JAWS (Complete)

Chapter 5

                   *The phone call*

“May I see you in my office, Gali dear?”

Galliard lifts his head; he can feel his eyelid wanting to twitch in irritation—firstly at being called Gali dear, and then because no one ever gets called to the gym owner’s office for anything good, only to get bitched out about something—and he forces it wide. He’s run ragged, the last few days a blur of class and work and camming, and it’s only Thursday. He still has a shift at the club tomorrow, and then probably camming afterwards, and everything smells like coffee to him and is blurry around the edges. He can’t remember the last time he had a full night of unbroken sleep, or what it feels like to not have his ass feel sore and chafed.

But Sarge is having more and more trouble standing up, and he needs to go to the vet, and Galliard isn’t going to let his hostage to fortune suffer just because he got stuck with the shitty, loser Galliard brother.

“Of course!” he chirps, trying his best to look peppy and full of good spirits as he follows the owner into her office, even as he can feel his stomach sinking out from underneath him. He’s done something wrong, he knows it. This is just the hammer falling.

The gym owner—an impossibly perky middle aged woman, fake tan throughout the entire year and hair that has to be dyed to be that shade of honey blonde—sits behind her desk, her hands tented in front of her, perfectly manicured nails on display. Galliard takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees, and wishes he didn’t have bags under his eyes that make him look like a damn heroin addict. At least he’s wearing short sleeves today, and she’ll be able to see that his forearms and elbow creases are smooth and unblemished.

Not that means anything, these days. Like Galliard makes enough money to be able to afford a fancy prescription pain pill addiction.

“So, Gali, sweetie…” Michelle—of course her name is Michelle, what else would she possibly be called?—turns to her laptop, a sleek silver MacBook that Franz scoffs at and Galliard drools in envy over, tapping a few keys and squinting at what she calls up, while Galliard clenches his fists on his knees at being called sweetie. “How long have you been with us?”

“Six months, miss.” The word miss tastes like ashes in Galliard’s mouth, but he forces himself to say it, knowing she’ll like it better than ma’am. It makes her grin at him, exposing uniformly white and even teeth that practically shine in her slightly orange face, and Galliard tries not to wince.

“And you like working here?”

“Very much, miss.” Not at the moment, but usually, yes. This is a Real Job, one that Galliard can actually put on his resume when he’s done with it, and he needs it. He needs it to keep the gaps in his work experience from getting too wide apart.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Gali, that you can call me Michelle?” Lies. Anyone who calls her Michelle finds themselves out of a job within a month. Gallliard just smiles tightly and nods, and she smiles at him again. "Then why, in six months, have you not secured a single regular client?”

Galliard can feel himself flush at the question, and he hates the way his goddamn cheeks betray him like this. He wishes he had the kind of face that doesn’t show his emotions; he wishes he had the kind of face that could seal itself away into a smooth, inscrutable mask. But he doesn’t, and he glances down at the desktop before answering. “I’ve been trying, miss.”