Becca, this is for you, I thought.
Ding…
Click!
My heart flew into my throat, and turned to acid. My stomach rolled in caustic waves.I clutched the toilet brush so tightly my knuckles went white.
Clack, clack, clack, echoed through the room as expensive Italian shoes powered their way across the floor.
Sweat erupted on my palms. I turned to the cart, to the bucket with the Clorox, and didn't see it. My vision was blurry.
Oh, my God, how can I –
“What the fuck, huh?” Maddox shouted. His voice came from somewhere in the office, probably by the desk. “What do I have to do, draw you a god damn map? How much am I paying you assholes?”
Broker of the Year? Not humanitarian?
I shut my eyes, inhaled as quietly as I could, then opened my eyes again. Clearer. Definitely clearer. That was good.
I reached for the Clorox bucket, taking a quick glance to the door. I'd left it ajar, just by a few inches, but enough for me to be able to see him.
He was pacing, running his hand over his slick head, looking out the window with his back toward me. Perfect.
“Look, I don't care at this point, alright? Just get here, and get it done for the love of shit.”
Maddox didn't bother disconnecting his call. He just threw the phone across the room, put his hands on his hips. I could see him breathing heavily, huffing and puffing like some big bad wolf.
He was a lot bigger in person. I'd only seen his face on Skype, on television, or a news feed. I never thought him to top out at over six foot. A person of his character should be no taller than seven, eight inches.
I dipped my hand in the bucket, and wrapped my hand around the barrel. I shouldn't be gripping the barrel. I needed the handle. Grip the handle, then point the barrel at him.
The gun was a lot heavier than I remembered it to be. It was longer, too. I'd only fired it twice before, at shooting ranges out in Riverside county. No one knew me in Riverside. Turns out I was a pretty good shot. A natural, as the range master complimented.
I checked the safety. Made sure it was off. And for whatever out-there reason, straightened my hair.
I went to the door, opened it with a flourish, and held the gun in front of me.
Maddox grabbed the barrel.
“Seriously, what the fuck?” He wrenched the gun away so suddenly that he almost took my finger with it. It had been coiled around the trigger, ready to blow his fucking head off, but now it just throbbed like a motherfucker.
I made a quick grab for my gun, but I was too late. Maddox held it up above his head, the way big kids hold little kids toys up high when they’re teasing. He was looking at me with an infuriating mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Who are you?” He squinted at my name tag. “Maria? We don't have a Maria working here.” His eyes traveled up and down my body. He was either checking me out, or trying to remember where he'd seen me – or Maria – before. Not that he would know any of the minimum wage, undocumented staff members cleaning his grout and scrubbing his… bidet. “Is this about the Christmas bonuses?”
He laughed at his own joke, then pointed the gun at me.
My blood boiled, rushing through my veins as if it were on fire. Everything I hated in this world was standing before me, incarnate. I lunged at him, hoping to gouge those sneering, icy green eyes out his skull.
He caught me by the arm, wrenched it behind my back, and locked his other arm around my neck. He squeezed, just enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to strangle me.
Maddox was strong, Atlas on the beach strong.
I tried to dig my fingernails into his forearm, but my hands were too small to wrap around it.
“Maria, if that's even your name, you really could have just filed a complaint with HR.”
Last ditch effort. I brought my leg up, wanting to drive my heel into his shin.
My heel, however, was in a harmless yet sensible rubber-soled shoe. It bounced off his leg with all the crippling impact of a dryer ball. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd worn spiked cleats. This man was built like a fucking tree.
I writhed against him, wriggling like a hooked fish, trying to escape from his impossible hold. Thrashing and fighting against his massive frame, he only increased he grip.
He could crush me like a bug if he wanted. Instead, he lifted me off the ground with no effort at all, as if he was wrangling a child in the midst of a colossal tantrum, and threw me onto the sofa. Then aimed the gun at my head.
“Are you done yet?” he asked.
My breath was coming in hitches. This is not the way any of this was supposed to go. If he wanted to shoot me, fine. But I'd be damned if I was just going to lay here and take it. Like hell I'd go down without a fight.
I rolled off the couch and scrambled for the bookcase. One of those trophies would make a great weapon. I snatched the WSJ statuette from the shelf – an Emmy Award rip off congratulating Maddox for his outstanding business practices – and raised it over my shoulder.
Maddox only looked at me, his befuddlement of earlier melting away into escalating delight. He did have the gun, after all. And two armed security guards, just now
