Rush

Chapter 10

Lyman Warren, my retarded colleague, masquerading as a functional human being, sat across from me, mindlessly toying with a pencil. His very existence grated on my nerves, but the incessant tapping of the pencil was a new level of aggravation.

“Lyman,” I said, my voice laced with barely restrained contempt, “be careful with that. You might hit someone.”

He ignored me, as usual, and started humming ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ Out of every fucking song in existence, he had to choose this overplayed, motivational garbage.

Before I could even articulate my disdain, the inevitable happened: the pencil slipped from his clumsy fingers and struck me on the lips.

“Ouch, Lyman. Fucking ouch,” I said, my voice tight with cold, controlled rage.

“Hey, man! I’m sorry. Can you be a good pal and give me back the pencil, please? It’s right underneath your chair.”

I stared at him, calculating. “Sure, Lyman,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, spreading across my face.

This was the last straw. I had to teach him a lesson—a final lesson he'd never forget. I stood up, hatred twisting my features. Bending down, I grabbed the fucking pencil, holding it like a knife. It was already sharpened, ready to do the job. I glanced around the café; a few people lingered, but no one was paying attention. They were all busy with their own stuff. Lyman, of course, was engrossed in his phone.

I approached him slowly, the pencil gripped tightly in my hand, my mind focused—when suddenly—

“Hey fuckers! Couldn't you have found a better place to meet? This café is so not-classy. The waitresses aren't even hot. Who should I sleep with? Your moms?”

Troy. The asshole ruined it. The universe clearly has it out for me. This would have been the best day of my life. But Troy Harris had to burst in and wreck everything.

Lyman turned to Troy, grinning like an idiot, then looked at me and said, “Thanks, man. This is my lucky pencil.”

He took the pencil. I somehow managed a forced smile, though it felt like a sneer, and replied, “You’re welcome, Lyman.”

“Hey, you idiots, heard about the new manager joining us? She's hot as hell,” Troy sneered.

Lyman, who had been fidgeting with that damn pencil, suddenly froze. "How do you know? You saw her?"

Richard dropped in on one of my demos the other day. Guess what? He wasn't alone in his house.

I couldn't resist. “She was with Spooner? At his place?”

Troy grinned. “Yeah, she stepped in front of the camera and waved. I caught a glimpse of her tits. Definitely fuckable.”

Hot girls are a dime a dozen—nothing special. What really bothered me was what she was doing at Spooner’s house. And what about Marlene? Didn’t the cops find her body in that pond? If they didn’t, then where the hell is it? My company, VERAXA, is one of the biggest software services companies in the world. Every kid knows the name. Am I supposed to believe that my company doesn't have the resources to investigate a simple murder? But then, why would they? If they find out Marlene was murdered, they'll just cover it up, pay off her family to keep quiet. It’s simple math. The owner of this company is a shadow—secretive, discreet. Hardly anyone has seen his face. Not even the CEO or the media. He—