I have to push through this like I learned in therapy. I run through a series of mantras, reminding myself I’m not in immediate danger, but it doesn’t keep my palms from sweating.
Goddammit.
***
I’ve avoided Jay for the past few days, hoping we could both pretend my episode in the breakroom didn’t happen.
But he keeps looking at me. I can tell he wants to talk about it, and that’s the last thing I want. Not just with him, but with anyone. Laura says the more I discuss it, the less it’ll feel like I’m carrying around this burden by myself. Helpful as working with her has been, though, there are some things I’m not ready to deal with. Some things I haven’t even talked to her about because they leave me feeling so empty and horrible that they remind me that maybe it’s not even worth it to push through.
I stock supplies in the main storage closet, where Jay grabs handfuls of nails from a box and puts them into a plastic bucket. He’ll be working on packing the shipments that are going out tomorrow.
I figured this would be like a normal day where he grabbed his shit and moved on. Instead, he asks, “How’s it going?”
He’s itching to talk about it.
“Going good, Jay,” I say, shoving a couple of boxes of screws onto the shelf as I act like I don’t give a damn. “How about you?”
He doesn’t move. Why can’t he just forget about what happened and let us both move on with our lives? I haven’t had a serious episode like that in almost a year. It isn’t fair that he’s caught me in two of the weakest moments I’ve had in a very long time.
He walks to the door, and I figure I’m in the clear until he turns back around and asks, “Are we just never discussing what happened the other day?”
Tension rises within me. Beads of sweat collect on my forehead. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I think I deserve to know what happened. And that you’re actually getting help.”
His words sound sincere, but there’s this part of me that feels like he just wants to know so that he can get inside my head. Know my weaknesses and vulnerabilities…to what end, I’m not sure.
I can’t let him in. Can’t let him get to me. “I have help. Been working on this for a long time. That was a rare incident. I was just tired.”
“Maybe you need to take some time off. You’ve been working nonstop for the past few days.”
“Like I said, been handling this for a long time. I know when I need to take time off. Don’t need some newbie who doesn’t know anything about me or my life coming in and telling me how to run things.”
“I’m not doing that. Just…well, if you need to talk to someone over some beers or whatever, I’m here.” I don’t think he could have found a more awkward way of saying that if he’d tried.
I didn’t take him for the kind of guy who would have reached out to help me. Closed-off. Quiet. Aggressive as fuck to anyone who pisses him off.
Just like Caleb, who put up a strong front but was the most amazing guy I’ve ever known. The kind of guy who would’ve given a friend both his kidneys if they’d needed them. If Jay would show this side of himself to the other guys, they wouldn’t give him nearly as much shit as they do. But the only reason he’s bugging me about this is because he sees me as this feeble guy who needs assistance.
I don’t need his help. I don’t need anyone’s help. I can do this by myself.
“I’m fine, but thanks.” My words are curt. Almost mean, considering he was being generous with his offer, but he must understand that we have a working relationship and that’s it.
Although I can’t help but think that it’d be nice if I could have more than that. Not just with the guys at work, but anyone. It reminds me of a time when I could make friends. Hang with them after work. A time when I was carefree.
No one ever invites me to anything anymore. I just sit alone in my house, dreading the world. Dreading having to come here every day. Laura’s always encouraging me to get out, but I never do.
He turns to the hall.
“Hey, Jay,” I say. He spins around, and I look right at him for the first time since the other day. He appears shocked by it. “A drink would be nice. After work.”
What the fuck am I doing?
5
Jay
I can’t believe he took me up on my offer.
I’m glad he did, but also scared as fuck. He’s been so quiet the past few days. I figured he’d never look me in the eyes again.
I tried to forget about the incident and ignore him the way he was ignoring me, but I couldn’t. Something about seeing a full grown man fall apart like that…knowing he was in pain, struggling, made me feel for the guy. First thing I did after I got home the day it happened was google the crap out of post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew about it in the way most people do—heard about it, seen it depicted on TV and in movies. I’ve known other guys who’ve had episodes, but I’ve never seen one that dramatic before. Now that I know about his issue, I feel a little protective of him. When I hear the guys talking shit about the boss-man, it puts me more on edge than it usually would. Makes me feel like getting in their faces and defending him. They don’t know his life or what he’s been through, but then again, neither do I. I wonder if I’m defending his weakness or my own. Whatever it is, I just kept finding myself itching to talk to him. I know what it’s like to feel all alone in the world. To be afraid of shit. To want to break down and cry sometimes.
Granted, that time in the breakroom is the only time I’ve felt anything close to a connection with Reese, but now that I know it’s there, I’m drawn to him. Want to know more about him. I feel like we carry his secret about that day together. Like we’re bonded in some strange way because of it. Maybe I’m wrong and having a drink with him will help me realize that. Maybe I can get him and what happened out of my head once we talk about it.
I sit in the bar, waiting for him to arrive.
