Fuck It (Yama Yama)

My adrenaline starts pumping in a heated argument, so I can never let things get heated. Obviously. Because when that anger adrenaline kicks in, the tears start leaking even worse.

And that pisses me off more.

Which makes me cry more.

Vicious cycle.

“Glad we can agree on that,” Anderson says, his eyes burning mine with an unspoken challenge. Though I don’t know what that challenge is.

Don’t worry. I totally have a coping mechanism to help me stave off those angry tears. It’s odd, but totally effective.

As I walk out the door, fighting off angry tears without looking back or collecting months-worth of work from his desk, I make a crucial decision: Sewer rats will dispose of the body.

“I can’t believe you told me I was a good fit for Anderson’s department. I need out. Now. He doesn’t respect me or my work,” I growl, glaring at my brother as he puts down another box in my house.

I’m still on edge, having only left Anderson’s office twenty minutes ago. Those angry tears are being held off by my little tactic.

Music. Music that says what I want to say so that I don’t have to force the words from my lips and deal with the emotional fallout. Music that distracts me. My therapist suggested it, but told me to only pick motivating songs. Nothing that would make the tears worse.

Well, that’s what I do.

“Eye of the Tiger” plays on a loop right now.

“I can’t do that,” he says, distracted as he walks back out to collect another box. I go to grab one as well, since his entire SUV is loaded completely down with them.

“Why the hell not?”

I grunt when I pick up what has to be a microwave inside a box or something, and Roman takes it from my hands with a little too much ease. I hate it when guys do that. It makes a girl feel weak.

“Because I can’t act like I’m showing you any favoritism. Anderson is tough on his people, but he’s good at what he does. I would know. I’ve teamed up with him numerous times on numerous accounts.”

I grab the tiny lamp, deciding my physical strength doesn’t define my self-worth, and continue to trail my brother while he tosses two more boxes on top of the heavy one and carries all three back toward my house.

Almost absently, I select “Macho Man” to play for this moment, and it filters through the Bluetooth speaker inside, causing my brother to groan.

“You didn’t tell me he’d be micromanaging every little thing I do.”

“You’re new,” he grunts, straining under the weight of the three boxes, while I wield the tiny lamp under my arm. “He’s going to micromanage you until he trusts you.”

“I’m his friend’s sister. Shouldn’t he already trust me?”

“As a person?” he asks, straining harder when he makes it to the bedroom again, putting down all the boxes. “Yes. But as his employee, you have to earn that trust. You know the drill, Sicily. Would you want him to treat you differently than the others because of me?”

No. No, I wouldn’t. I’d be livid if he showed me an ounce of favoritism because of who my brother is.

“I hate starting all over,” I finally admit, blowing out a breath.

He musses my hair—damn him—before walking back out. I trail behind him again, selecting a shoebox as my article to carry this time. He eyes me, but he’s smart enough to not comment on my choice of item as he scoops up a huge, seemingly heavy tote, if his straining muscles are any indication.

“Better than being stuck at a dead-end career in a shithole like you were,” he says, his voice shaky from struggling with his load.

I twirl the light shoebox, thinking about that. I hated Holland’s Region once I realized where I stood. I was the pretty girl who did all the work, but got zero credit. And that’s what I would have always been.

My feet were spinning faster than Fred Flintstone’s, gaining no traction, because I was stuck in a tar pit there. And a metaphorical T-Rex was slowly eating all my hopes and dreams right in front of me.

That may be the oddest analogy I’ve ever come up with.

“So I have to somehow deal with Anderson—who I don’t know how you stand, since he’s a prick—for how long before he trusts me and stops ripping apart my work?”

Roman once again goes to unload more of that beast he calls a vehicle, and I continue my puppy dog act, following along behind him while he wipes sweat off his brow.

“He’s not a prick,” he defends, as always.

“Says the guy who never trusted him alone with me,” I retort dryly.

He grunts. “Not worried about that anymore.”

I glance down at my body and arch an eyebrow at him, though he’s oblivious to it, since his back is turned. “What’re you trying to say?” I ask, mildly offended.