I am pissed like an Irishman is pissed, except, you know, in a different way.
He ruffles my hair, for one thing, then says in some condescending manner, "I'm certain something will fly your way soon, KID"?? Okay, KID? Granted he IS seven years older with him being thirty-one and me being twenty-four, but I have worked here two, whole fucking years longer than he has! Shouldn’t that count for any seniority whatsoever in this damned office? Why does no one care that he's new and this really is MY turf? (Well, supposed to be, anyway.)
Kid? Oh my god, I cannot believe the bastard. Fuck him.
To calm down, I run some ice cold water from the tap, loosen my dress shirt collar and tie, then splash some water on my face and neck. I look at myself in the mirror and see an angry black-haired man with light hazel eyes staring back, looking like a scruffy, wet dog pulled out from a lake after a failed swimming lesson.
"You know what? Fuck you too," I hiss at my own reflection before drying off and stomping back out.
september
I'm freezing my ass off at the stop, waiting for my bus to come already and take me to work. The wind's blowing my hair in all directions and I pull my coat closer to myself. Not that that helps. It starts drizzling and I lug my umbrella out, only to realize that three spokes are busted, therefore it only had half the surface area it had before. Great, it covers my face but not my ass. I might as well be holding an upturned, slightly webbed duck foot with all the rain protection I'm getting. Whatever, better than nothing.
As my bus finally rumbles onto the street, some little boy beside me tries to cross the road at THAT FUCKING TIME. I rush out, grabbing the back of his little plastic, slippery raincoat and roughly pull him back. The force of pulling him back lands us both in a big puddle I didn't notice before, soaked to bone except it's okay for him because he's dressed in a knee-length raincoat, thick, fire engine red rubber boots and this shiny, plastic hat. (Okay, who wears plastic hats??)
Me? What am I wearing? A suit. A goddamn suit. Not so much a suit now. More shit than suit.
The kid's mother pulls him up and darts me a nervous glance as she walks away with him. 'Kay, I just saved your boy's life, lady, now you look at me like I’m some hobo. Fuck, whatever, I'm over it. I get up, trying to dry myself off as efficiently as possible, but without much luck. I hop onto the bus and people stare at me like I'm The Thing That Came From Space. I seat myself in the back and silently brood all the way to office.
"Thank you for that, Michelle. Thank you." I walk to the elevators and don't have to wait long before one comes. I step in but I realize a little too late that a whole bunch of company execs and Christian DeVerre were already in there, discussing something quietly as we rode up. They look up at me and I wish I could shrink into the corner. I must look like crap. Wet crap, at that. I'm as embarrassed as hell. No one but Christian recognizes me and I turn away from them, facing the elevator door, cutting off whatever greeting Christian may say. They resume their conversation and I'm silent, as usual.
The silent, broody type, that's me.
Fucking great, I think, but for some reason, I kind of always knew that would happen. I was just waiting mostly. He's stolen everything from me already and it was only time before he actually went up ahead of me in position. I suppose he's graduated from just getting all the promising projects and assignments from right under my nose to this.
Well, con-fucking-gratulations, Mr. Christian DeVerre.
Someone must have had a camera close by at that time. Geez, maybe instead of snapping pictures, the guy (or girl) should have come and helped me with the kid instead.
I walk into the office that morning and people are clapping. I look around, slightly disorientated.
"Woohoo! It's Superman Jack!" one of my colleagues named Thomas calls out, holding up the day's front page newspaper like it’s a trophy. Oh, that. So, all that clapping is for me. Huh, imagine that.
People are patting me on the back as I walk to my cubicle and I smile faintly at them.
This is fucking weird.
Half way through the day, people are milling about, trying to look busy. I'm so focused on my computer, I don't notice Christian at my desk at first.
"Hey, Superman Jack." He's looking down at me, smiling and holding a cup of coffee. My cup, actually. Ex-cup, whatever.
"I heard about your promotion," I say with the most sincerity I could put into my voice, "congrats."
He doesn't say anything, just shrugs and brings the cup up to his lips, watching me all the while.
"Just don't work the little people too hard, okay?" I say jokingly but maybe he heard the edge of bitterness in my voice. If he did, well, good.
Christian looks at me with his pale blue eyes like he's going to say something, but I turn back to my computer screen. Maybe I shouldn't be dismissing my new boss like this, but fuck it.
