Broken

“Have you published anything?”

“Three novels so far.” Fucking hell, stop talking, dickhead! “I’m only self-published though.”

“You say that like it devalues your achievement. Writing takes strength, commitment, a unique mind that has the ability to see the world differently and put that vision into words. Don’t ever undersell yourself, Theodore.”

His voice sounds so genuine that I break the vow I made to myself and look at him. I can’t help it. His eyes are on the road but they hold something that intrigues me, compels me to look deeper. I think I see a vulnerability, a darkness, but I force myself to ignore it. I don’t know this man and I never will. He pisses me off too much. I feel like he’d make a good character, that maybe I could write about him, but he’d end up getting a happy ever after and he’s too much of a tosser to deserve one.

“They could be a bag of shite for all you know,” I say. I’m feeling a little too content in his presence and I rectify that by being a prick.

“I doubt that.”

“You haven’t read them.”

“I don’t need to. I can see your passion. I feel it. I saw it the first time I met you, the way you looked at me.”

“I don’t remember,” I blatantly lie. “I was drunk.”

“You do,” he says with that unrelenting confidence that makes me want to punch him in the face. There’s no point arguing. Not only is he right, I do remember and I don’t think I’ll ever forget, but we’ve arrived in the car park.

“Your car is still here,” he notes, nodding over to it.

“Perceptive as well as arrogant. That’s a talent.”

“Do you want me to call a garage to come and pick it up?”

“I’m not a moron,” I snap, and it instantly sparks a twinge of guilt in my stomach. He’s being nice and I’m behaving like a mammoth dick. “I’ve already sorted it.” Except I haven’t. I can’t afford to right now. Hopefully, my brother will lend me the money to have it towed back to my flat this afternoon and I’ll get it repaired on payday.

James’ phone rings in his pocket as we get out of the car and I’m grateful for the interruption. He answers with a curt, “Holden,” and continues to talk throughout our walk to the building. I don’t listen to what he says, too busy trying to make sense of the unsettling emotion swimming in my chest.

Still on the phone when we step inside Holden House, James offers a brief wave before carrying on without me towards the lifts. I still have half my coffee but, feeling tense, I toss it in the bin before taking the stairs to my floor two at a time. I don’t run as much as I used to and I need to burn off some of the energy that takes over my body whenever James fucking Holden is close.

I head straight to my desk and bring up my first task of the day on the computer. I need to type up a pitch to several distributors for Mike the Moron’s newest client and get them emailed out before lunch.

Speaking of Mike… “I need these taking down to admin when you have a minute,” he says, placing a tray of sealed envelopes on my desk.

“Sure,” I reply with a fake smile.

I expect him to turn away, but instead he stares at me through narrowed eyes.

“Have I done something wrong?” I ask, trying to remember if I photocopied the documents he told me to yesterday. I did. I’m sure.

“You can’t skip rungs to get to the top of the ladder here. You have to work for it like everyone else.”

“Um…” I’m confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“I saw you getting out of Holden’s car this morning. You should know he doesn’t return favours with promotion.”

What the… “My car broke down. That’s all there is to it.” My tone is acidic, my expression disgusted. Who the hell does he think he is?

“Whatever you say.”

My fist itches to knock the smarmy grin off his face. What is it with this place? I’m starting to wonder if you need a degree in arseholery to progress here. My mood is set for the rest of the day. I complete my work with a permanent scowl etched onto my face and don’t bother speaking to anyone unless asked a direct question. It only gets worse when my computer crashes and I have to stay late while I wait for the technician to arrive.

Alone, bar the company of a handful of cleaners dotted throughout the building, I kick back in my swivel chair and prop my feet up on my desk. After texting Tess to tell her I’ll be late home, I pull up the Facebook app on my phone and tap out a quick status update about my bad mood. Switching to my author page app, my stomach flips when I notice I’ve reached the two thousand likes milestone. I doubt half of them have read my books but I don’t care. If my stories have only reached one of them I consider it a success. I type a thank you status from my alter ego TS Roberts and then move on to Twitter.

“You’re still here?” My eyes dart toward the sound of James’ voice and find him standing a couple of stations away from me. “It’s almost seven.”

It surprises me that I’m actually pleased to see him. He’s still an arsehole, but Mike is worse, and I’m grateful for a break from the boredom of my own company.

“My computer went down. I’m waiting for tech to arrive.”

“You’ve waited long enough. Go home. It’ll still be broken in the morning, they’ll have to come back.”

I consider it for a moment but decide against it. “I don’t mind waiting.” It’s an excuse rather than a lie. “I don’t need to give Mike any more reasons to chew my arse off.” Damn. Why’d you tell him that?

“You’ve messed up?” he asks. I expect him to gloat or make fun of me but he doesn’t. He walks over to my desk and perches on the edge of it, his thigh brushing against my ankle.