Chapter 14

For reasons I won’t explain, you aren’t allowed to take your ties off anymore.

– Marcella

“No, you listen to me. You’re a loan company, aren’t you? And your interest rates are listed clearly right here, aren’t they? Which means this amount is the total due, isn’t it?” F-man stabs a finger at the printed report of my loan, which includes the outrageous percentage these people sprung on me days after my initial no interest for the first three months expired.

A fission of warmth trails down my spine as I sit in a dingy office room beside F-man, flanked by nine of his bodyguards. They barely fit in the room, but given how creepy this place is, I’m so relieved they’re here. Hands clasped in my lap, I watch my boss, my temporary boyfriend, a man I have only ever seen smile gently and kindly and considerately.

Right now, his smile chills me to the bone. It’s all wicked promise. Venom. Death threats .

The man seated across from us fumbles through rules and regulations, claiming the terms and conditions I apparently agreed to, while he wipes a palm against his sweaty, receding hairline.

“I see.” F-man leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers slowly against the wobbling desk separating us from JustBorrow’s representative. “Let me make sure I understand: my client took out a loan with you, and she’d now like to pay it back in full. You are refusing to let her, despite agreeing that the amount she’s offering is correct and compiles the initial loan with all incurred interest.”

The man’s eyes scan the wall of suits behind us. “I-I’m afraid there are fees and paperwork that need to process before we can accept a payment of this size. We recommend holding out another month and—”

“And incurring more interest, more fees, more headache?” A dry laugh exits F-man. He leans forward. “I don’t think so. It’s clear I understand perfectly what’s going on. Now let’s see if you do… I’m a businessman. I don’t have time to waste. You work for businessmen, who I’m sure don’t want to waste time handling this in court. Your higher ups have two options. Either they accept this amount, today , provide proof that Miss Keyes never has to speak to anyone here ever again, and leave it at that, or I go through the trouble of putting this place in the ground permanently. I don’t care how long it’ll take because I’m in the fun position of being able to hire someone else to deal with it.”

“T-that’s not necessary, sir.”

“Excellent choice. In that case, where’s Miss Keyes’s receipt? ”

When all F-man’s bodyguards escort us out of the cramped building and back to the two limos taking up the entire parking lot, I’m so dazed—clutching the proof I’m debt-free—I barely register F-man slipping his hand into his suit pocket and murmuring, “Pumpkin?”

I drag myself from the fog of staring at the blurry words on the page I’m grasping. “Yes?”

His attention drifts across the cloudy sky. “Add decimating JustBorrow to my schedule.”

My heart flutters. “Oh, um…” I push my hair over my ear, realize what I’m doing, and snap my arm back down to my side. “Yeah. You got it.”

We slip into the back of our limo. Together. Just the two of us.

And, what do you know? It appears that in the time it took us to take care of this, I’ve developed claustrophobia.

“Where to, Mr. Marsh?” Mark asks through the small window separating the cab from the front seats.

F-man slides two fingers into the neck of his tie and tugs .

I jerk my attention out the window as my heart lunges for him.

No, no, no, no, no. I’m not. I can’t be. Am I…?

There’s a slight, slight, slight chance…I’m attracted to Mr. Marsh right now.

But who wouldn’t be?

He just saved me from lifelong debt to a mob . From never being able to afford nice things. From perhaps always being reliant on him if I want a nice place to live…

I don’t have to flush my money down the toilet anymore.

I’m free.

I am free .

I can build up a savings, plan for a future, splurge now and again without facing the crippling weight of poverty. When I move out of F-man’s fancy mansion after all this nonsense is said and done, I’ll be able to buy myself a proper set of Tupperware and stop using butter containers for my leftovers…

I’m not strong enough to resist a gesture that results in a future where I’ll get to own real Tupperware. There’s something primal about having dishes that fit perfectly inside one another. He’s saved me, perhaps purely so I might enjoy that experience.

My mouth goes dry as I recall the last thing he said to me.

Add decimating JustBorrow to my schedule.

Since when does bright sunshine boy say words like decimating ?

Heaven help me. I’m only flesh and bone. What am I supposed to do with the information that he wants to destroy something for me ?

