I stamp forward, slam the contracts on his desk, and plant my palms on the wood, leaning in. “You have to fire her,” I order threateningly and deadly seriously. “Now.”
Sal frowns. “Who?”
“Lainey.”
He looks worried. Really worried, like I’m about to hit him with a case for gross misconduct that’ll lose him his amazing PA. I fucking wish. “Why?”
Shit, what was I thinking? What do I say? I can’t clue him in on my scrambled mind. He’ll go mad. God damn it, think, Christianson. “She stinks of alcohol,” I blurt.
“So does the rest of our workforce today.”
Fuck it. I try to wind myself in, try to curb the maddening frustration. “She broke the coffee machine, too.”
“That fucking thing has been broken for months.” He rolls his eyes and goes back to his iMac. “Get Gina to fetch you a Starbucks.”
“You need to fire her.”
“I fucking can’t,” Sal fumes, waving a dismissive hand at me. “Fuck off, Ty. My head’s banging. I don’t need your pathetic grievances to deal with.”
I yell, punching his desk before stalking away, slamming the door behind me and spending a few moments breathing some calm in. It’s no good. I’m going to explode, and I’m fucking freaking out because I fear there’s only one thing that can defuse my situation. Something I can’t have.
I suddenly sense that something is sitting at her desk a few feet away from me, and I look cautiously to my left, finding Lainey with big, shocked blue eyes. She heard my little rant. I don’t care. She knows as well as I do that there’s a situation, and it’s fucking obvious. “Okay?” she asks, probably for the sake of it, because the silence is awkward.
“No,” I answer honestly, walking away before I disregard company policy, grab Lainey, and take her back to my office. I have never felt this fucking angry in my life. Well, no, that’s not true. Sexual frustration is different to fury at being played by a two-timing ex. But I can feel my anger in every pore of my skin. I’m burning with need, and I have no fucking clue how to deal with it. Except to fuck. It’s all I have. It’s what I need.
Gina follows my path as I march past her desk, keeping quiet. She knows me well enough to have figured this out. She knows me well enough to leave me alone, too. She also knows I have a busy job that I shouldn’t be walking away from right now, but fuck if I can stop. “Cancel anything I have in my diary for the rest of the day,” I order.
“Why, where are you going?”
“To fuck the first woman I find in the first bar I find.” I slam my office door behind me.
THE FIRST BAR IS A cute cocktail joint on the corner of our office block, where I’ve had many lunch meetings and drinks with colleagues after work. There’s always some talent lingering around. But not at three o’clock, it seems. The bar is quiet, the rows of bar stools lining the bar empty. Fucking great. I plant myself on a stool and order what I plan to be the first of plenty of Scotch. “Just put the bottle on the bar,” I say, sinking my first on a gasp.
The barman slides it straight toward me, no questions, and I immediately refill my glass.
A few hours later, I’m warm with alcohol, and it’s not been an entirely unproductive afternoon. I’ve had a call with the Pyra girls to discuss next steps, signed off numerous staff expenditure reports, and scheduled meetings with two potential new clients. The bar has slowly got busier, the Friday evening crowds gradually filtering in. I feel bloody exhausted, and it’s only six o’clock. I also have a screaming fucking headache. I need to hit the sack. So much for fucking like a Trojan.
After paying the bill, I drag myself outside, flagging the first taxi I see. It pulls over across the road, but as I start to make my way over, I see someone else grab it. Not that this is unusual in London, but it’s who has beaten me to my ride.
I follow my feet mindlessly to the edge of the pavement, never letting my eyes stray from where they’re fixed. Staring at Lainey. Who has her arms thrown around a man. Not a man pushing sixty. And definitely not a man in his late twenties. And he doesn’t look like a Spanish dude, either. This man is probably mid-forties. A fourth man? I’m trying my hardest not to pass judgment, especially since this is me passing judgment, but I’m struggling. Really struggling. She seriously puts it around, and these are only the men I know about. What about the ones I don’t? How many are there? That horrible sickly jealousy swirls in my gut again, but I try to get past it to the bit of resentment buried beneath it. I haven’t had an orgasm for weeks because of this woman, and she’s off gallivanting around with lord knows how many blokes, probably getting fucked left, right, and center. While I’m suffering.
What the fuck gives? I scowl as the man slobbers all over her, dropping wet, sloppy kisses everywhere. It could be me, but she doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it much. Good. I hope he’s far from fucking perfect.
He eventually drops her and opens the cab door. I expect them to get in together, but the man slides in and Lainey remains on the curb, waving him off as he drives away. And as soon as the taxi is out of sight, her head drops back and she looks to the heavens. What is that? Is she gathering patience? Strength?
After a few moments, she goes to her bag and pulls out her phone, taking it to her ear. But then she spots me across the road, and her arm falls to her side. Our eyes meet. My stupid fucking heart booms. And my cock—my cock that’s been broken for weeks—surges to life. I take a deep breath, trying to find the instruction I need to get my arse in a cab. No instruction. No anything. Except a craving so powerful it makes me dizzy. It makes me lose reason. It makes me want to smash my own face in for not being able to control it. Jesus, I have the biggest itch, and the fucker is never going to be scratched. This is unknown territory for me, and I fucking hate it with a vengeance.
Silly thoughts start to run rampant, like whether I can fire her for sleeping around. For wearing such seductive dresses to work. For playing with her hair when she’s thinking. For being a hopeless romantic but behaving like a harlot. I flinch at my stray, unreasonable thought, as she steps off the curb and crosses the road toward me.
I swallow with every pace she takes, locating that discipline and locking it down. It’s fucking hard when the most stunning, mysterious, conflicting female I’ve ever encountered is heading my way.
When she’s just a couple of feet in front of me, she comes to a stop. She’s within touching distance. If I just reach— “Hey.” I cough, stuffing my hands in my trouser pockets to keep them under control.
“Hey,” she counters.
Then silence falls, and we’re in that awful place where we just stare, both of us aware of the sexual tension fizzling around us. And on top of that, I’m wondering how much of my rant she heard earlier. I want to know who she was just snogging. I want to ask if he comes anywhere close to her idea of perfect. I want to know how many condoms are still left in that box. My mind is pushing questions forward that I have no right to ask. And shouldn’t. Go. I need to go. I start to back away, prying my rapt eyes away from her and focusing my mind on getting my sorry arse home. “Have a good weekend.” I turn.