I couldn't have been hotter under my collar. On the day nine-to-five workers cherished, I sat as miserable as a neutered dog wearing a cone of shame.
Why? My ass, specifically the bookkeeper's cheek, was fired.
The admission, and the smallest box of 'take your shit home' in working human existence, burned my face with heat. I left Midfield Accounting with a minuscule severance check, two Kind bars, my notebook, and a white Midfield coffee cup. I sidewalk-smashed the cup outside the entrance. Petty? Yes. Deserved? I thought so.
I lasted five fucking days. No, four and a half. What the fuck was I supposed to tell Michael?
Discovering all five charities in Sam's foundation withheld almost all of the total proceeds to recipients further provoked my disgust. Yet, being a glutton for punishment, I applied my highest due diligence, drilling into the expenses with a focused effort that tongue-flicking ass didn't deserve.
Initially, I thought a decimal was misplaced, but balanced numbers didn't lie. Click for click, five sets of bloated expenses and paltry recipient payouts unfolded into a directionless map. One percent. Four percent. Half a percent! Three percent. Two percent. Disgusting.
My efforts earned me tired, dry eyes from staring at a damn screen for two days straight. And fired. Fucking Sam Pearson.
After two days of wading up to my armpits in exorbitant manager salaries, advertising costs, and incidentals, I shared my concerns with Amir. He jumped into an NFL analysts' assessment of how likely Sam would start next season while I guessed how much French Roast was required to drown him. Amir only took me seriously when I threatened to stand on my chair and announce the awful numbers and an underestimate of Sam's dick size, on a bullhorn. Kinda seriously.
"Close it out." Amir shrugged, tossing up a foam football. "It started with Sam's money. If he doesn't care, then why should you?"
In hindsight, any discussion on moral, human decency needed was a red flag. So entrenched in the weeds, I missed the trees in the forest.
"Donors are being deceived." I waved the audacities in my notebook. "Maybe he doesn't know."
"If that's your way of admitting your crush on him," his singsong voice teased. He whipped up a wobbly spiral. "Go for it."
Second red flag.
"I don't...no." I snatched the ball. Air and squish poofed between my fingers. "I'm going to tell Benning."
Amir's head shake bounced his black waves. "Lost cause."
More flags than a golf course.
"And I ran into Benning's office like my notebook was Willy Wonka's last golden ticket, or worse, a fan seeking his autograph," I muttered, squeezing my steering wheel. "Fucking waste of a human existence."
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?"
"But I need teachers, Mia," she answered without hesitation.
Damn. Solid yoga burn. The care she wrapped around each word triggered the opposite reaction, pushing me face-first into melancholy mud. A lump swelled in my throat. "I-I'll try."
Fuck, I couldn't lose that too. It was more than a meager paycheck.
Relief lifted an airy breeze into her voice, "I know you will. We have a VIP guest in your class tonight, so please sign an NDA before you leave."
I crinkled my nose. What the fuck did that mean? "Sure."
"Wonderful. Take care, Mia."
I puffed out my cheeks with a hot exhale. Easier said than done. Quitting adulting and curling under my bed's covers tempted me home. She confirmed what I feared: teacher, not instructor. Shanti's request meant forming deeper connections with my class participants. As awesome as my personality was, I was still a social work-in-progress. Fuck, look who I lived with.
Using a steady breath,I reminded myself of the obvious: my plan wasn't ruined. Unlike Michael, mine didn't involve working for a jerk-face so conceited that he employed a team of ass kissers, spearheaded by my brother, and founded a sham of a foundation to glorify his name.
Calm down and stop killing brain cells thinking about that self-indulgent, arrogant, ass–
Chest, lungs, belly.
Another nasal breath filtered my thoughts and slowed my racing heartbeats. Following my inner mantra, I pushed the in-breath lower until my stomach stretched. Leaning over, I curled my fingers around my closest companion and keeper of all my secrets. Lavender infused with tea tree oil teased my nose, and I inhaled my version of a junkie's next hit. The scents tingled through me, loosening the knots gripping my shoulders.
A car honk blared behind me. Traffic gridlocked around a sunburned, heavyset man in a neon vest holding a 'Caution' sign on a pole. I wanted a relationship that lasted as long as this damn construction.
Passing four men circling a burst pipe that one fixed, I groaned at Sign Man's smirk. The action slipped my sunglasses down my nose. I pushed them back up, squinting until the 'D33Z NTS' plate ahead blurred. Lovely.
A Wounded Warrior bumper sticker shortened my breath. My heart blipped. I forced my gaze over the companion 'Brisket is my Spirit Animal' and sunlight reflecting off silver testicles dangling on the truck's hitch. Double lovely.
Lamaze breaths, a silver nutsack Drishti, and a quarter mile of questionable rumble strip driving later, I idled two intersections from the studio. Puffing out a breath, I consulted my notebook for tonight's class, a dark blue version of my orange work counterpart. The Sanskrit letters for the dragon sequence blurred together.