"Okay," he replies like he doesn't know what else to say. Then he seems to gather himself again. "'Course not, Superman Jack."
He leaves and I follow him discretely with my eyes. I watch him go into his even bigger (than before) office. Surprisingly, he comes out a moment later with something in hand. He tapes up the front page of the newspaper with the picture of me on his office door, then goes back inside. I think he thinks it's funny or something. A joke. Superman Jack. Ha.
Me, I'm more a zero than a hero. Everyone knows that.
october
The office is abuzz because we've got a new department-wide project. We're designing the marketing strategy and the whole ad campaign for a new sprawling townhouse complex that is currently being built even as we speak on the far side, two cities over. Everyone's antsy, acting like we’ve never had a big client before, and Leslie keeps coming over here from accounting, accusing me of stealing her fucking stapler. I want to staple her mouth. Not just staple it so she could still talk though...staple it shut, more like.
The mailroom guy comes over and delivers everyone in the bullpen their packages and letters. I'm waiting for an important package from another smaller client we're dealing with (which no one cares about anymore since we got this whole townhouse shit going--whatever, I'm used to being unappreciated by now). The guy comes over and I see that he's new. His name tag says, "Gilfford," and I laugh, mistakenly reading it as "Clifford." I read those Clifford picture books when I was younger. Soooo amusing. That big red dog carting that girl around? Hilarious. I look at the tag again and realize my mistake. I'm sure the mail guy thinks I'm crazy now.
I look up from my chair and see that he is a little blond man probably in his forties with a slight pot belly. Then I feel kind of badly that this older guy is walking all around the place, delivering mail, while I’m sitting on my ass in front of the computer all day.
He shoots me a bit of a lecherous look and now I don’t feel so sorry for him. I’m thinking, tough shit.
"Ellis?" he says, checking a clipboard and some packages tucked under his sweaty armpit.
"Yep," I say in affirmative. I hold out my hands in "gimme gimme" fashion. He looks at me like a cat eyeing the little fishy in the bowl, but hands me the package nonetheless.
"Thanks, Clifford," I say before I remember it's not really Clifford.
The guy looks down at me with a frown but doesn't say anything and walks away.
When he turns, I immediately stick my index finger into my mouth and feign some major puking action. I notice Christian watching me through the window of his new office and stop, rather embarrassed. I’m sure he thinks I’m extremely mature now. I hope to god he doesn’t think of me as a “kid” still; twenty-somethings are not kids. Twenty-somethings are responsible adults.
At least that’s what I say to myself just before I do something stupid.
(I think I catch Christian smiling, but I can’t be sure.)
november
It's been two months since my whole kid-saving ordeal and I'm kinda pissed that the front page picture is still taped to Christian's door. I mean, it looked silly from the start but now it looks even more silly in my mind.
I knock on Christian's door...on my own face, actually. His office is always locked. Private person, maybe? Porno everything? Dead body in the drawer? Ugly sister hidden in the cupboard?
"Come in," is the reply.
"Hi Jackie," he says, not looking up from what he's writing, "What's up?" His office is clean, neat, and classy…just like him, I guess. I don’t see porno or dead bodies or ugly sisters anywhere. Maybe I'm disappointed.
I point to the cut out taped to his door but realizing he can't see it since he isn't looking, I reply, "My picture."
"What?" His head snaps up, surprised, his hand reaching for something on his desk, then once finding it, slamming it into his desk drawer. He says more calmly this time, "What picture?"
Frowning slightly at his strange actions, I point to what is up on his door.
"Oooh," Christian says, "that."
I shrug, wondering what else?
"This has been here for two months. I think Leslie will use it for dart practice soon if you don't take it off."
He laughs. "Okay, sure, whatever you want." He walks over and removes the newspaper page.
I turn to go but Christian asks, "So, how's work coming along?"
Great, I think, now my boss wants to talk to me about my work...not that I'm going to say anything bad because duh, he is the bossman.
"Fine."
"Maybe I should go over the Lawser client with you?"
"Oh no, that's not necessary. It's fine, good."
