5. JAKE

Later that day, I approach Patel at her desk.

She's using Agent with Energetic Personality on this client to finish signing them up. What is that? Two new ones today?

A scoreboard covers the wall we share. It tracks metrics in real-time, or it should, if you enter them correctly in the system. Currently, I'm in the lead. The portfolio of my clients this year measures twenty-two million. Hers is twenty-one. Too close for comfort, considering we have two weeks to go before the bonus is decided. Or it would be, if I hadn't stopped entering clients into the system ten days ago. My plan is simple. Bulk-add the stockpile I've collected right before the deadline.

She thinks it's a tight race.

Comical, Patel.

In truth, I'm at twenty-seven million and counting. At this rate, I might even hit thirty. Either way, there's no way she's got a chance of catching up.

I wait for her to finish the call. That loop she keeps her hair in bounces, as if mocking me. It's the right thickness for a man to wrap his hand around and tug. Not that I've considered that. I'm tapping my foot impatiently. Her cubicle mate, Leo Li, looks over his shoulder and stares at me. I raise an eyebrow at him. They're close and he's protective of her, so he doesn't back down.

Not that I mind. Loyalty, I understand.

Though I sense some tension between them, which is unusual.

When her phone clicks off, I walk around her desk until I'm facing her. She's got on a headband made of thick material, as if designed for athletes. It doesn't match anything she is wearing, but the purpose of it makes sense. Last month, Patel came to work with an attempt at bangs. They've been poking at her eyes, and she's been making this noise any time they do.

Our desks are right across from each other, separated by an HR-mandated distance of fifteen feet. Across the aisle, I've been hearing that damn sighing noise for the last few weeks. Thank fuck, I don't have to turn the volume of my headphones up to drown it out again. It's been infuriating.

Right now, I know she can see me standing there, but her eyes don't unglue from the screen. Once I saw her make three sales at a time, rotating clients on hold while chewing apart a granola bar at the same time.

Two minutes of me standing here, she finally loses her patience and speaks.

"Lost something? Your competency, perhaps?"

I make a show of taking a dollar bill out of my wallet before placing it firmly down on her desk. Her big, brown eyes flick over the note for a second before returning to her computer screen. The level of her disinterest is impressive.

"A contribution to the new hairbrush fund," I say, matching her bored tone.

Her hand tightens on her mouse. "Commenting on my appearance, Coleman?" Despite the whites of her knuckles showing, her voice is unbothered, as if we're chatting about weather at some water cooler. "You might have gotten the wrong idea, but know that it doesn't faze me."

There's an unpleasant spiking in my gut at her accusation. This has nothing to do with what happened in the cafeteria. Suddenly, I feel the need to remove that dollar from her desk, even though I know it's too late. I can't take it back.

"One of you broke your hairbrush," I repeat, surprised I feel the need to clarify myself. "Didn't Leo cover it with a napkin yesterday? His eulogy distracted half the office."

"The handle was jade," chimes in Leo, who never bothers to pretend he's not listening in. "It was mine. It deserved our respect."

"For the record, I don't care what you wear," I tell Patel. "You could wear anything, and it wouldn't matter to me. All you are is… Patel."

That pulls her attention from the screen. Eyes that have no right being as warmly colored as they are, scrutinize me.

"I also don't care about you, Coleman. We don't exist to each other."

No.We do exist to each other, if only as enemies across battle lines. Her dismissal is inaccurate and irritating.

When she pulls open her side drawer and takes out a pair of scissors, I step back. Stapler Gate flashes through my mind. Both of us pushed it too far, and it ended in a screaming match, our noses practically bumping against each other. The blunt end of a pencil pressed into my chest hard enough to bruise. Having witnessed that part, HR had asked if I wanted to lodge a complaint.

No.

We both were assigned workplace safety lectures and signed liability forms. We were also told to avoid each other in the office. Great idea, except I found it an unwelcome amount of effort to pretend Patel did not exist, given that she sits across from me, directly in my eye-line. Both of us were offered the option to move, but neither of us took it.