I thumbed through the haphazard mix of scribbled class plans, inspirational quotes, mood song playlists, stress-relief confessionals, smudged corrections, stick-figure doodles, and dog-eared reminders. It was a mess of my shallowest and deepest thoughts, spiritual inspirations, and a more reliable memory recall device than my brain. The scrutiny I exerted planning my classes exceeded my OCD-like strive for perfection. Given feedback from Shanti, now my only employer, a positive impression was critical. No pressure.
My most important class also withdrew its reimbursements from a finite grant account supplied by nearby Fort Simmons. I still had a yoga job, but what about the class members if funding wasn't renewed? Throbbed beats strained the space between my eyebrows. Giving up on class review, I searched for inspirational quotes. Blue moleskin depressed under my fingers at the perfect answer to Sam Pearson's existence.
Yoga isn't about tightening your ass. It's about getting your head out of it. –Erik Balken
Another blaring horn jolted my spine. Shaking my head, rogue strands snagged my right helix and tugged my scalp. I pulled them free and tossed my notebook onto my passenger's seat with a flop. Sam wouldn't last one class without a 'yoga is for girls' comment or some sexist, misogynist bullshit. Would he fit on a mat? No, I didn't care.
The traffic light for the strip mall entrance hung as a last obstruction from the studio in the back corner, windows glowing with a soft light. So close.
"Finally!" As I cheered at the green light, my truck coughed as I depressed the accelerator. A shiny, black car slipped across my lane and made me slam my foot. What the fuck!? Again? Constriction from the seatbelt gripped my throat. My passenger seat items slammed to the floor as I blew my horn. "Fuck!"
Muttering strings of curse words, I squeezed my eyes closed. A glug sound drew them to where my yoga journal lay in a puddle. "Perfect."
I legit growled when the black Maserati took the jammed lot's last spot. Palming my wheel, I groaned at how many higher power signs I needed before either breaking down in tears or nursing my sorrows in a bathtub and an assembly line of boxed wine. Or better, both.
Two giant feet stepped out in white and red men's athletic shoes. Long, muscular calves exited second, followed by black mesh shorts and a skin-tight shirt stretched over–"What the fuck of all fucks?"
Mister Busted Can of Muscle Biscuits turned sideways to fit between the cars, his broad back flexing as he straightened. Even worse than the hair clogs I left in the shower drain, my brain circled his presence. He was here? Today? Now? "Whyyyyyy!?" I screamed to the roof. "Michael, if you had anything to do with this, you'd better enjoy your last day on Earth."
The same silver sunglasses sat on the bridge of Sam's nose, but he didn't look in my direction. Highlights from the late morning sun landed on his dark curls, stuck in haphazard angles. The beard was a bit scraggly. He looked torn up.
Don't know, don't care.
The weight of this shitastic day, and now Sam, brought tears to my eyes. I parked in the side lot and threw a meditation towel over the floor puddle. Grunting, I grabbed my bag, half-filled bottle, and sopping journal and bolted my ass to the studio first. Dry heat burned in my lungs, and my bag bounced against my ass. Sweat popped up on my forehead. I couldn't think straight. Reflected behind the random strands of hair flying out of my bun, Sam weaved between cars. I prayed he aimed to buy cigarettes and guns at the next-door liquor store.
A blast of air conditioning pricked goosebumps on my heated arms and shoulders. I shut the door with a jangle of chimes. The shoulder tension knots returned, and the usual respite the light green walls offered was nowhere to be found. Swirls from an incense stick rose from behind the front counter's LED cherry blossom bonsai tree. Cinnamon spice tingled my nose.
Murmured admissions and squeals drew my eyes to four girls near the desk. Lanky and toned, their skin-tight sports bras and leggings blurred under my indifference. "Mia!" A petite blonde, whose giant knockers stretched her black sports bra in what I assumed was an intentionally desperate look, flicked her eyes at me. "I'm coming to your class. Did you hear–"
"Hey." I removed my sunglasses and forced a smile at the estrogen herd. "Y'all, I don't follow rumors."
Ignoring Alyssa's eye roll, my purple Crocs squeaked on the carpet. I accepted the key Margie outstretched to me. The short, curvy instructor stepped behind the desk in gray leggings and a purple shirt. We both had jet-black hair, hers in a long braid. Her smooth, bronzed skin made mine a sheet of paper. Her big, round eyes blinked up at my face. "What happened?"
"Nightmare," I grumbled as Abominable Dickhead's shadow cast behind me.
Sam's entrance triggered another jangle of chimes. I was surprised the incense stick wasn't snuffed out with the number of gasps drawn. I was not looking at him drinking in the fangirling. Water. I needed water.
Constriction squeezed my dry throat, and I shivered, curling my fingers around my bag strap and retreating past the desk. Sam's fangirls whispered in awe.
"Fuck, he's hot!" "He's huge." "I need a cold shower."
Let them get his autograph. I wrenched my mouth into a scowl. Tucking my bag to my stomach, I blended into the herd of ponytails and mats moving through class transitions. Maybe Sam was in Margie's Ashtanga. I stopped at a drinking fountain.
My retreat was futile. A low, deep voice called out. His voice. "You again."
