Grumpy Boss

by Hamel, B. B.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “You’re right. I’m ready.”

  “Good.” He stooped down and kissed me. I was surprised—I didn’t know we were doing that in public. “I’ll make the call. Hang out.”

  And he swept away from the room, practically whistling to himself.

  I watched him go, confused about what just happened, but strangely beaming with pride.

  I was going to take the bar, and I was going to see this through with Rees. That was all that mattered to me anymore—finally getting to the end of this, and seeing if there was still something between us on the other side. I wanted to kiss him and find out, and yet I knew we had one thing still coming, one final moment that would define everything.

  Desmond, in that house.

  I sipped my coffee and stared at the table cloth, and hoped people weren’t staring at me.

  22

  Rees

  We parked outside of the peeling light blue house and killed the engine. It was midday, around one in the afternoon, and the sun cast long shadows across the sidewalk. It was a nice busier than it had been the night before: a group of old women sat on a nearby stoop playing cards, a young couple in tight jeans walked a little fluffy white dog, and the branches swayed slightly in the soft breeze.

  “It’s pretty here,” Millie said, frowning at the house. “I can see why someone might want to stay.”

  “Better in the day than it is at night,” I said, and reached out to take her hand. I felt like some barrier had broken between us, and what was unspoken and hidden was out in the open now and acknowledged. It felt good, like I’d taken the bricks of myself and recast them, then put myself together again. “Maybe we can try having sex before we go in.”

  Millie snorted and squinted at the old ladies with their poofy white hair. “I doubt they’ll like it,” she said.

  “Ah, come on, they were young once, and who knows. Maybe they’d enjoy the show.”

  She gave me a look and opened the door. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and I hesitated, and some weak part of me wanted to stay in the car and hide out.

  But I was too angry, and Desmond had done too much to try and break me. I stepped out into the comfortable sunlight and took Millie’s hand as we crossed the street. She looked good in a pair of black slacks and a navy-blue button down with white polka dots, her hair up in a messy bun, lips colored a very subtle pink. Made up or unmade, she always left me wanting more.

  I walked up the porch steps, testing them to make sure they wouldn’t give out. Millie followed, but waited back by the railing as I rung the bell.

  Noting happened at first. I glanced back at her and she shrugged. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said. “Maybe he’s not home.”

  “He’s home,” I said, and rung the bell again. Desmond was a cliché, through and through, and if he was even remotely like the man I knew, he’d have been up late the night before, and likely just woke up.

  I rang again, and again, and soon I heard footsteps inside, creaking floorboards, someone coughing. I felt a spike and I thought I recognized the sound—and a second later, the door opened, and Desmond stood there in a long, ratty gray robe, his once-black hair gone gray and thinning, his white t-shirt pit stained and threadbare, and his eyes widened as I tilted my head, and leaned against the door frame.

  “Hello, Des,” I said. “Invite me inside.”

  “What the hell,” he said, and started to shut the door, but I stepped forward and shoved against it. “What the hell are you doing here?” he gasped, trying to shove me back, but he’d lost weight in the years since I last saw him, his cheeks sunken, his chin covered in a thin, ugly beard. He was a haunted version of the man I knew a long time ago, and this only confirmed that my old friend was dead, buried by time and distance and too many things we couldn’t take back.

  I rammed my shoulder into the door and it flew open with a bang. He grunted as he stumbled back and tripped over the end of a recliner. I stepped inside and looked around—the place was a wreck. Newspapers were stacked on the coffee table, and more than a few empty vodka bottles were lined up against the wall, each of them plastic, with peeling labels. The television was ten years out of style and chipped on the sides, and the walls were marked by fingers and smudged.

  Desmond stared up at me from the floor, the carpet brown and mottled with stains. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “And you should’ve left me alone.” I stepped closer and he crab-crawled backwards, before stumbling to his feet. He staggered over toward the couch, but didn’t sit, and paced back and forward, agitated. Millie stepped in behind me and made a face around her.