He shrugs, picking up his (my) mug to sip at some coffee. Seriously, I don’t understand why he insists on drinking from that cup. Doesn’t he know it’s mine? Or used to be, now that he stole it? "I'd like to know what's going on with some assignments in more detail. Keeps me up to date in the department." Christian quirks a dark eyebrow at me, smiling.
Right. No refusing him here. "Sure, of course, you're the boss." Unfortunately, I want to add, but the weird thing that creeps me out the most is that I can't even complain too much because he is (okay, I hate to say it, but it’s true) actually a really good boss. Most probably better than I would ever be…if I ever become anyone’s boss in the uber far-off future.
I walk out and the mailroom guy's there again, doing his usual thing.
"Hey, Clifford," I say as I'm walking by just to piss him off. I don’t even know why I do certain things I do; it’s like I’m asking for it. The guy sees me and purrs, “Jackkkk, you know it’s Gilfford.”
He already knows my name? Fuck me, that is gross.
“‘Frodo Baggins’? Okay, sure, I’ll call you that. Bye, Frodo,” I say, walking away, thinking it’s a great time to pick up some pepper spray after work. For the muggers, kidnappers, rapists and Gilffords of the world, y’know.
My black, military-like winter boots keep my feet warm as I stroll aimlessly about, thinking maybe I should start brainstorming about gifts for that annual Secret Santa thing at work going on next month. We have it every year and yeah, it’s stupid and corny and overrated, but whatever, I kind of like it. Just hope to god I don’t get fucking Leslie again this year.
Ten minutes of walking down Sparks Street and I already ran into two people from work, Thomas and Dave milling about with their wives at a department store. (I chuckle as I remember Dave arguing with his wife over which kind of socks to buy in bulk.) Sparks Street is a popular location, but then again, I didn’t expect to see Christian either with his girlfriend after that.
“Jackie,” he says, all surprised, as a tall brunette who almost rivals his height stands beside him with her purple-gloved hand in his, looking from him to me in question.
“Hey, Mr. DeVerre,” I say, thinking formalities are in order. Okay, so my “hey” is pretty casual, but whatever.
He stares at me some more like he can’t believe I’m here and I look back at him, my gaze rather quizzical. “You okay?”
“Oh,” he exclaims after seeming to return to this virtual dimension, “Yes, I’m fine. Yes.” I glance at the woman beside him and he quickens to introduce me to his girlfriend, Marcelle.
She looks so posh and elegant, I am so incredibly tempted to say, “Sup sup, Marcelle?” and strike a gansta pose, but I do think that would be horribly, horribly inappropriate. Yes, twenty-somethings are responsible adults, I remind myself mentally.
“Nice to meet you, Jackie,” she says, smiling, her teeth looking naturally perfect. She probably never had to have really painful braces for years as a gawky teenager like me, complete with the dreaded headgear and elastics. God, was I picked on then. I doubt she was ever a “gawky teenager” at all. She looks like she was born perfect. Kinda like Christian.
I wonder how long they’ve dated. They certainly match and compliment each other in terms of looks; his dark blonde hair and light blue eyes with her light blonde tresses and green eyes.
“It’s really just Jack,” I reply, not knowing why I am saying that at all. Maybe because it simply sounds strange to my ears to have some else call me Jackie besides Christian; no one else’s ever done it before, after all, not even my family. (Even though I still think Jackie makes me sound like a pet monkey.)
“Why don’t we three go grab some drinks?” Marcelle suggests, her breath coming out in little puffs.
“No, no,” I say, and realizing that my reply probably didn’t sound so good and could be taken the wrong way, I very reluctantly add with more than a twinge of embarrassment, “I’ll get carded. I always do, and I don’t have my ID with me right now. Just some cash.”
She actually laughs at me. God, just because I look young…and yes, it is a bit of a sore spot with me, thank you very much.
“You always get carded? How old are you anyway?” she asks carelessly, still laughing, which silently annoys me to no end. I really don’t want to admit my age with my boss in front of me.
“Twenty-four,” I say eventually, quietly, seriously not wanting to talk anymore.
“Really? You look more like—”
“That’s okay,” Christian cuts in. He shrugs, taking his hand out of Marcelle’s and casually sliding them into his pant pockets. “We can just walk around together.”
And be third-wheeling it, especially with Marcelle poking high and low about my age? No way. “I don’t want to interrupt your date,” I say abruptly, “have a good night, Marcelle, Mr. DeVerre.”
