December 1

DECEMBER 1

Parker Jacobson

“Parker!”

Not again.

This was it. This was how I was gonna die. Not from panic at the disco but at the office.

“I want the record to reflect that this isn’t my job,” I said loudly.

Mya and Kim shot me looks that told me where to go. The sun didn’t shine there.

Flustered and completely stressed out, I left our cubicle area and all the phones ringing and headed to Mr. Williams’s office.

What a great start to December.

I stayed in the doorway. “You summoned me with a shout heard in China, sir?”

“I’m not in the mood, Parker.” When was he ever? “I need you to personally bring this down to corporate and deliver it to Mr. Abrams.”

I furrowed my brow, walked over to his desk, and accepted the two parcels, the bigger one the size of a briefcase. The other box made a little clunk when I shifted it in my arms, so it had to be a bottle of something.

“I don’t need to point out that this isn’t my job, right?” I asked to make sure. “I’ve been tasked to do things I’m not qualified for all week.”

“It’s Wednesday.” He lifted his gaze from his computer and raised a brow. “I think you’re qualified to be an errand boy for a couple of hours. Luanne can help you with cab fare.”

I didn’t need a cab. I didn’t need to take this to corporate downtown. Mr. Abrams was here today, as he was every Wednesday. And Monday and Friday.

“All right…”

“Team effort, Parker,” he reminded, somewhat patiently. “The department will hopefully be back to normal before the week is over.”

I sure hoped so because this was bullshit. But hey, at least I got to get out of the IT department for a little bit. It was absolute chaos down here. Phones ringing nonstop, people yelling, higher-ups breathing down our necks for updates.

I made my way through the mayhem area toward the elevators and wondered if I should bring my Christmassy earmuffs for tomorrow. Maybe they’d drown out some of the noise.

Did people even know what they were doing? A question I asked myself more frequently for every year I worked here. The company was just so massive. Thousands of employees across three continents. Countless branches. “Entertainment” was in the name, but I’d never seen any of the entertainment myself—or anything related to it. Except for random tickets to movies the company was involved in. But not with production. Our branch in Glendale manufactured setups for craft services for movie sets and events. The branch in Pasadena recruited people straight out of Caltech for something in technology. My little branch here in Culver City was focused on the corporation’s main website and online support.

And sometime last Sunday, our servers had gone down.

I took the elevator up to the top floor where the suits sat, and I adjusted the packages in my arms so I could straighten my tie. I tended to tug at it when I was uncomfortable, and down on my floor, nobody gave a crap.

I kinda wanted to change floors. My own department was so small that it fell under Mr. Williams’s leadership in IT. Two floors of engineers, web administrators, developers, and other tech-savvy folks…and Mya, Kim, and me.

The top floor stole all the light from the rest of us. They had big bay windows, as opposed to our tiny square ones. The building used to be a factory of some sort, so it was all exposed brick and concrete floors. But not up here. Oh no, sir, they got hardwood floors and potted plants.

This should be my floor.

Mr. Abrams’s office was in the far back, past the bullpen of worker bees who handled social media marketing and flippin’ Instagram support. Up here, you could get paid to banter with Variety and Sony online. Downstairs, our online support got stuck with angry emails and phone calls.

On Friday, the two top floors would turn into the crime scene for our annual holiday office party. Something to look forward to, at least.

After the bullpen came two hallways of fishbowl offices, and then the space opened up to Mr. Abrams’s grand office. And his assistant’s desk.

She wasn’t here, though.

I scratched my head.

Should I just leave the stuff on Suravi’s desk? Perhaps she was out to get Mr. Abrams’s lunch, what did I know? I usually communicated with her through email. In fact, I’d only been in Mr. Abrams’s office once before, and he hadn’t even been there. Kim and I had snuck in at last year’s holiday party. We’d been curious.

Oh, screw it. I got closer to the doorway since the door was open and peered inside, finding Mr. Abrams behind his desk to the right. It was a pretty big office, but he didn’t have much in there. All those windows, the biggest Persian rug I’d ever seen, his desk, and cabinets behind him. He could’ve had an entire seating area—or a pool table, if I got to pick—and perhaps a bar table because all rich top dogs had that. But nothing. Two chairs in front of the desk that looked uncomfortable.

Mr. Abrams, however, looked comfortable. I’d love to sit on him. He had that whole Daddy vibe, including silver at his temples and a trimmed beard, crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes, and suits made exclusively for his body. I guessed he was in his mid-to-late forties.

It was a travesty that he had a giant stick up his ass. He wasn’t merely demanding as fuck and strict; he was dull and seemingly devoid of emotion.

I cleared my throat to get his attention. “Mr. Abrams?”

He stopped typing on his computer and peered at me over the rim of his glasses.

“I have a delivery for you from Mr. Williams on the ground floor,” I said. “Suravi’s not here, but I can leave it on her desk if you’d prefer.”