  “Nice,” she said softly. “This explains a lot.” She pulled the door shut behind us.

  “Desmond,” I said. “This is Millie. You know about her, right?”

  He looked up, glaring at me. “Of course I know.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned huge. “I know all about your girlfriends. I know what you did to Giana, and I know what you did to Lady Fluke. She’s pregnant with your child, isn’t she, you monster?”

  I gaped at him, not sure what to make of this, and he began to pace again, mumbling to himself—and it hit me, all at once, like a sudden flood. I stepped sideways and put my hand against the wall for support, taking a deep breath, and staring at the bottles, at the newspapers, at a stack of Car and Driver magazine.

  “You believe it all, don’t you?” I asked, blinking up at him.

  He paused and glowered. “Of course. It’s all the truth, isn’t it?”

  I looked at Millie, and I saw horror in her eyes—likely mirroring my own.

  He wasn’t some genius nemesis out to get me. Desmond was a full-on raving alcoholic, living at rock bottom, and likely had been for a long time. I couldn’t guess how he survived at all—likely took some IT security clients and was coherent enough to do his simple work for them, and probably still had money saved from investments he’d made when we still worked together.

  I gathered myself and walked to his windows. I ripped open the curtains and let light inside, and Desmond shrank back from it, like a cave dweller unused to the light. He grunted something and stooped down, looking at the bottles, before he found one with a swallow left. He drank it back and smacked his lips together before placing the bottle back where it was, angling the label just so.

  “You’re not okay,” I said, and took a step into his room. “You need help, Des.”

  “You need help,” he said, leering at me. “I’ve done all I can to tell the world what you are, Rees. They won’t listen of course, but I’ve tried.”

  “They’re listening,” I said, shaking my head. “But none of what you’re saying is true. A lot of people don’t care though, and you’re getting people hurt.”

  “Good,” he said, laughing to himself. “Good, good, good. I want them to get hurt. I want you to get hurt.” He stepped toward me, eyes wide and manic. “Before I met you, I was normal. And look at me now. You think I don’t know what I am?”

  He sounded desperate, almost pleading, and for once second, I saw the old Desmond there in his gaze, lucid and buried somewhere behind the years of drinking and neglect. But that Desmond disappeared, and it felt like a stab to my chest, as he turned and stormed into the kitchen. I stood there, staring at the bottles, and listened to him banging around the cabinets.

  “What are we going to do?” Millie asked softly, and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Everyone assumes he’s the same guy he used to be,” I said. “I bet he emails, makes phone calls—but never leaves the house. And because we were close once, they listen.” I laughed at the absurdity of it all. If a man this far gone could possibly hurt me as much as he had, then the world was broken. If a single one of those supposed journalists had done even a little due diligence, and tracked Desmond down to this horrible place, they would’ve instantly realized that he couldn’t be trusted. “This explains that letter,” I said suddenly, staring at her.
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  She chewed her lip. “You’re right. I’ve been wondering about the letter. It always seemed a little odd that he admitted to everything. But now looking ack at it… he’s just crazy. That’s all there is to it. Nothing makes sense, because he doesn’t make sense.” She shook her head, her face pale and drawn.

  “And nobody noticed because he disappeared,” I said. “Refused to meet people in person. Stuck to phone and email. He’s sane enough to know his life’s a total wreck, and that’s he’s totally lost it, but not sane enough to come back.”

  She looked scared, and I couldn’t blame her. This was the dissolution of a man’s life and his mind, right here in front of us, this house physical proof of Desmond’s scarred psyche. I would laugh, if it weren’t so terrible.

  “We need proof,” I said. “Show people what they’ve been listening to.”

  “How?” she asked, shaking her head.

  I took out my phone and took a few pictures. “Like this.”

  “You can’t show people that,” she said. “I mean, there have to be laws against it, right?”

