“I should be, yeah. But…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll get tested and… yeah.”
“I can have Mark do it the next time he’s here. In a few days, when he takes out your sutures.”
“Great. He’s already seen me covered in cum, so it can’t possibly get any more embarrassing.”
I press an open-mouth kiss to his chest and enjoy the way he shivers. “From now on, I’ll always ask,” I say. “I’m truly sorry I already tested your trust in me. I’ll never stop working to earn it back, Huntley.”
“Ox,” he says and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Oxley,” I say.
He chuckles. And there we lay for the rest of the day. Sometimes talking. Sometimes kissing or touching. The only thing I can think in those quiet moments is, ‘This man is mine. I get to keep him.’ And my heart feels lighter than it ever has before.
9
HUNTLEY
I’ve never knownwhat I wanted to do with my life. I wouldn’t say I’m old by any means, so I know I have time to figure it out. Currently, I’ve settled on being a paper pusher. That’s not the official title, of course. It’s something like a data specialist, which is just a fancy word for doing data entry.
It’s boring. Repetitive. Mundane. There’s never any excitement. And my boss is a big asshole. Like, super big asshole. He pushes boundaries to the point right before HR gets involved. Not generally with me. I’ve never made his shit list.
Until now. I get it. I vanished for several days. My boss could have chosen to be understanding and concerned when I told him I was shot and couldn’t walk, but instead, he said, “You have a desk job. I expect you here on Monday if you want to keep your job.”
I get paid really well. The benefits are good. If I can help it, I don’t want to lose my job. But am I ready to go back to work?
Oxley called Mark, and I received a doctor’s note taking me out of work through the end of the month. I sent that directly to HR, bypassing my boss entirely. I’ve never filled out paperwork withHR outside of hiring forms. If anyone thinks those are confusing, just wait until you get to paid leave and short-term disability forms. Those might be English words, but they’re not written in English.
Honestly, it was naïve of me to think that my boss would let it go and accept that I was going to be out for a while as I recovered from being fucking shot. If I’d known it was him, I wouldn’t have answered, but it might have been HR needing something further.
He doesn’t yell. That’s an HR violation. In my mind’s eye, I can see the vein in his neck pulsing, his face almost purple as he tries his best not to scream. As he’s telling me how others are having to cover for me, and it’s incredibly inconsiderate to take unplanned time off. How easily replaced I am. I should resign so I can heal and then find a new job when I recover if it’s going to be long. I should think of the company.
On and on.
Oxley stares at me while my boss berates me. I imagine that all of what he’s saying would get him in trouble with HR, but I’m tired and just want to get off the phone instead of finding a way to record our call. So I sit there and ‘yes, sir’ while he tells me how disappointed he is.
Eventually, the call ends, and I lie back in bed. That was exhausting. My phone says it’s only been eight minutes and forty-nine seconds, but it feels like three hours.
“I wasn’t on his shit list before, but I am now,” I mutter.
“He should be fired,” Oxley answers.
I sigh. He probably should be, like, seventy times over. He’s a bully. But this is a big corporation, and there’s always a reason to fire the peons as opposed to the management. I imagine that’s why the waters are never ruffled.
“I know some lawyers,” Oxley says.
“No, Ox.”
“Oxley,” he says automatically. “Labor lawyers. We will decimate him and eviscerate the company.”
My eyes open, and for a second, I stare at the ceiling. After a minute, I turn my head to look at him. He doesn’t look particularly angry. Everything out of Oxley’s mouth is always matter-of-fact. This is no different. Not much conviction behind it, but he speaks with authority all the same. Because he has facts.
I smile. Gripping the front of his shirt, I pull him close so I can kiss his lips. “I didn’t call or show up for almost a week,” I point out.
“You were shot. It wasn’t a choice,” Oxley argues. “You have a doctor’s note.”
He’s not wrong.
“Has HR argued about your absence?”