Then I’m off, speed walking in the opposite direction, really hoping not to run into them again for a second time because honestly, who wants to see their boss with his girlfriend in some awkward, public situation?
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
december
Winter.
Obviously this word should automatically bring to mind fluffy snow, drinking hot chocolate, some random imposter Santa Claus ringing a bell on the street, warm fireplaces...but nooo, I'm stuck on a Friday night working overtime. Not that I have many cool things to do on any given Friday night...it's more like none, but I could be lounging around in my apartment, eating cookies, watching (probably crappy) TV and throwing stuff at unsuspecting carolers on the street from my ninth floor room. Loser-like? Yes, undeniably.
Thomas and a few more of my other colleagues are pulling their jackets on and leaving, biding me sympathetic goodbyes and probably thinking, "Heh, suckssssss to be you, Ellis." Who knew the townhouse project would be finished quicker than the small Lawser one I'm working on?
So I'm pretty much working alone now, except for the light coming from Christian's office, which means he's probably still here too. Well, we all gotta work for our money.
The seconds are ticking away, and I get more and more tired. I yawn and notice Christian coming out of his office.
"Jesus, you're still here, Jackie?"
I nod, rather exhausted, still tapping away at my computer.
My boss comes over and places a hand on my back. "Jackie, just call it in for the night."
I shake my head. "Gotta get done tonight," I say tiredly.
Christian looks at me, concerned. "Okay, alright." He leaves and I yawn again.
A few minutes later, I hear Christian coming back in through the glass doors. He places a steaming hot styrofoam cup on my desk. Probably coffee from the drinks machine. Well, I don't even drink coffee, but what the fuck, I guess it's the thought that counts. It seems like he got to be less of a bastard once he became my boss...but then again, I'm pretty sure that's just because since he's no longer at my level, I don't "compete" with him in any way, anymore. I mean, I work for him now. Whatever, he's still detestable for being so damn good-looking, though. Not fair to other people and all that.
"Thanks, bossman," I say, actually meaning it for once. Huh, and what do you know, I'm becoming less fake. I want to laugh out loud at that. It's so hilarious in my mind.
I work for half an hour more and then take a sip from the cup. I frown; it's tea.
Well, I guess he does know I don't drink coffee.
Huh.
“Hell,” says Thomas, as I pass by his cubicle. He straightens his glasses, takes another sniff and adds, “Jack, man, are all you twenty-somethings only interested in partying and drugs?”
I give him a look and repeat my personal mantra: “No, twenty-somethings are in fact very responsible adults.” When my older colleague snorts and still has that disbelieving expression on his face, I snap, “Fuck Thomas, just because I’m still college-age doesn’t mean I’m only into drugs and partying.”
“Okay, okay, Jack, if you say so,” he answers defensively, his hands up in the air.
I get to my cubicle and start working before more people bother me. Leslie better not come around asking about her stapler again, either, because I’m seriously not in mood. Not that I’m ever, just EVEN MORE not in the mood.
Christian walks by to collect something from the photocopier when lunch time almost rolls around, and when he passes me, his dark blonde eyebrows go slightly up.
“No, I’m not doing drugs, Christian,” I automatically snap, not even bothering to look up.
I don’t know much about Lauren except that I overheard (okay, eavesdropped, fuck, whatever) her gossiping with some other women in the break room about how Christian broke up with his girlfriend a few weeks ago, which is interesting news to me. Christian’s a lot more mellow and sincere than Marcelle, I think. Huh, maybe that’ll teach Marcelle not to be ageist. Yes, ageist, that is a word.
Now I've dropped all my papers. I grunt and bend down to pick them up, hoping no one would kick me in the ass from behind like I'd do to Leslie in the same position.
When I get back to my cubicle, I realize there's a real bustle because some teenaged kid--probably someone's son or daughter--is selling boxes of mint chocolate candy for a school fundraiser. I snicker as I see Leslie's fat ass making her way over there like a hurricane wrapped in a pastel pink power suit. Who needs chocolate anyway? It's full of sugar and fat and other this other stuff that's not good for you--
A rectangular box is placed on my desk and I look up to see Christian smiling down at me. He motions to the unopened box of chocolate and says, "Even workaholics need a sugar rush sometimes." He walks off and I hungrily take the box and put it in my desk drawer. I'll eat it when no one's watching; you know, don't want to be a hypocrite and all that.