Hand trembling, I press my fingertips to my cheek and stare out the window at the winding back roads beyond a parking lot I will never have to see again.

I’ll be bluntly honest… It is quite difficult to hate a man who wants to destroy things in my honor.

“Marcella?” he says.

My stomach flips, and I jolt my attention to him. His shirt. It’s gaping. He took his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. “Mm?” I squeak.

He watches me for too many long moments. Right when I’m terrified he’s seen through me, his usual gentle smile overtakes him. “You look like you’re on the verge of tears. Are you that relieved?”

I look like I’m on the verge of tears? I have no idea what that looks like. I feel quite constipated. All the same, I say, “Yup.”

“Let’s celebrate with lunch. Where would you like to go?”

Lunch? With him ? While his shirt is baring his chest for my innocent eyes to drink in?

No, no, no. I don’t think so. There’s no way I want to go anywhere calm and romantic with him while my emotions are this raw.

I need to fully remind myself that a brief snatch of something appealing does not make up for the rest of his character. It does not remedy all the things about him that I find mind-numbingly annoying. He is still an irritation to the nth degree. This simply does not make us compatible.

If only I weren’t thinking about his hug in the kitchen a few days ago…

Surrounded by spices and warmth and emotion …

He smelled so good, and his arms for the first minute were solid enough to hold me together.

I enjoyed the first part of that experience far more than I am ever likely to admit.

Of course, then his overall tenderness ruined it, and he made me feel like there were bugs in my hair.

“Marcella…?” he prompts again, sugary sweet.

My lip curls as I regain myself. Ew. He’s diabetes in a jar. A little well-placed destruction won’t sway me. I am strong, and I am strong enough to resist.

“Food.” My brows furrow. “Celebration food.”

“Yes. Anywhere you’d like.”

I think for a moment, then I say, “Sushi.”

When his nose scrunches, I know I’ve made the right choice.

Normally when I get sushi, it’s from this hole-in-the-wall place connected to a strip mall. Each roll—with like ten pieces or more—costs an average of five bucks. Authentic Japanese sushi isn’t even available on the laminated menu. Which, nine times out of ten, is sticky .

This place…is not that place.

Soft, faintly oriental music flits through the air. Dim, romantic lighting floats above each table, gold-spun fixtures accenting gold-flecked décor. We’re settled into a circle booth, in a far corner, distant enough I can’t hear anyone else murmuring on the other side of the room.

My gaze catches on a single meal item costing forty-seven dollars, and I look away in lightheaded horror.

Come on, Marcella. You’ll own a coordinated set of Tupperware someday soon… You can handle this.

I dare another peek.

I see a vegetable dinner with a whopping three assorted veggies that costs eighteen bucks.

Internally, I sob.

Whatever I order here is going to ruin me for my cheap sushi restaurant forever.

After the past few months, you’d think I’d be used to the extravagance of finding myself at nice restaurants or nice venues or in five-star hotel rooms, but something about the customer service fa?ade places distance between whatever’s going on and me.

It’s professional dissociation.

Present enough to work. Absent enough to survive.

Basically, I remember nothing but a loose desire to murder everyone and everything within a five-mile radius.

Across from me, F-man’s leg bounces under the table while his fingers drum against his leather menu. He’s back to usual—smiling stupidly and moving excessively—but do I mind it less?

He doesn’t like sushi .

That must reassure my hatred.

Sadly, it appears I have a soul, and after his heroic acts this day, it is very difficult to continue despising him for shallow things. Adding frustration to frustration…that leaves precious little to hate him for.

While I’m pretending to be the kind of adult who deserves nice Tupperware, I can admit it.

He’s not a whiny manchild. If I weren’t around to handle his meals, he’d be buying and using his own three frying pans to reheat his food. He knows how to dress himself; I just eliminate the time and effort of coordinating his own outfits to match occasion and weather. My job is to free up his time. My job is to do the things he would otherwise do. He is neither unwilling nor incapable.

The decisions he makes that alter the schedules I’ve made are thought-out, effective, and meaningful. I know that because his businesses thrive. What he does works , and that’s all that matters. So what if his actions give me more work and drag me around? That is literally my job description.

I’m honestly just pissy about having an amazing, well-paying, high-demand job.

