Harlow Blackmore’s brow rose at the alarmed expression on his boss, Tony Varley’s face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him so wide eyed and slacked jawed. Which was saying something, since he’d known the man twenty years now.
Harlow’s eyes narrowed more and more the longer the other human remained in that state. He snapped, “Well?!” when it continued on for what he would consider a stupid amount of time.
Tony’s mouth clicked shut, before he barked, “Give me a moment to process.”
Process?! What the fuck was there to process?! “Fuck, am I really dying?!”
“Would you stop acting like a damn drama queen and just shut up for a moment?!” the man growled.
He glared, remaining silent for a few moments more before his words turned accusing. “Are you really deciding to fuck with me right now?”
That vein on Tony’s forehead started to bulge. “Excuse me for being shocked all to hell that you have… Well… You realize that…” The man cut off on a groan and rubbed his face.
Tony looked tired, and, as always, awkward in his white polo, even if it did nicely contrast his deep brown skin.
Contrast? Since when had that word been in his vocabulary? Fucking Foxx and his damn fashion shows…
“So…” He eyed the still seemingly baffled man. “Are you going to actually say something helpful?”
Tony’s hands dropped down. “You know what, I do not get paid enough. Go see a therapist… Wait, no! A psychologist.”
Harlow jerked back in shock. “The fuck did you say?!”
“A head doctor… Whatever the fuck you want to call them. Go see one.”
“You want me to talk to Johansson…Johansson!? Now Iknowyou are fucking with me.”
“I didn’t say see Johansson, I said seeapsychologist. Actually, I have someone in mind.”
The man opened a drawer and started to dig through it, completely ignoring that Harlow was telling him fucking no.
“Again, WHY?!”
“Who the fuck else would you see when you are having head problems?”
“I’m not having head problems. I’m having physical problems. Like literal chest pains and shit.”
“Pains that are all connected to that fucked up brain in your skull,” Tony grumbled, still digging in his desk, not looking up at all.
“Fuck you,” he snapped.
Yeah, his brain was fucked up, but like, what did that have to do with literal fucking heart palpitations?!
“Fuck you, too.”
“I’d rather not. Foxx’s ass is plenty.”
“Don’t need to know.”
“Ah, ain’t that too bad, because I, SUDDENLY, feel like telling you,” Harlow said with a wide grin. “Foxx loves it when I stick my?—”
Tony slammed his hand on the desk, cutting him off. The man straightened up, his vein bulging visibly now as he hissed, “Take this card and get the fuck out of my office, you perverted psycho!”
Harlow’s gaze flicked down.
Apparently, Tony hadn’t just been trying to shut him up. He eyed the card on the desk. It was black, the embossed silver centered text read,Wes B. Ackerman. Ph.D.Underneath it in white was the wordPsychologist.
“Yeah, fuck no. But fuck yes to eating Foxx’s ass. Haven’t gotten a chance to do that yet, but looking forward to spreading?—”
