3. Wyn

" Fuck!" I wail as I drop my keys and phone on the kitchen counter. "That was a day straight from hell. Pure, unadulterated hell."

Bridget, my roommate, best friend, and platonic soulmate, turns slowly from her post at the stove and says evenly, "More or less hellish than yesterday?"

Bridget is one of those people who is supremely calm and rational when it comes to dealing with other people's problems. It's one of her greatest strengths.

"Hard to say ‘cause I spent fifteen hours in transit yesterday, what with the flight delay in Buffalo and all." I got lost on the way to Miller's, was forced to deal with an extremely rude man when I finally did find the house, and only got back home after one a.m. this morning. "At least I didn't have to deal with Derek MacAvoy all day. Did you know they call him Satan? Everyone in the entire building does. That says a lot, doesn't it?"

"Mm," agrees Bridget, pursing her lips and waving an index finger as decisively as if she were cracking a whip. "Red flag. That's what that is."

Bridget loves identifying red flags in other people's lives and ignoring them completely in her own. She's excellent at it.

"Despite all that, I think today might have been worse. I walked five blocks to buy him a coffee from a place the day-to-day file swore he liked. I got back, hair starting to frizz from the heat, handed him the cup, and all he did was sniff at it. Sniff at it. Didn't even have a sip, just pushed it away. The cup was still on his desk when I went home. He didn't even taste it or bother putting it in the trash. How rude is that?"

"Red flag," says Bridget with absolute conviction. "You should resign."

"Oh, don't think I won't. I absolutely will."

Why I haven't resigned already is something of a mystery to me. Best I can tell, it has to do with pride. Other than all forms of sports involving a ball, I've never failed at anything I've set my mind to. I know my worth. You don't need to worry about that. I know I don't deserve to be treated badly or put up with other people's bullshit, no matter how much Clarissa needs me or how good it feels to be needed. I'm going to give this job a few weeks, maybe a month, and then I'll resign if Derek MacAvoy hasn't succeeded in the—admittedly challenging—task of removing his head from his ass.

Bridget eyes me curiously, pausing to lift the spoon to her mouth, blow on it, and taste the risotto she's making for our dinner. Something about the way she looks at me unnerves me. She's very astute, my Bridget. I'm not saying she's a mind reader. Of course not. I'm just saying that she and I have hardly any secrets between us. The only secret of substance I've ever kept from her is that I can't stand her boyfriend, Josh. Absolutely cannot bear him. There was a time at the beginning of their relationship when I made murmurs about it, but it wasn't well received, so I stopped, fully expecting the relationship would fizzle out. Six years later, here we are. Josh is still a permanent fixture in her life, albeit one who comes and goes and absolutely refuses to give her any form of commitment. He's stringing her along. That's what he's doing. That asshole has been under the impression he can do better than Bridget since the very beginning. He's a complete and utter shit who needs to be dropkicked into the ocean, in my un-humble opinion.

I digress.

My point is that Bridget and I don't have many secrets, and while I love that about us, I badly, badly don't want her to know about the mild resemblance Derek has to The Faceless Man. I especially don't want her to know that even though his behavior seems to be getting steadily worse, my attraction to him has yet to diminish.

No, no. Don't worry. We're still not panicking. It's all still completely in hand. I just don't want Bridget reading my mind right now. That's all I'm saying.

"How long till dinner's ready?" I ask.

"Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes."

"I might have a bath in that case, soak the day off, you know? Leave all that negativity at work."

Bridget and I bought one of those lovely timber bath caddies you lay across the bathtub when we moved into this apartment. We keep our best products and a nice little collection of candles on it. It makes us feel fancy. We love that kind of thing.

I light the candles and sprinkle some of the good salts into the water as it runs, and then I sink in, dropping my head back against the rim of the bath as the hot water and a blend of woody and floral aromas float through the air and take the desired effect.

My shoulders, which have been tense all day, start to relax.

Derek was worse today than on Monday. Much worse. He found fault with everything I did. He had me redo the agenda for a meeting tomorrow three times. Asked if I'd written agendas at my last job or if this was the first time I'd done it, if you can believe that. Then, a couple of hours later, he suggested it might be helpful to call HR and ask if someone could arrange schedule management training for me. He said it as if he was trying to be helpful.

I was livid.

At least, I would have been if he hadn't come all the way out of his office and stood inches away from me when he said it. He leaned a mammoth hand on my desk, and though I was trying my best to follow what he was saying, it wasn't all that easy. His hand was directly in my line of sight. Right in front of my face. Curled leisurely. Tapping impatiently on the marble with his index finger when I didn't react as fast as he wanted me to. It was all but impossible to ignore the sumptuous gold tone of his skin and the fine tufts of dark hair on the backs of his hands.

It's flat-out impossible to ignore the fact that the only accurate description I've come up with for his digits is dick fingers. Long and almost impossibly thick. Deep nailbeds and neatly trimmed nails. Seriously, his fingers are so thick that I've found myself wondering how the hell he manages to use the touch screen on his phone. Hell, I'm not even sure how he navigates a keyboard without issues.