It's better to have your competition close, rather than somewhere you can't track.

She must notice me tense now for her movements with the scissors slow down to a crawl.

"Is something wrong? Did you need these?" asks Patel with a faux-innocent wideness of her eyes. "I noticed you cancelled last week's barber visit."

She's right. There's not been time to visit my barber. Between work and overseeing the terms of buying my mother's house, my life has been disturbed. Leave it to her to arrow in on that. She's a bloodhound trained to sniff out weaknesses.

"It's flattering how closely you follow my schedule," I fire back.

"Since you refuse to separate your work and personal calendar, the rest of us are forced to endure updates on your social life."

"It's there in hopes that one day I inspire you to find one of your own. A social life, that is."

"What was it you had penned in last Friday? A date? Tell me, do they ask for money upfront or afterwards?" Her eyes go back to her screen. She's clicking away, pretending I don't exist.

"Jealous are we?"

"So jealous," she says. "I, too, wish I could experience the inadequacy that is being with you."

"You sound as if you've given it a lot of thought." My eyes are drawn down to that pouted mouth again before I force them back up. "If it makes you feel better, go ahead and imagine the experience as inadequate."

"Oh, no. Don't stop. This is so good for me," Patel deadpans. "I'm sure you get that a lot and that it's all so genuine."

I'm now holding onto the edge of her desk and leaning over it. She's shorter than me. Most people in this office are, but the difference is stark with her sitting down. I'm bigger and taking up space above her. I should back off. What am I doing? This isn't why I came over. I'm close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. "Hate to break up your little fantasy."

Again, I wait until she gives in and looks at me.

"When you do it right, they can't speak coherently. They start trembling all over. And this might be a foreign concept, Patel, but if you're not begging for it, I haven't done my job properly."

Her eyes squeeze shut briefly. I wonder if I've taken it too far. But then she opens them, and everything about her expression is drenched with fire. "Did you really come over here to talk about your dick?"

That word from her mouth. Blood leaves my head. I don't want to know where it goes, even though I know.

Get a fucking grip, it's Patel,I chant to myself. This isn't why you came here.

"Look in your inbox," I snap. "I flipped Aron Holdings. I want the client transfer form returned to me before the end of the day."

Her teeth grind. "How?"

"Upsell."

She swears, profusely. The sound is nirvana. It's fucking satisfying. There is no poaching between agents as soon as a contract is signed, but one point of weakness exists. If a client stays with our firm for two years, at the second year mark, they can move to another agent's portfolio if they are upsold more services by that other agent. Unofficially, we call it Mutiny.

Right on time, the scoreboard above us changes. The number beside my name is twenty-two point three million. Hers stays at twenty-one. I wait for Patel to look worried, but her body language doesn't shift. If anything, her spine straightens.

"The bonus is mine," she swears.

"Keep dreaming."

With nothing more to say, I go back to my desk. I appear unfazed and to be in no rush, even if my mind is crunching information. Her reaction… It's bothering me. Two weeks until the deadline, and she isn't concerned. Not only that, but I checked, and she's blocked off next week for vacation. Unless she's gone and had a personality transplant, none of that makes sense. What is she hiding? A whale? Has she got the kind of client whose net worth will shoot up the value of her portfolio all at once? How big could they be? Three million? Four?

That's still not more than the value of clients I've been stockpiling. Five million dollars haven't been entered under my name. That's my trump card. She's not going to see it coming. It's a trick I can only use once because Mr.Davies will be pissed if he finds out. When clients aren't entered correctly in the system, his forecasting data isn't accurate.

My mother's house.

It's worth the risk. I can't have it sold to anyone else.

I put my headphones on. I'm about to turn on my music, but then I see Leo rolling his chair over to Patel across the aisle. Something is going on there, my gut tells me.

Leo is regularly loud, but today his voice carries more than usual. He's… groveling?

My eyes stay on my screen, and I start typing, pretending I'm not listening in. Their whole conversation is not completely audible, but enough of it is.

Is this a joke?

Is this what Patel is so distracted with?