I am a horrible, horrible person.

F-man runs his fingers through his auburn waves, rustling them so they catch new shades in the ambient lighting.

The only negative emotion I have left for him is envy.

I envy him.

I envy his easy smiles and his stable life.

There are so many struggles that can’t touch him. So many struggles that built integral fears into the foundation of my character, forcing me to erect guards and walls. I don’t believe that anyone exists without facing some kind of suffering, but there is a luxury in never waking up in the middle of the night to hear your parents worrying over how they’ll feed their kids tomorrow. There is a luxury in never once believing you were a burden on the people you love just because you had to eat .

Loss comes for all of us, eventually, so while I do sympathize with his pain of losing his father so young, I can’t pity him.

Outside the merciless flow of the universe itself, he is untouchable.

And I envy that kind of safety.

Slowly, his gaze lifts, meets mine, and withers. “Marcella, what’s wrong?”

I sniff, scorning the fancy cloth napkin because I’d feel bad blowing my nose into it. If I didn’t want to not exactly hold hands with him again, I’d be demanding to see if he still has that stupid kerchief on him. Alas. Digging my fingers into my hair, I grip a fist at the base of my skull. “Nothing.”

“There’s a suspicious amount of something in that nothing, Marcella.”

“I’m upset,” I snap. “Being upset is my natural state. Ignore it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ugh. He’s just soo helpful, isn’t he? Flippantly, I nudge my menu. “Order me some sushi so I don’t have to look at the prices and feel worse for taking advantage of you.”

His brows rise. “Taking advantage of me?”

“What else would you call it?”

“We have an agreement.”

A rueful laugh escapes me—half damp. “An agreement that leans heavily in my favor. Face it. No matter what happens, I get the better deal. You’re too nice to be anything but perfectly amicable the whole way through.” I swipe my free hand over my mouth. “ Why did I agree to this?”

“Well, to be fair, I coerced you quite a bit.”

“Yeah, because I’m a—” I swear. “—ingrate who was offered the chance of a lifetime and selfishly demanded more.”

“Not wanting to immediately agree to marry someone you barely know with habits that annoy you isn’t exactly selfish? Actually, not listening to your plea that I forget you applied was selfish of me.”

“You liked me.” Great. My voice is feeble and wobbly now. “You actually liked me. Not the person I mute and make tolerable. Not even the person I show to my friends. You liked the pieces of me that I only express when I’m alone. You’ve done so much for a chance to make my life a million times better, and I’m—”

He scoots around the circle booth, putting himself close enough to tug my hand out of my hair. Gripping it tight, he says, “You’re scared, Marcella. Scared . And you have every right to be. I build up and tear down companies as though they’re houses of cards. I hold all the power in this relationship. I control your job, and if I want to, your future.”

“But—”

He silences me with a look that turns my bones to jelly. Soft, yet firm, he says, “But nothing. I’ve spent the past few weeks falling asleep while reading your answers to my form. I know so many bits and pieces of you from those words, and I feel such an inexplicable connection to who you are. You are used to being hurt, abandoned, ignored, and resented. For reasons you can’t understand. So. You split yourself in two. You created a character who warranted no negative response, then you let the rest of your fragments embrace every cynical thought whenever you are allowed.”

My eyes close.

He catches a teardrop on his thumb, swiping it off my cheek. “The hardest part about rejection is never knowing what in the world could possibly make you so… wrong . The hardest part about rejection is the marrow-deep understanding people find you unlovable…even when you’ve broken yourself into pieces trying to be loved.”

I crumple, shoulders sagging, head drooping. I have no words to explain how right he is. And, even if I did, I wouldn’t want to share them—just in case I get it all… wrong .

He murmurs, “Did you ever get a chance to read my answers to the form questions?”

Numb, I shake my head. “I’ve been avoiding them. Out of spite.”

He chuckles. “Well, after work today, I expect reviewing them to take up your evening.”

My nose wrinkles. “Is that an order?”

Leaning forward, he plants a tickling, uncomfortably soft kiss to my forehead, then he whispers, “Yes.”

Does removing my tie entice you, my dear?

– Finnegan

~~~

Absolutely go die in a hole.

– Marcella