We agreed to meet at this place in East Atlanta. He had to finish up some shit at work first, so I figured I’d get a few rounds in me in the meantime. I’m on my third when he walks in, that same stoic expression on his face—the one he’s always made in the brief time I’ve known him. But since his episode in the breakroom, it’s gotten even more intense. Seems like he’s keeping his defenses up even more now.
He approaches, offers a polite hey, and sits in the stool beside me—keeping his eye on me in his periphery. He angles himself toward the door and checks over his shoulder at a couple of guys who sit in a booth in the corner of the bar.
The bartender swings by and takes his order. After he gets his Bud Lite, he takes a sip and sets it on the bar.
Now I’m left wondering what the fuck we’re going to talk about. This isn’t exactly the way to discuss PTSD, but I figure I’ll let him direct the conversation.
“I really am fine,” he says. Sincere as his words sound, I can’t help but question them.
“Okay,” I say.
“I was deployed for about twelve months back in 2003 when they needed guys for Iraq. I just wasn’t the same when I got back. Six months went by, and it was really bad. Took me about five more years before I started to get treatment. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but a lot of my buddies were going through the same thing, struggling even worse than I was. Fortunately, they knew more about it at that time than in previous wars, and I figured I’d get on top of it. Considering how this shit hits people, I guess you could say I’m one of the lucky ones.” He snickers, as if calling himself lucky seems particularly amusing.
He takes a swig of his beer, and I take one of mine.
“I’ve been getting treatment for about eight years now,” he continues, “so just get it through your head that I know what I’m doing. Yeah, I should have gotten more rest when the inventory was happening. I knew that. Sometimes I go too hard, but at the end of the day, I got it under control.”
“By ‘got it under control,’ you mean like a shrink
and stuff?”
“An arsenal of people to help me out. But I don’t need this getting around work, okay? That’s why I wanted to meet you out here because if I find out you’re spreading this shit around the factory, making my guys worry about my ability to do my job, that’s gonna piss me off. I gave you a break, and I’m just asking you to show me the same respect. They know I’ve been to war. They know I lost my fucking leg because of it. They know I act a little screwy every once in a while. I’d like to keep them from knowing any more than that.” The way he says it, in a deep guttural voice, he sounds like he’ll rip off my head if I start spreading rumors about him.
“I would never do anything like that. Speaking of the guys, though, this…meeting here…isn’t like against policy or anything, right?”
“Do you think I’d be here if it was?” He takes another sip before asking, “So what’s your story, kid?”
I’m irritated by him calling me kid. “I can’t be that much younger than you.”
“I’m thirty-three,” Reese says.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You’re a kid. Get over it. Story?”
“Don’t have much of a story.”
“Oh, really? The guy who almost attacked one of my guys doesn’t have much of a story?”
“He tripped me.”
“I saw that look in your eyes. I’ve seen that look in people’s eyes before, but it’s when they’re fighting for their life, not when they’re dealing with some asshole.”
Now I feel like the vulnerable one. I didn’t come here to talk about me, but it’s fair for him to call me out on my shit when I called him out on his. “I just got knocked around a lot as a kid. Don’t see any reason to get knocked around as an adult, so I don’t take a lot of shit anymore.”
“Who knocked you around?”
His question is too personal. I want to ignore it, but again, I doubt he wanted me to know what I know about him, so I just blurt out, “My dad. Not just with me, but with my brother. I got out of there when I was sixteen. Stayed with my aunt and uncle for a bit until I could get out on my own. Been moving around ever since.”
I recall the shouting matches and fists flying as my older brother protected me. Thinking about him reminds me of those dead, lifeless eyes as he lay on the floor. Not moving. Not breathing.
The day my brother…my best friend…was gone forever.
It breaks my fucking heart. Tears into my soul.
“In that interview, you said you came from New Orleans,” Reese adds. “How long were you there?”
“About four weeks before I lost my job.”
“Before you were fired from your job,” he reminds me. “For being prone to lose your temper, as far as I was told.”
“Some of the guys at work found out I was on Grindr. Don’t know which of the closeted fags figured it out, but after they did, they started calling me faggot and giving me a hard time about taking it up the ass. Guess they figured they could gang up on me without me putting up a fight, but they found out they were wrong when I kicked their fucking dumbasses. They underestimated me. People always underestimate me.”
He stares at me with cold eyes. Distant eyes. I wonder what he’s thinking, but then he says, “Fair enough.”
I drink a few more beers, but he continues to nurse his first.
It’s unusually quiet between us until we start chatting about stupid shit. The sorts of ins and outs that we have to deal with on a regular basis. Nothing serious. As if we’re trying to get as far away as possible from all the serious stuff we started talking about when we first got here. The bartender keeps swiping my empty bottles, so it’s hard for me to keep track of where I’m at, but soon, I realize just how buzzed I am.
Feels good. Real good.
“Holy shit,” I say. “And it’s only Thursday.”
He looks at me, an ease in his expression that I haven’t seen since I started working at the factory. He smirks. “Yeah. It might be a difficult night for you.”
I see something else in his eyes. A look that I’m familiar with. It’s a look I’ve seen on a lot of guys before. One of interest—an “I wouldn’t mind fucking you” look.
