“Is this—are you . . . firing me?”
“Yes.” Blade is abrupt.
Stacey shoots him a dirty look and leans toward me. “You shouldn’t think of this as a door shutting. It’s a whole bunch of new doors ready to open. You need to find your niche. And this isn’t it, Jane. You’re too shy.”
Her words don’t quite register through the roar of blood in my ears.
Fired.
I’m being fired.
Everything dims, blackness infiltrating the edges of my vision. The walls of the room press in on me.
In a daze, I shut my briefcase and snap it closed. Then I grab up the papers scattered all over the table, pressing them to my chest since I don’t want to take the time to stop and open my briefcase again. Pages crumple in my hands as I heave myself to my feet.
Somehow, I make it out of the room, the door swinging closed behind me with an unsatisfying whisper of a click.
I don’t say anything. Not goodbye. Not so long. Not you’re welcome for the hard work, assholes.
Standing in the all-white hallway, I focus on my breathing. I crouch on the ground and open my briefcase, shoving the papers inside with numb hands before standing again.
I need to get out of here before I have a full-blown panic attack.
My gaze lifts, down the hall, toward the bullpen, where the other employees are working.
I can’t face them. What if everyone knows? What if they’ve all talked about this? What if they all voted and unanimously decided to kick the antisocial loser off the island?
Hannah will be happy.
I have to pack up my desk, but I need a minute to pull myself together.
Moving fast, I walk past the main sitting area with my head down, not making eye contact, and let out a sigh of relief when I reach the corridor to the bathroom.
But before I make it to a place where I can lose my shit in peace, Mark is there.
“Hey, Jane. Come with me.” He grabs my hand, tugging me to the door opposite the bathroom. The storage room. Somewhere we’ve fooled around before.
Once inside the tiny space crammed with supplies and glowing with the faint red light from an old printer, he shuts the door. Then his mouth presses hard against mine. He fumbles with the hem of my blouse, yanking it out of my pants to run insistent fingers over my stomach.
I’m not in the mood, a maelstrom of shock and nerves and everything else running through the stomach he’s currently caressing, but I don’t make any move to stop him. Besides, maybe this will help me relax, to think about something other than the fact that the job I’ve been working toward for the last four years ended in the space of a heartbeat.
He tugs my pants down and lifts me against the wall. I try to lose myself in the act. He’s a good kisser. He’s attractive. Blond hair, blue eyes, straight teeth. I’m lucky he shows any interest in me at all.
Plain Jane. Shy Jane. Jane who just got fired.
I shove the thoughts away, trying to focus on the physical sensations instead of the emotions roiling through me, but it doesn’t quite last long enough for me to enjoy anything.
He groans and shudders and exhales a hot breath against my neck.
Well. I’m glad he’s feeling better.
Something sharp jabs me in the side, a nail or something sticking out of the wall at my back. Great. Now there’s a tear in my shirt.
He drops my legs and turns away.
I grab my slacks from the floor, sliding them back on.
It’s always like this with Mark, quick, brutal, and fevered.
At first, it all seemed so romantic. Like he’s starved and desperate for me. Like he wants me. He needs me. Me. I’m important. A heady feeling for someone who’s never been in demand for anything or anyone.
But in this moment, insight wedges open a crack in my mind, bringing a light so piercing that what it illuminates has to be true: a thought I’ve been missing, or more likely, avoiding. This isn’t a rush of lust, must-have-you-or-die kind of frenzy. It’s a more frantic and panicked and I-have-to-escape-this-right-now kind of frenzy.
“How was that for a stress reliever?” He tosses me a smirk over his shoulder, disposing of the condom in a trash can in the corner.
It was about as stress relieving as a root canal. “Great. Except my pitch didn’t go so great. They . . .” I swallow. I can’t even say it.
But he speaks before I can shove the rest of the words out, pulling up his skinny distressed jeans and turning to face me. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Hey, Presley’s your friend. You think she’ll go out with me?”
I blink. “What?”
“Presley.”
Blood rushes from my head to my toes, making me lightheaded. This cannot be happening. Is he really asking me about another woman after we . . . after we just—?
“You two are friends, right? You’re like the only one she really talks to.”
“Um—”
He steps closer, crowding me against the wall in the cramped space. “I know she’s only worked here for a few months, but she seems to like you, so I just thought you might have some inside intel.”
I’m frozen. My mouth is full of cotton. Say something. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, Presley is great. I, um, I, uh, didn’t know we were seeing other people.”
“Who? Me and you?” His brows lift in surprise.
“I-I thought we were like, casually dating or something?” It’s not an irrational assumption, is it? Considering he was just inside me?
He chuckles and rubs my arms. It’s not a soothing motion. It makes my skin crawl.
What am I doing? Have I really spent the last two months sleeping with him just because I have no other options?
“Casual being the operative word there, sweetheart.”
His smile is light, bemused. Like I’m a cute little bunny who’s being silly.
When I don’t smile back, his lips droop.