He dismissed that and motioned for me to come forward.

I could make some serious strides on my Fitbit in his office, it was that big. At least compared to the tiny office I shared with Mya and Kim. And “office” was a stretch. Only a single wall separated us from the cubicle area.

“It sounds like a Christmas gift, sir,” I commented as I handed him the parcels.

“It makes sounds?” He wasn’t pleased. “Then please stay here while I open it so I can decide whether to send it back with you.”

Hey. Rude. “Maybe Santa can replace it with a lump of coal.”

“Perhaps,” was his only reaction.

While he carefully tore the wrapping, I inspected his boring desk. I mean, the desk itself was nice, probably some expensive mahogany or oak thing, but he had nothing personal on it. No photos, no knickknacks. I knew he was unmarried and had no kids, but he had several nieces and nephews.

“It’s a nice rug you have here,” I offered. “I kinda wanna do cartwheels on it.” Or break-dance all over it with Kim.

He paused his unwrapping and glanced up at me. “You don’t have to fill the silence.”

“No, I know. I do that voluntarily.”

“That’s a shame,” he muttered and returned to his gift.

I suppressed a sigh and stuck my hands down into the pockets of my slacks.

The only thing that was a crying shame was this fun-sucker of a man. I could count my interactions with him on one hand—in the four years I’d been here—and they’d all required some serious aftercare to brighten my mood again.

Underneath the plain wrapping paper was a bottle of whiskey or scotch, and he held it up to read the tag strapped to its neck.

“This is a nice bourbon,” he commented. “I’m sure my uncle will enjoy it.”

“Sir?”

“It’s addressed to Clarke Abrams, my uncle.” He set the bottle aside, along with the other parcel, and I cursed to myself. “I assume this package is for him too. I’ll be at corporate tomorrow—I can deliver them to him.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Very few things embarrassed me, but this kind of mistake definitely did. My collar felt tight, and my ears started burning.

“I’m so sorry, sir. That’s my mistake,” I managed to say. “Mr. Williams told me to personally deliver it to Mr. Abrams at corporate, and I just assumed he meant you—and you’re here on Wednesdays, so… I’m sorry. This isn’t actually my job, so you don’t have to worry about this happening again. I’ll be back at my desk as soon as the servers—”

“Please, for the love of God, stop rambling.” Mr. Abrams leaned back in his seat. I swallowed uncomfortably. He observed me. “If Mr. Williams gave you the instructions, your assumption feels…foolish.”

“Yep. Well aware. It’s been a long week.” Fuck, let me get out of here, please.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“So people keep telling me.” I gestured to the packages. “May I have them back? I need to go downtown before your uncle leaves for the day.”

“He won’t get them, regardless.” He checked his watch. “He leaves right after the breakfast meeting on the days my aunt gets dialysis.”

That was…sweet, I supposed. Clarke Abrams was in his seventies, if I wasn’t mistaken. It probably wouldn’t be that many years before he handed over the corporation to two of his sons and the nephew in front of me.

I suddenly had an idea. “You’re going to corporate tomorrow.”

“As I mentioned.”

“And you live in Santa Monica, right?”

His forehead creased. “I do.”

“So you’re passing Culver City on the way,” I said. “We can carpool. Pick me up outside the office tomorrow, and that way, I can follow Mr. Williams’s order and deliver the packages to Mr. Abrams myself. What do you say?”

“I was unaware that you were capable of following orders.”

“Hey.” I put my hands on my hips, getting a tad irritated. I knew I’d fucked up. How long did I have to suffer? “You’ve never complained about my work before. Please cut me some slack.”

He frowned at me. He was good at that. “I don’t even know who you are, what your name is, or what it is that you do here.”

“My name is Parker Jacobson, and I’m a mildly insulted graphic designer,” I snapped. Damn it, he was stealing all my holiday cheer! “I designed your business cards, among other things.”

Such as this year’s gift to the employees from corporate.

“I see.” He leaned forward and picked up one of his business cards from the little holder. “Well, Parker Jacobson, it’s not normal behavior to ask your boss for a ride.”

My ears felt hot again. The man made me feel like Bambi on ice, which I’d already thought was my default setting in life. I usually tumbled around and hoped for the best. And I knew I wasn’t always normal. Most people had a little voice in the back of their head that let them know what was okay to say out loud. Well, that voice fell out and died when my mom dropped me as a baby.

“Excuse me for trying to save the planet,” I fibbed. “We’re in a global climate crisis, you know.”

He snorted at that, and for a fraction of a second, I swore I spotted a smile. I took that as a huge win.

Then he pushed the packages my way again. “Be downstairs at seven thirty on the dot, and if you speak excessively in the car, you’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Thank you so much, sir.” I grinned and hurriedly scooped up the packages again. “I’ll have the bottle rewrapped. I’m looking forward to my walk. See you tomorrow.”

He shook his head at me, but I focused on the pinch of amusement in his eyes.