His tree-sized body commanded the studio's attentiveness. Shanti's yogis smiled and parted around him. I rolled my eyes at Alyssa's shameless eye fucking at Sam. Standing outside my studio room and biting her lip, her head swiveled on an invisible string attached to him. Surprisingly, she didn't smash her tits on the wall.
The dim lighting darkened his chestnut locks, which fluffed around where he placed his sunglasses. A slight puffiness sat under his eyes, etched with fine red lines at the corners.
Had I cared, I would've wondered if his week was as shitty as mine. But I didn't.
Cold dribbled over my wrist. My water bottle overflowed, coating my knuckles. As I juggled it closed, my bag strap fell off my shoulder and lodged into my elbow. The corner of my soggy notebook gouged my armpit. Fuck, could I have been any more of a hot mess?
"Need a hand?" His elbow propped on the wall, a warm smile curling up the corners of his mouth. The reasons I wasn't supposed to find him attractive flexed inches from me. My eyes fluttered to blink away. Was I wearing an 'all douchebags welcome, no waiting line' sign?
For a woman, I was freakishly tall, large-boned, and muscular. Next to Sam, I was small and dwarfed in all dimensions. My fitted yoga clothes made me naked and exposed, and the hairs on my forearms stood up. Drawing a breath was pointless because his deodorant's fresh smell dizzied my brain. My quicker heartbeat echoed a southern pulse between my legs, followed by a trickling sensation. That'd better be ass sweat.
I recoiled, stepping back for some much-needed airspace. "Not the one you licked."
My confirmation elicited 'oh shit' reactions in both of us. His wide eyes mirrored mine. We stood taller and gaped at each other.
"Listen." Meaty and raised with veins, one hand raked through his hair. Fuck, why did those look lickable? A flicker of sheepishness rounded his eyes. "In the parking lot, I didn't know who–"
"I know who you are." My eyes narrowed at the crook that bumped his nose. Petty as fuck yes, but the tiny imperfection helped me focus. Up close, Sam inspired all kinds of stick figure deaths, starting with medieval torture devices. It didn't matter who I was; rude was rude.
Two hands palmed the wall around me. Sam was either a candidate for Houston's most clueless award or had an 'I don't like you' kink because he assumed I wanted his giant muscles invading my personal space. I lifted my soggy notebook between us, and a few drops trailed down my forearms.
His eyes tracked the flash of blue. "Still want that autograph?" The corners of his lips curved higher, denting his cheeks.
For the second time, my sarcastic response lodged in my throat. Coherent thoughts? Poof. Sam leaning over, his lips approaching my right ear, didn't help. Mine parted in a silent gasp, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
A long, thick index finger mushed my lips, tingling them with sensitivity. Teasing chuckles followed. "Don't scream." He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling the side of my neck. The heat he wrapped around each word wiped my mind blank. "Trying to keep a low profile, Miss..."
His fading voice smacked me with the obvious. And it wasn't the way my lips trembled under his touch. I...He...still didn't know me. A choked sound strangled in my throat, and I yanked my head back. Full brain fart mode engaged, my mouth hung open, and my tonsils dried. Only my eyes moved in one dumbfounded blink after another. Where the fuck was my voice, and why did he keep taking it? Speechless wasn't me. A dull edge on my razor vocabulary wasn't me.
Sam pulled back and dragged another bear-sized hand through his hair. "Sorry. I'm here for Mia's class. Can you point me in the right direction?"
Out the front door and over a cliff. The amount of effort required to not express that thought deserved an award. Familiar faces passing us, including into my studio, held me back. The anonymity of his ignorance offered an unexpected yet welcomed relief, and I glared at his outstretched hand. "No. I can't help you."
Confusion flickered in his eyes, faltering his smile, and his hand slacked to his side. Clenched corners of his mouth hinted that my rejection dented his egotistical exterior. Success.
Given so many curious eyes, no further words quelled the insult vomit building in me. I spun on my heel and squeak-stomped to the women's bathroom. Sam spoke with Alyssa, her blue eyes beaming and her hand lingering on his forearm. He paused, occupying most of the doorway of my studio, my space of peace, relaxation, and inner balance.
Sam coupled his triumphant smirk at me with a wink. No. No, no, no, no, no.
The bathroom door banged behind me. I cupped my hands with water and splashed my hot face. Rage burned in my eyes. My cheeks were red and blotchy in a cross between a crappy driver's license picture and a serial killer. My teeth dented my lower lip until it split with pain.
I was too nice. No, I was a yoga mat that his big, smelly feet stomped on.
For once, I hesitated to attend my class, and I hated that. Allowing one man the power to affect my mood was an insult, leading to an angry projection at the image of his tall, muscular frame occupying my studio space.
With a sigh, I steadied my shoulders. If Sam behaved like a normal humble guy tonight, maybe, I could put today behind me.
A familiar, low groan rang out from one of the stalls and shifted my brain into defensive mode. A wicked smile reflected.
Or, I could give him a class he'd never return to again.
Poor Amelia. Was her firing justified?
What do you think she has in mind for Sam? 🤔