Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
That was how I felt when I met Mathew Henderson.
He was maybe in his early fifties with sandy hair that was starting to mix with white at the temples, though it blended in enough that you likely never would have noticed if it weren't for the godawful lighting that - despite having the best brands money could buy to cover up such things - made my dark under eye circles show under the makeup. His eyes were a bright blue. Not like the sky, but rather almost cobalt. Striking, really. Most people would kill for eyes like that. It was a shame they belonged to him.
Unlike the rest of us who had to wear khaki pants that were universally unflattering and a bright blue polo shirt with a lanyard hanging from our necks with our names on it, he got to wear what he wanted. And what he wanted was typically a pair of poorly fitting slacks in varying colors worn too high on the waist, making it look like he had two tummies instead of one, a belt that did not match his shoes, and dress shirts that were too long in both the hem and the sleeves, but also somehow too tight around the center, a combination that should not have been able to happen, but did regardless.
He walked up to me as I stocked a shelf with towels, getting too close, his breath actually on my skin as he spoke to me, telling me how glad he was to have me on the team, how excited he was to be working closely with me.
And as he moved away, his pelvis brushed along my butt.
Maybe it was a mistake due to a narrow aisle, but I just had a feeling about it.
Then the next day, he told me that if we became closer, he had a chance for advancement, that girls like me didn't belong stocking shelves.
The day after that, he caught me in a corner over by the toys and asked me out.
I refused.
And that was when this job went from bad, but tolerable, to awful.
My shifts got switched around, one day early morning, the next graveyard. My work was criticized endlessly. I was written up publicly, belittled when no one was around to hear it.
By the time my tenth day came, I was done.
So, so done.
I had never quit a job before, always doing the right thing, always giving my notice.
But I had barely gotten any sleep in over a week between the swing shifts and the dreams and nightmares. Every inch of my body hurt from being on my feet so much. My emotions felt yanked all over the place.
And all I could think was... I just can't do this anymore.
I got home and attempted a new recipe that ended in ashes.
I tried to draw, but couldn't get anything right.
And I felt alone, so freaking alone, more alone in the world than I had ever felt before.
It was easier before, when I had something in my life to be proud of, a career I was dedicated to, that people respected me for.
It wasn't friendships or family or love.
But it was something.
Here?
I had nothing.
Not a damn thing.
So I did something I promised myself I would never do out of sadness, loneliness, fear, or anger.
Like my mother always did.
I fell into a bottle.
Deep.
It wasn't until I finished my second bottle of wine that I did it.
I got a chair, climbed on top of it, and got the file out of the closet, taking it down to the kitchen, and staring at the number until it became gibberish to my eyes.
Then, like the universe was trying to rub salt in my wounds, the TV that had been playing reruns of cheesy early '00s movies started playing a very familiar opening scene of a movie.
The Fast and the Furious.
That was it.
All my self-control could take.
I reached for the phone I had gotten on my own since Gunner had never gotten around to leaving me one like he said he would, plugged in the number, and called.
I called him.
The morning brought on a jackhammering in my temples and behind my eyes, the morning light and the movement of lifting myself off the couch made my stomach roll, threatening to revolt until I took a few long, deep breaths to calm it.
"Ugh," I groaned, raising a hand to my head, rocking back and forth for a long moment before I could even think straight enough to head for my purse where my unused pain meds from my stomach wound were situated. I popped two with a giant mug of coffee, then locked myself in the dark bathroom until they finally kicked in, allowing my stomach and head to calm enough so I could flick on the light, and look at myself in the mirror.