Just my luck he has paws like that.

I've always had a bit of a preoccupation with masculine hands. Love them. Really love them. Some people are all about asses or abs, and that's lovely for them, but me, I'm all about hands and deep voices. Hands, deep voices, and presence. Those are my blind spots. Always have been.

Hmm…

I may have spoken too hastily about the candles and the water relaxing me. I seem to be carrying some tension. Admittedly, I'm only tense in a single, isolated area, but still, seems only sensible to work it out. I think, given the way things are, it's best not to go too long without working the aforementioned tension out.

The last thing I need going into my altercations with the Dark Lord is my dick running the show.

No.

That mustn't be allowed to happen.

I curl my fingers around my hard cock and call on The Faceless Man to do his worst.

I must be exhausted because he comes through glitchy. Patchy. Just snippets, little pieces of favorite fantasies I can't quite seem to piece together. A tall man approaching. A dark suit jacket dropped carelessly to the floor. Big hands unbuckling a belt as I watch helplessly.

Big hands.

Thick fingers.

Dick fingers.

A marble counter, smooth and pristine. Clinical and clean. Tanned skin. Thick veins. The sound of a fingernail on stone.

"Feeling better?" asks Bridget.

"Much better, thanks." I take the plate she's holding out for me and try my best not to think about what just got me off.

I'm tired. I hardly got any sleep last night because of the late flight, and no one's at their best when they're running on empty. It's fine. It's nothing to get worked up about.

We sit on the sofa and settle in to eat our meals on our laps. There's a home renovation show on and we flit in and out of watching it.

"Oof, that counter looks like shit," says Bridget.

"Yeah, it's really sucking all the light out of the room. Something white would look better. Composite stone or, or, maybe m-marble."

"You and I would do a much better job of it, don't you think? Why don't people just let us make these decisions for them?"

"‘Cause people are dumb."

"Mm." She's quiet for a while, lost in thought, and then she pops back. "Talking of stupid, guess who I saw today?"

"God. Stupid people, that's such a broad category. I'm not sure I can guess if you don't narrow it down."

"Anton," she says, as if stupid has a first name. Anton is our upstairs neighbor, and Bridget has been far from impressed by the constant stream of women he has trailing up and down the stairs to his apartment. "He was wearing that T-shirt again. You know, the white one that's so tight you can see the outline of his nipples so clearly you feel like you've accidentally dropped into a porn clip?" I nod and make sounds to suggest disapproval. Truth be told, I don't mind men in obscenely tight T-shirts. Never have. In fact, I'm rather a fan of it. "I could see the indent of his abs from the door, and he was over on the stairs. It's too much. No one needs to see that when taking the trash out."

I crunch my nose and shake my head in faux agreement.

"At this point, he may as well go ahead and have fuck boy tattooed on his forehead." It's not the first time she's said it, but it still gets a giggle from me. Whenever she says it, I immediately imagine Anton standing at the counter of a tattoo place, asking to have fuck boy permanently inked onto his face. I can only imagine how he'd squeal when he saw the needle. Fuck boys are notorious for being afraid of needles. Really. They are. My mom's a nurse, and she's confirmed it.

Okay, okay, fine. She said men, in general, are more likely to faint at the sight of needles, but you know what I mean.

"Yes, but it'd be a bit of a waste, wouldn't it? I mean, think about it. How would anyone see the tat with his cap permanently glued to his head?"

"Good point. Might be better if he had it done on his neck… Oh, hell no! Shiny tile in the main living area? What are they thinking?" Bridget has strong opinions on all matters relating to décor, but tile—especially shiny tile—anywhere other than the bathroom is a big no for her. She prefers timber flooring and feels very strongly about it. When I don't heartily agree, she pauses the show and looks at me. "Are you okay, Wynnie?"

I shrug and nod and shake my head at the same time. "That fucker scolded me today."

Her eyes widen and her mouth pinches into a scowl. "He did what?"

"He called me into his office and made me stand beside him while he went over corrections to the minutes I did on Monday line by line. He'd covered almost every page with angry red ink, and he made me explain why I'd ‘chosen to do it wrong.'" My legs felt a little shaky just being in his office. It's a cavernous space with dark wooden floors and a black leather Danish sofa. His desk is huge and psychopath neat. Even the art is imposing, abstract and big with a bold use of color. Reds, blacks, and browns swirl together. Anger incarnate. I stood right next to his chair. I knew that was expected of me because he wordlessly pointed a stern forefinger to the exact spot on the floor he wanted me to occupy. He pulled his chair up so close to me we were almost touching. My heart pounded the entire time, and while I wouldn't tell Bridget this, I'm not entirely sure it was from the scolding. "He was so mean. The back of my head started to sweat, and you know that gives me big eighties hair."

"Oh, Wynnie." Bridget pulls me into a tight hug and says, "You know what that is, don't you?"

I sniff and nod against her shoulder.

"Red flag," we say in unison.