realized. Possibly less.
"If employees are receiving permission to work from home, there's no one on staff more deserving than me," Michael said truthfully. "I've never missed a deadline. I've assisted the art department and the layout team voluntarily to make sure an excellent product goes out. I've written more textbooks than anyone here. And I'm your most senior writer, besides Germanotti." Who, Michael added mentally, would suck on the barrel of a handgun before he'd waste his precious workdays at home.
Peter sighed. "I was hoping you'd open up to me. Let me help you. But if you prefer to be unemotional and blunt, fine. I'll give it to you straight." He leaned across the desk at Michael. "You've never struck me as someone devoted to protecting the organization. And in the current economic climate, there's no more important value than protecting this organization. You're not editorial or management material. Even among the writers, you're not a team player. So no, I see no reason to reward your disconnection by permitting further isolation. The global economy is tanking, Michael." Peter gave a sad shake of the head. "Pick up a newspaper sometime. Writers are standing in bread lines. You can be replaced."
Michael digested Peter's words carefully. His rational mind tried to make sense of it all, to decide if the other man's assessment was accurate or fair. Below that, something else was brewing inside him. He didn't quite know what. But there had to be a name for it, this fire and certainty and elation and ferocity...
It hit Michael all at once. Peter didn't necessarily believe everything he'd said. He was fucking with Michael. Fucking with him the way a cat shifted a mouse from paw to paw, first a plaything, then a meal. Not because he would receive any measurable benefit from refusing to let Michael work from home. Just because he enjoyed the sensation.
"I see." Michael stood up.
"I meant what I said," Peter called after him, trying to sound friendly and fatherly again, though he was at least five years Michael's junior. "Talk to me anytime! Come clean!"
Michael went back to his desk. He unpinned the calendar, a Christmas gift from Frannie, and dropped it in the rubbish bin. The mouse pad, one of Vivian's school projects from years ago, went there, too. Going through his desk drawers, he retrieved his spare change, the postage stamps he'd purchased with his own money, his Excellence in Technical Writing plaques (all four of them) and two Cadbury Fruit and Nut bars he'd been saving since Easter...
"Michael?" Germanotti closed his Internet poker game. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Michael?" Peter called from his office door. "What's this, then?"
"Per our discussion," Michael said, not looking over his shoulder as he marched toward the exit. "Replace me."
***
The idea of taking the tube home was unbearable, so Michael called Frannie and made up a story about working late and staying nearby as part of an intensive research session. He'd done it twice before to help Germanotti finish overdue projects, so it wasn't unprecedented. Frannie's displeasure surprised him.
"You know, I don't exist just to keep your house and rear your children," she snapped. "I'm not on your staff like Caitlin worked for Paul."
Michael went cold at the mention of Paul. For a moment he thought his brother-in-law had actually told Frannie about James.
"You want us to spend more time together?"
She sighed. "I don't want to end up like Caitlin. She's starting over at thirty-seven. Probably never find another husband while Paul can go on fucking young girls till he's dead with old age." Silence. Then: "Is that why you cut your hair and shaved your moustache? To be more attractive to young women?"
The backhanded compliment surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time Frannie had so much as implied he was attractive. "No. That's not why I did it, I promise."
"You know I hate ginger hair."
"I know. Germanotti's waving me over. Have to
"If employees are receiving permission to work from home, there's no one on staff more deserving than me," Michael said truthfully. "I've never missed a deadline. I've assisted the art department and the layout team voluntarily to make sure an excellent product goes out. I've written more textbooks than anyone here. And I'm your most senior writer, besides Germanotti." Who, Michael added mentally, would suck on the barrel of a handgun before he'd waste his precious workdays at home.
Peter sighed. "I was hoping you'd open up to me. Let me help you. But if you prefer to be unemotional and blunt, fine. I'll give it to you straight." He leaned across the desk at Michael. "You've never struck me as someone devoted to protecting the organization. And in the current economic climate, there's no more important value than protecting this organization. You're not editorial or management material. Even among the writers, you're not a team player. So no, I see no reason to reward your disconnection by permitting further isolation. The global economy is tanking, Michael." Peter gave a sad shake of the head. "Pick up a newspaper sometime. Writers are standing in bread lines. You can be replaced."
Michael digested Peter's words carefully. His rational mind tried to make sense of it all, to decide if the other man's assessment was accurate or fair. Below that, something else was brewing inside him. He didn't quite know what. But there had to be a name for it, this fire and certainty and elation and ferocity...
It hit Michael all at once. Peter didn't necessarily believe everything he'd said. He was fucking with Michael. Fucking with him the way a cat shifted a mouse from paw to paw, first a plaything, then a meal. Not because he would receive any measurable benefit from refusing to let Michael work from home. Just because he enjoyed the sensation.
"I see." Michael stood up.
"I meant what I said," Peter called after him, trying to sound friendly and fatherly again, though he was at least five years Michael's junior. "Talk to me anytime! Come clean!"
Michael went back to his desk. He unpinned the calendar, a Christmas gift from Frannie, and dropped it in the rubbish bin. The mouse pad, one of Vivian's school projects from years ago, went there, too. Going through his desk drawers, he retrieved his spare change, the postage stamps he'd purchased with his own money, his Excellence in Technical Writing plaques (all four of them) and two Cadbury Fruit and Nut bars he'd been saving since Easter...
"Michael?" Germanotti closed his Internet poker game. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Michael?" Peter called from his office door. "What's this, then?"
"Per our discussion," Michael said, not looking over his shoulder as he marched toward the exit. "Replace me."
***
The idea of taking the tube home was unbearable, so Michael called Frannie and made up a story about working late and staying nearby as part of an intensive research session. He'd done it twice before to help Germanotti finish overdue projects, so it wasn't unprecedented. Frannie's displeasure surprised him.
"You know, I don't exist just to keep your house and rear your children," she snapped. "I'm not on your staff like Caitlin worked for Paul."
Michael went cold at the mention of Paul. For a moment he thought his brother-in-law had actually told Frannie about James.
"You want us to spend more time together?"
She sighed. "I don't want to end up like Caitlin. She's starting over at thirty-seven. Probably never find another husband while Paul can go on fucking young girls till he's dead with old age." Silence. Then: "Is that why you cut your hair and shaved your moustache? To be more attractive to young women?"
The backhanded compliment surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time Frannie had so much as implied he was attractive. "No. That's not why I did it, I promise."
"You know I hate ginger hair."
"I know. Germanotti's waving me over. Have to
Similar Books