FUCKING FUCK, I have Leslie again this year! What the hell?
As I’m busy agonizing about my horrid situation, I see Thomas come moaning over, scratching his head, saying how he has no idea what to get Christian, who probably has everything already.
“That’s true,” I say to him.
“And you know I’m not creative,” Thomas whines, “Not creative like you young people anyway.”
In the spur of the moment, I say, “Wanna trade?”
Thomas suddenly stops whining and asks, all alert-eyed, making me think this was his objective all along in coming to me, “Who’ve you got?”
“Leslie,” I answer, hoping it didn’t come out as a growl or snarl or equally animalistic sound.
“Man, she’s easy. I’ll just get her a stapler. She keeps bitching to me about how you stole it.”
“Fuck, I didn’t steal it, Thomas!” I return. “So I’ve got Christian now?”
“What? Oh, yeah sure.” He walks off, probably planning to visit the cheapest local office supplies store. I suggest to him the dollar store. Ha.
Nice cheapass x-mas present Leslie’s gonna get. I laugh a little evilly to myself.
“Leslie, I’m paying you ten bucks to pretend to faint.”
“What do you take me for, you gang banger? That little diva… Harris Hilton?!”
“It’s Paris and yeah, basically. I’ll make it fifteen .”
“Fifty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty.”
What the fuck? The woman doesn’t know how to count. But if she insists. “Deal.”
It’s almost the end of the day and I go knock urgently on my boss’s door, saying, “Christian? Can you come outside for a moment? Leslie seems to be extremely ill!” Christian comes out as expected and I’m holding his door slightly open. Before he closes it, I hurriedly point at Leslie right in front of us across the hallway, who’s making a big scene, sputtering and all that crap. God, and I don’t even have to pay extra for that.
“Thank you, Jackie,” he says and rushes off while I rush into his office.
I go around to his desk and pull out from my bag this mini “office voodoo kit” I picked up from some bookstore. I put it on his desk with a note that reads, “For all your work-related frustrations. Your Secret Santa.”
As I’m about to leave, something small amid a clutter of files and papers on his desk catches my eye. Upon closer inspection, I see it’s a small picture of me at the staff barbeque we had this past summer in July over at Tweeds Lake. I’m out of a suit for once, in shorts and a t-shirt, and smiling like an idiot at whomever was handing me a hotdog.
There are some noises from the outside and Leslie is saying loudly that she’s actually feeling fine after all, which is pretty much my cue and as far as my twenty bucks would take me.
Acting on instinct, I grab the picture for some strange reason, and quickly head out of Christian’s office, closing the door behind me.
I hear the lock fall into place.
Holiday break; I can’t wait. Lots of lounging around, doing nothing in my apartment. Sweet.
Christian stops whistling as we go up and I realize he's staring at me. I look at him again, my eyebrows raised up as if waiting for him to say something.
"Going home to your boyfriend for Christmas, Jackie?" he asks politely, the smile still on his face. My jaw could have hit the ground from surprise. Okay, now, how the fucking fuck does MY BOSS know I’m gay? It’s not like I ever once mention that kind of thing at the office. Ever. How could he know? I consider myself quite good at not talking about personal things at work.
"I don't have a boyfriend," I state a little too quickly before my brain can even catch up due to shock.
Christian chuckles and I'm really fucking sorry to admit that it sounds really hot and he looks really good. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Whatever, he’s really not so much of a bastard/git/prick/jerk as I first thought before he became my boss, so why not just let myself admire pretty things? Admiration is good. Admiration is harmless. "See, that's not the common response."
I pause, trying not to stare at him, wide-eyed and curious as to what the hell he meant. "No…?"
"You could have been really insulted that I'd even suggest that. Some would," he added, his expression light and still so damn polite, "But you weren't."
I think I'm gawking at the man now, totally at a loss. The elevator dings quietly as the floors go by, but I don't believe either of us are really hearing it.
Christian takes a step closer and I pretty much stop breathing. "You don't have a boyfriend?" he asks again and when the elevator doors open to the ground level, he walks out saying, "You will soon."
Then he looks over his shoulder and smiling, adds, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Jackie Ellis."