Charitable Contributions

3: Fired

I gathered my most compelling arguments, waded through the maze of half-cubicles, and knocked on our boss' open door. "Mr. Benning?"

A taller, thinner, balding version of my boss hunched over Benning's screen. My dickhead boss pointed to his over-the-shoulder gawker. "My brother, Amos. Aim, this is Amelia Hayes."

"Hi." I frowned at the familiarity of Amos Benning, but I couldn't place the name or face.

"Finally finished, Miss Hayes? Amos is here for the signed-off paperwork."

"Yes, Sir." I closed the door. "I'm sorry. All the Pearson charities share the same problem."

"Problem? On Pearson's account?" Amos stood upright. His gray eyebrows joined, and wrinkles compressed his forehead. "Marcus, you said that was closed two days ago."

I shook my head so fast that strands of my hair tickled my forehead. "Sir, the recipient payouts–"

He lifted a hand, dragged it down his goatee, and glared flamethrowers out his eyes.

The prick's exaggerated sigh still bothered me.

"Miss Hayes, you were tasked to balance one charity's numbers, not dispute their reported amounts, and certainly not examine other charities." He turned to his monitor. "My apologies, Amos. Miss Hayes, since you're not performing your duties as assigned, I'm afraid we'll have to let you go."

"What!?" I coiled my fingers around my notebook, hugging it to my chest. "Sir, I–"

"You heard me, Miss Hayes." His eyes narrowed, and his fingers flew over his keyboard. "I don't feel your opinions align with the priorities at Midfield Accounting, Miss Hayes. Thank you for your services, but please clear out your desk accordingly."

The keyboard his index fingers single-typed on caught my eyes. I wanted to smash it into his forehead. "With all due respect?" I coiled my hand around his door handle. His dismissal, in front of his brother, was a professional slap in the face. Heat simmered beneath my skin, and I sank my ragged nails into my damp palms. I slanted my eyes into slits so narrow that his indignant face blurred.

"Fuck you, Sir."

Pressure pulsed behind my eyes, another parting souvenir. I rolled my upper lip inward, scraping the skin between my teeth. It was for the best, but fuck, that stung. I would be fine. More time for yoga. Minor setback. Focus ahead, Mia.

The sea of roadblocks and unmovable impasses ahead was a fitting reflection of my life's state. My truck rumbled in the rightmost lane of gridlocked traffic. It was blocked for...who the fuck knew. Maybe a snake crossing.

Vibrations rattled my phone on the dashboard, showing the studio's number. I reached up and pushed the accept button. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mia," a smooth, soothing woman's voice flowed out.

"Hey, Shanti." Blaring horns ahead brought my eyes to the standstill parking lot. I could crawl faster. "I'm about twenty minutes out, so I'll make it."

"That's not what I'm calling about." Her sigh buzzed through the interior airspace. "Mia, you're a good instructor. Well-prepared, eager, and time conscientious. Your evening therapy classes are a wonderful surprise addition. We've filled the waitlist for the duration of Fort Simmons' program."

At face value, her words were a compliment, but what she hadn't said made my shoulders slump. Shanti buttered me up before slicing my toast in half, meaning an incoming favor request or news I wouldn't receive well. Neither was preferable, given my current wallowing in a mud pit of melancholy. "That's good?" My chest sagged, rounding my upper back. "What's the but?"