When I woke up, I forgot where I was for a second before last night came crashing down on me like a bad hangover along with an actual hangover.
I rolled over and glanced at a messy bookcase, overstuffed with books and trinkets. I shot up.
OMG. Was I really staying at Jackson Rhodes’ ex-wife’s place? Had she really pimped him out to me? Did I dream about his cock?
Yes. Yes. And yes.
My head pounded, and then the worst memories came rushing back. The reason I was at Kat’s apartment.
Watch your fucking teeth.
Chip’s words reverberated in my head, poking the far reaches of my mind.
You’re the worst person I’ve ever been with.
They pummeled me as I walked to work.
You should come with a warning label.
I was drowning in them by the time I went up the elevator to my office and into the break lounge. Why did shame come with every word he’d said? I knew I had nothing to feel bad about… and yet, I did. To my core, I felt like a shitbag.
Fuck him.
He had no right to manipulate my emotions. But it didn’t matter how much Wonder Woman badassery I tried to instill in my inner monologue. He’d shredded my self-worth. Not completely. But enough. Enough to make me scared of being with another guy.
My phone buzzed.
“Finally,” I grunted into my AirPods, as I poured a large cup of coffee.
“I missed you, too, mi amore,” Selena said.
“Sorry.” I sipped the hot liquid, enjoying my first zap of caffeine. “I don’t have time for pleasantries. I’m meeting with my boss in five minutes.”
“What was with the cryptic message last night. Is this a tampon scale SOS?”
I chortled on my swallow of coffee and wiped droplets off my chin. Selena was referring to our first meeting. I may be intimidated by sex, but I’m not squeamish and when she sheepishly knocked on my dorm room door our freshman year and told me a tampon was stuck inside her, I found large plastic tweezers in my roommate’s science lab kit, latex gloves, and with the help of some KY, slid that sucker out of her.
An incident like that bonds you for life.
“It was close,” I said answering her question.
There was traffic noise on the other end of the phone. “Where are you?” I asked.
“JFK. Waiting for my Uber.”
“I’ll tell you everything later, but can I stay with you?”
“You know I’d always say yes, but I rented my place out for the next month. I’m crashing at Fariha’s.”
Fariha was Selena’s ex-girlfriend. Toxic, manipulative, and sexy as hell.
“I thought you were never speaking to her again.”
Selena would never seriously get back with Fariha, but she loved any excuse to sleep with her.
“Well, I kinda have to. We share a pig.”
“It’s Fariha’s pig.”
Selena had lived with them for a year and liked to claim she’d formed an attachment with Hamlet.
“You eat bacon, you know.”
“That’s different,” Selena said.
A text beeped on my phone.
“Shit. I have to go. It’s my boss. I’m meant to be getting her coffee. ” I pressed the espresso button on the machine. “Come by the office later if you’re not too tired.”
Creamy black liquid dripped into the mug, the strong smell of coffee like a warm hug. As I waited, I eyed the doorway, then put my hands on my hips and held my Wonder Woman pose, breathing deep into my lungs for five counts. Normally, I would’ve started my day like this at home, looking in the mirror, but this morning had not been typical.
Analise Pillon sat at the workstation behind me, and I slid the steaming mug toward her. No one was assigned desks or offices with the exception of Derrick, Isaac, and Jackson.
At least, that was the official company policy, but Analise had claimed a worktable in the back of the office and made it her own. Her station was adorned with colorful trays, small succulents, a framed picture of Cardi B, and inspirational quotes like “The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me” and “She never cared for the crown. She preferred the sword”.
Analise took the coffee and drank it in two sips. “I need you to take care of some slurs I found on the Style Your Life Insta account.”
Analise was the Director of Social Media. Though my job title was Social Media Coordinator and my official job description was curating and creating social media content, in reality, I sifted through the comments and messages from the thirteen podcast accounts on the various social media platforms. If anything caught my attention—clever, bad, or offensive—I flagged it.
“The hosts used nude as a color in their last podcast, and it’s caused a minor outrage,” Analise said. “I mean, I get it. It reflects the racist white establishment, but the comments are worse than the original post. I’ve updated it with an apology and edited the original text. But the trolls are still at it.”
The term was problematic to say the least, racist at most. It was exactly what I’d said to Jackson the night before about Band-Aids.
I was one-fourth Italian—my paternal grandmother immigrated from a small village near Tuscany—but I looked like my mother whose family immigrated from Scotland; fine chestnut hair and pale-skinned. The only parts I got of my father’s side were my large, wide-set hazel eyes, the wave in my hair, and my height.
If either of us had a right to be pissed about the term nude, it should be Analise. Analise’s ethnicity was half-Mexican and half-Native American. From what I’d witnessed, she took the small racial injustices she encountered in stride. She saved her rage for the big stuff and it was a sight to see.
“It’s funny... er, I just…” I rubbed the back of my neck.
“What?” Analise asked. “You need to be more assertive with your ideas, Peyton.”
I blew air out through my lips. She was right; hence, my Wonder Woman pose every day.
“I was thinking about this yesterday when I put on a Band-Aid.” My interest peaked after I’d looked up the history of bandages this morning on the bus. “There’s a company that makes bandages for all skin tones. It’s called Tru-Tone,” I said. “Maybe…”
My heart pounded, worried Analise would shoot down my next idea.
“Peyton, just say it.”
“One of our podcasts could have the founders on as a guest to talk about it. To smooth things over about the nude reference. And because it's important.”
Analise glanced up. “Love it. Send me the info on the company and you can pitch it at the next round table.”
I blanched. This would be the first time I pitched anything. I wanted more responsibility but I was scared of being shot down.
After Analise left for the Monday morning executives meeting, I sent her details on Tru-Tone and then opened Style Your Life’s Insta account. I scrolled through and deleted the offensive comments, and wrote a few rote responses to the ones that weren’t offensive, but ignorant in their messaging.
A message dinged in the bottom right corner of my computer. It was from Brody on WorkHub. The image of him and Isaac from last night infiltrated my mind.
Meet me in the Thinktank.
The conference room. Aptly named so it would encourage teamwork and brainstorming. But it was just a basic conference room with a big table and glass walls.
I’m busy.
It wasn’t a request.
My skin bristled with heat. Why was he being all demanding?
Don’t pull that shit with me. I’m busy. We can talk later.
Are you going to tell anyone?
Are you in trouble? HR can help.
No! Just don’t say anything until we talk.
I glared at the screen, hating that he was putting me in this position.
I have to work.
I closed the chatbox. There were several more dings. I ignored them, but guilt crept in, distracting me. Was he being taken advantage of? It didn’t feel like it; more like he was trying to cover his ass, but what about my ass? Ugh.
My chat dinged three more times and I glared at the computer.
It dinged again.
“Oh, my god, will you please go away,” I said aloud, and threw my pen at the computer screen. I leaned backward and rubbed my eyes.
When I opened them, I saw a movement at the corner of my desk. Jackson stood there, his phone in hand. His light eyes were stony, and he left without a word.
I glanced at my computer screen, something in my gut not sitting well, and opened WorkHub. There, staring back at me, were several new messages.
All from Jackson Rhodes.