Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
My face burns hot, but my hands are ice cold and slippery against the seat. My lungs won’t pull in enough air, like the whole room is closing in on me. I look down at my heels, praying they’ll move on to another review.
Nothing.
The only sound in the room is chairs creaking, people coughing, a soft squeal from the mic.
No, no, no. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But the pinch on my wrist stings, and the room refuses to disappear.
I force myself to glance up, and every eye is on me.
Unsure of how to tell my colleagues to stop making it so obvious, I look around, and my eyes catch sight of Mr. Pearson glaring at me from the stage.
His lips parted, his arms crossed, he looks like he’s seconds away from firing me right here in front of everyone.
“Okay, so…” Penelope clears her throat. “Uh, would you like to respond to this particular feedback, Mr. Pearson?”
“Yes.” His eyes lock me in place. “I would.”
“We’re listening.”
“Thank you, Miss Clarke,” he says. “Thank you for telling me how you really feel.”
“Taking it in stride, that’s great. Let’s read some more, okay?” Penelope fumbles with the mic, desperate to move on.
“Yes, let’s…” He looks away, but his gaze continuously lands on me for the rest of the presentation.
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
Two ‘Please Stop Staring at Me’ Hours Later
“Thank you all for joining us at another all-hands meeting! Have a great weekend!”
I jump out of my seat and rush for the exit so fast that I nearly knock one of my coworkers out of his wheelchair.
I have to remain focused on my mission, though: Get files from my office, tell Human Resources I’m using sick leave for a week, and get the hell out of here.
Rushing to the elevator bank, I look over my shoulder.
The coast is clear.
I let out a sigh and stab the “up” button.
“Miss Clarke.” Mr. Pearson teleports from somewhere and steps in front of me. “I need you to come with me to my office.”
“Oh, um…” My cheeks are still ablaze. “I actually have a lot of work to catch up on today, so raincheck?”
“This isn’t a request.” His voice is terse. “I vividly recall mentioning this meeting to you last night…”
“Okay, wait.” I try to save myself as he presses the up button. “I really thought the survey was anonymous. I was slightly tipsy when I filled it out, and I was also frustrated over the report you kept harassing me about. I swear I’ll come speak to you about this matter later.”
“Now.” He grabs my arms and pulls me onto the elevator.
Ever the traitors, my colleagues look away from my imminent firing. Mindy mouths, “Sorry girl,” as the doors glide shut.
As much as I want to avoid looking at Mr. Pearson, the doors ahead of us are mirrored. He’s glaring right at me with his jaw clenched, and I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves.
Not saying a word, he presses the button for his floor and the car moves at the speed of molasses.
When the doors give way again, he steps off and I step back. I’m hoping he’ll walk off without me, but he looks over his shoulder instead.
Grabbing my hand, he pulls me onto the floor.
I look around for a colleague, a secretary, anyone who could possibly save me, but there’s no one.
Just us.
He leads me into his office and I bite my lip to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.
His office is ridiculous—floor-to-ceiling glass that swallows the skyline, shelves lined with leather-bound books no one’s touched, and a desk so massive it probably has its own zip code. The air even smells expensive, like dark wood and his cologne.
“Okay, Miss Clarke,” he says. “I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, and then I’ll do you a favor and act like you didn’t say all of those rude-ass things about me in your survey.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he takes a long sip from his mug before setting it on the edge of his desk.
“I’m ready,” he says. “You can do it now.”
“Um, do what exactly, Mr. Pearson?”
“Apologize.”
“What?”
“A-po-lo-gize.” He enunciates every syllable. “Make it worth my time.”
I blink.
“I’m waiting, Miss Clarke.” He’s still glaring at me. “The quicker you say it, the quicker I can make an example out of you with the punishment.”
“I’ll just take the punishment.” I cross my arms. “I’m not sorry for anything I said in that survey.”
“Thank you, Miss Clarke. That was—” He stops talking. “You’re not sorry?”
“I’m sorry you found out publicly,” I say. “Does that count?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Well…” I straighten my back. “You really are a terrible boss, and the only reason you have long-lasting employees is because you pay very well. But the money doesn’t seem worth it because we never get time off to spend it, and I can guarantee you that I’m not the only one here who feels this way.”