A big, hot machine like him must be a hell of a fuck in the bedroom. I imagine his beard pressed against my face as he takes me from behind—violently, aggressively.
It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve had a good lay. I nearly had a Grindr hookup last night, but the guy ended up flaking on me.
A more sober thought crosses my mind. What am I thinking? Fucking around with the boss? That’s a horrible idea. Am I fucking looking for a reason to have to find a new job already?
“I guess I should head home,” I say. I need to get out of here before I make a stupid as fuck mistake.
His expression shifts to one of disappointment. Maybe I’m right about him wanting to fuck me. Could he need this release as much as I do?
I run back through my memories of the guys in the warehouse talking about him, trying to remember if any of them ever mentioned him having a girlfriend. I can’t remember anything like that.
Could he really be interested? The more I consider the possibility, the stronger my desire becomes. My dick shifts in my pants as it stiffens.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom and then head out too, but I’ll wait with you for an Uber,” he says. “You’re not in any position to drive right now.” He rises, and I notice his own long, stiff cock in his jeans. I avoid looking at it, so he won’t realize I’ve seen it.
Holy shit.
Like fuck. I don’t know if I could even take something that big right now, but he’s obviously as interested as I am.
6
Reese
I head into the single bathroom and lock the door.
Being in a bar reminds me of when I returned from Iraq, when my bud Mike and I would hit the bars together so he could pick up girls. Jay’s really throwing them back, so I figure I’ll give him another ride. But the stiff erection in my pants assures me of the kind of ride I really want to give him.
He’s hot. I can’t deny that, and now that the drinks have loosened him up a bit, he’s easier to get along with.
We were just talking about stupid work crap, but as I started looking at his face—really looking at him, almost for the first time—his five o’clock shadow, his smooth baby flesh tainted by just a few tiny specks of freckles, his wide dark eyes glistening in the bar light, I found my dick getting harder and harder. He’s got a good frame on him. I’ve seen him in a sleeveless shirt when he works in the warehouse, his chest thick with muscle, his abs so defined I could see the definition creating grooves in his shirt.
His physique combined with the look he gave me back at the bar—one that suggested he’d be game to mess around—are why I’m horny as shit right now.
I head to the sink, run the water, and splash some across my face.
Just need to cool down. Need to wait for this fucking erection to pass and then head back out there.
I didn’t think my jeans were particularly tight until this moment. The Cialis I take to combat the libido issues I had when I first started taking my antidepressants makes it stone-fucking-hard when I get aroused. This is even worse than usual.
I open the door. Jay leans on the wall across from the bathroom, his arms folded. He has a smirk on his face as his gaze drifts down to my erection.
At this point, I don’t feel the need to hide it. It’s clear he isn’t any straighter than me, and I’m not ashamed of being turned on by a hot guy. “Is that a problem?” I ask.
He glances down at his pants. I follow his gaze to his own lengthy bulge. Saliva fills my mouth.
He rushes forward and pushes me back into the bathroom, pressing his lips up against mine. He skillfully closes the door with his foot and reaches back and locks it.
I shouldn’t want this…there are so many problems with doing this with an employee, but the kiss is so fucking intense that my body betrays my logic. I grab the ba
ck of his head instinctively and pull him close to me.
His kiss is fire. Feels so fucking good. Before I know it, the small of my back slams against the sink. I feel the sting, but it won’t distract me from this amazing sensation Jay’s stirred within me.
I don’t let anything bother me. I forget that I’m fucked up. I forget that I’m his boss. I forget all those things I carry around with me on a daily basis and just keep on kissing him.
Relief. That’s what it feels like. Something I haven’t had in so fucking long.
Something I need so desperately today.
He slides his tongue between my lips, and I eagerly welcome it. He untucks my shirt and slides his hands up my belly, feeling his way across my abdomen.
It’s nice feeling someone appreciating my body. And I want to appreciate his. I push him back against the adjacent wall and pull his shirt up over his head, breaking our kiss just long enough to throw it behind me.
I want to be inside him. I want to fill him so that he can’t maintain that scowl he always wears at work.
I kiss my way down to his torso, carefully maneuvering until I’m on my knees, licking as I slide my hands down his sides. When my face is at his crotch, I run my nose along the length. He smells so good. Like a man.
He unfastens his jeans and slides them down along with the briefs he wears underneath. His cock springs forward. And now the pain in mine is even worse. I just need to rub one out.
I bury my face in his trimmed pubes, smelling and licking. Feeling his cock against the side of my face. I move my hands around, cupping his ass cheeks and squeezing.
I’m his fucking boss.
Finally a logical thought enters my mind along with a series of others that remind me just what a horrible idea this is.
“Fuck,” I groan as I pry my hands from his ass cheeks and push them against the wall. I get back onto my feet and hurry out the door. I need to get the fuck out of here.
“Where you going?” he asks.
The exit’s to the left just outside the bathroom. I push through the door and step onto the back porch of the bar. He follows me out as he tosses his shirt on, apparently having buttoned his jeans back up in the bathroom.
Between These Sheets Page 3