  “Then we’ll get his permission.” I put my phone again and sucked in some air, then followed him back into the kitchen. Millie stayed close, and I lingered as I stepped back into an open room, the counter piled with more bottle, the sink filled with dirty dishes, and Desmond was standing on his toes rifling through a cabinet packed with more bottles, searching for something. He found it with a gasp and pulled it out—more alcohol, this time about a quarter left.

  He drank like a fish, heavy, deep gulps. “Better,” he said, and turned his gaze to me. The state of the kitchen made me sick, and I couldn’t imagine living in this place for long, how he survived in this filth and squalor. He’d been almost a fussy man, back in the day, and kept his workspace neat beyond reason. I remembered moving a stack of blank notepads once, and he chewed me out for ten minutes for disrespecting his environment.

  Now, his environment was horrendous.

  “I want to ask you some questions,” I said, and took my phone out again. “Can I record your answers?”

  He snorted. “Record me, what the hell do I care? Go ahead and record me.”

  I turned on the camera and held it pointing at him. “So you’re fine with this?”

  He waved a hand at me. “Fine, do what you want.” He drank more and leaned against the counter. “Are you here to kill me finally?”

  “No, Des, I’m not going to kill you,” I said softly, trying to muster up the hate I felt barely an hour ago, but somehow it had vanished. Seeing hi living like this, I pitied the man, and everything that he lost. This was punishment enough—a hell of his own making. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

  “Help me?” He laughed, tossing his head back. “Like all those girls you helped murder? Come on Rees. We both know what you are.” He looked at me, took a step closer. “A dark assassin for the underworld.”

  “Des,” I said, shaking my head. “You know I just run businesses. You remember, right? We worked together for a while.”

  “Until you stole from me,” he snapped, took another drink, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I remember that, all right.”

  “Why have you been spreading rumors about me?” I asked.

  “Because someone needs to stop you,” he said, grinning huge, showing all his teeth. “Someone needs to bring you down. No more killings, no more assassinations. The world will know the truth.” He spread his arms out and laughed.

  That was enough. I stopped recording and put my phone away. He grinned at me and slowly dropped his arms to his side, and the silence stretched between us packed with years and failures and all the wrong turns we’d both taken0—and someone he’d led himself to this place, this rock bottom, this hole.

  “I’m going to leave now,” I said, “and we probably won’t see each other again.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding a little, and took another drink. “Someone’s got to stop you. That’s good.”

  “Bye, Des.” I turned and took Millie’s hand. She looked at me with pure sadness and pity, but I didn’t want that from her—Desmond needed it much more than I did.

  I felt free.

  “Rees,” he said, and I looked back at him. He put the bottle down, frowning a little at the floor, then met my gaze. “We built something back then, didn’t we? Something decent?”

  “Yeah, we did,” I said.

  He nodded slowly and I thought I caught another glimpse of the old version of him, before all this—but then it was gone again. “Get out of here and take that devil with you. Go on, get out, before I do something stupid.”

  I tugged Millie along with me, back through the dingy living room, out the door, down the sagging steps, and into the rented car. Des appeared and slammed the door shut behind us, and the house went quiet, swallowing up what was hiding inside again.

  We didn’t speak. I stared at my hands on the steering wheel, and a mix of emotions swirled through me so fast I wasn’t sure which one would win out. Millie leaned over, hand on my leg, and kissed my neck, and hugged me, and I hugged her back—then laughed.

  I couldn’t help it. That wasn’t funny. Seeing Desmond wrecked and barely holding on was horrible, and I was going to find someone that would help him—I had plenty of resources, and I could afford it. Even if he tried to destroy me, I had a feeling he only did it because he had finally lost whatever tenuous grip he had on reality, and was spiraling out of control. I laughed because I felt unburdened, like finally I could move on with my life, because Desmond wasn’t some horrible, powerful force stalking me from the shadows—he was a man that was barely holding himself together, drunk out of his mind, sliding into delusions and insanity.

  He needed pity and help. And I’d give that to him.

