Flattening my palm to my racing heart, I turn to find Thomas watching me, the leather-like skin around his eyes tight.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“Careful, Miss Becker. I’m feeling lenient today, but profanities in the workplace warrant a strike and you’re already treading a very fine line.”
What the hell is he talking about?
I furrow my brow. “Strikes?”
Thomas nods. “Haven’t you heard of the saying? Three strikes and you’re out.”
My heart drops somewhere past my stomach.
“I don’t remember that ever—”
“That’s because it’s new.” He smiles, sending an uneasy shiver through my body, causing the fine blonde hairs on my forearms to raise. “As of today, in fact. It’s in the new contract I’m creating.”
I blink, my mind racing with so much information at once.
I peer around to see if anybody else is hearing this bullshit, but nobody meets my eye.
“Strikes?”
“Yes, Miss Becker. You’re already up to two.”
“Two?!”
Thomas nods. “Fraternising with a client and sloppy double checking of your paperwork.”
A sudden burst of anger rising to the surface of my cheeks. “What are you talking about? I—”
From inside the depths of my handbag, which is resting beside my computer monitor, I hear my phone vibrate with a text message. I forgot that I’d turned it up loud to hear it ring when I entered one of those radio competitions yesterday morning.
I reach for it only for a cold, tight grip to crush my fingers painfully. Thomas cocks his head at the sound, narrowing his eyes at me. “Are you asking for a third strike, Miss Becker?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
For what I think is the first time in my life, I’m speechless. No witty remark. No vitriol. Nothing.
I snatch my fingers back, watching the skin mottle as blood flow returns and when I look up again, it’s to find Thomas striding away. He doesn’t stop at anyone else’s desk, instead heading straight for his glass prison; probably to continue hatching his awful contract plans to make everyone’s life miserable.
Sinking my top teeth into my bottom lip, I sniff, realising just how close to tears I am. Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure none of my co-workers are watching. I don’t want them to see me cry. Most of them live in Thomas’ arsehole and could only dream of finding some dirt on me to get me in trouble or telling him just how effected I am by his actions.
Pushing back from my chair, head still spinning, I pick up my handbag and step out of my office cubicle.
I try my upmost to keep my gait steady as I walk, my heels clicking against the white marble flooring, bypassing the reception desk.
Marie looks up from behind her computer as I do, hereyes red raw, a smudge of mascara on her cheekbone. She sends me a small, sad smile before putting her head back down. Another burst of anger fizzles in my veins, but it’s quickly smothered by shock and my wavier of unsurety.
I wobble on my heels, not sure if to head out of the door, never look back and deal with the consequences of my actions later. Or, if to head to the bathroom for a breather before I make any rash decisions.
In the end, I decide to make a beeline for the ladies, finding it thankfully, empty. Ducking into the last stall on the far right, I lock it behind me, tipping down the toilet seat and perching upon the lid with a muffled cry.
What is Thomas getting out of making my life a living hell?
Ripping off a wad of toilet paper, I blow my nose and wipe the tears gathering at my waterline. I refuse –re-fucking-fuse– to cry over that prick and allow him to make me feel tiny and shitty and worthless.
With shaky hands, I dip my hand inside my bag, pulling out my phone and keying in my code. I’m thinking of ringing Blake, or maybe even Carmen – even though it’s her day off and she’s probably out doing last minute wedding shopping with Jake – just so I can hear a friendly voice, when I spot the notification splayed across my home screen.