  But I’d also use that video to my advantage.

  I grinned at Millie as I pulled away then touched her face. She smiled back, looking uncertain. I couldn’t blame her—that was disturbing, what we saw in there. “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  She let out a hard breath and shook her head. “I’m fine, but I’ sort of wondering if you are.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, nodding, and kissed her. “I’m very fine. Look, I have what I came here for. I have proof that Desmond’s behind all of this, and that he can’t be trusted, and I got new investors. We’re going to be okay.”

  “How can you be so sure?” She sounded one edge still, but I knew it was over, truly over, at long last.

  “Trust me,” I said, and kissed her again. “I’m going to get him some help, and I’m going to dig us out of this hole. Can you trust me?”

  “Of course,” she said, and I knew she meant it despite everything. I was glad she came with me, even if that scene inside had been horrifying, a truly deep, black pit of human suffering, the sort of fate I didn’t wish on anyone. I was glad she could be here with me, because despite everything, despite losing friends and business partners, I gained her.

  That was better than anything else.

  “Let’s go home,” I said, and started the engine. “I’ve got a press conference to put on.”

  She chewed her lip but smiled and leaned back in her seat as I pulled into traffic, eyes clear, looking forward to the future.

  23

  Millie

  The conference room on the ground floor of Rees’s business complex was packed with reporters and other prominent members of the investing community. Lady Fluke sat in the back, arms crossed over her chest, with Modesto at her side, a big, silver crucifix hanging around his neck. I peered at them from behind a curtain separating the small backstage from the rest of the room. The podium stood in blinding light, and a large screen was pulled down to the side of it.

  “Are you ready?” I asked, turning to Rees.

  He nodded and the PR girl adjusted his tie. Her name was Flora, and she seemed too young to be involved in something so high-stakes as this, but Rees said she was the best.

  “Remember how we practi
ced,” Flora said, and he stepped around her.

  “I got this,” he said, oozing confidence, and I hoped that was true. But usually when Rees put his mind to something, it typically ended okay. He took my hand, squeezed it, and kissed me. “Tell me to break a leg.”

  “Break a leg. Or two.” I kissed him again, wanting hi to stay and linger with me, not go out in front of that crowd—half of which wanted to see him fail.

  But he released my hand and stepped into the spotlight, and the murmur of the crowd died off. I stood to the side and watched, eyes skimming the crowd. I recognized some reports, and Lady Fluke nodded toward me with a prim jerk of her chin. I smiled back, not wanting to be rude, even if I did think she was a real asshole.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Rees said, shuffling some papers, which were actually blank. He had the whole presentation memorized. “This should be fairly short, but first, I’ll remind all the press in attendance about the no recording policy in place.” There was another general murmur as Rees stared at them, then too ka breath, and began.

  “All my life, I worked harder than my peers. I don’t say that to brag, even if I am bragging.” Some small laughter. He pushed on. “I want you all to understand that the choices I’ve made have always been in the best interests of my various endeavors, and though lately it has seemed as though my personal life might overshadow my career, I think I can set the record straight in that department.” He glanced over at me and nodded. I held up a remote control and hit a button to dim the lights, then another to start the video.

  It was short, and shaky, and depicted Desmond in his filthy kitchen. The crowd sat in rapt, quiet attention. Lady Fluke’s mouth dropped open. Modesto looked like he wanted to puke. The whole clip played once, then a second time. I hit another button, and the lights came back up. Rees stood there in the silence, soaking it in, as the video turned off.

  That was why we had a no recording policy. Though he wanted to show the people in attendance, he didn’t want that clip leaking out into the wider world. Desmond was going through something bad, and Rees was committed to helping him—but releasing a clip like that would only do more damage than good. I was impressed by his dedication to Desmond, even though Des didn’t deserve it at all. He seemed like he felt obligated, but also that he genuinely pitied the man, and wanted to bring him out of whatever nightmare he’d falling into.