liar ー petekey [2017 bandfiction award winner]

ONE

Alarms, Mikey believes, are overrated.

Except when you've slept in, in which case, the 9-minute snooze button is very handy.

Especially now.

It's 8:33 on the dot, and Mikey's almost late.

"Fuck!" He says, throwing off his sheets and jumping across the cold hardwood floors of his apartment. He tugs his slippers on and stumbles into the bathroom, thankful that his suit is already hung up and ironed. 

When he leaves, it's 8:42. He has to be at the office by 8:55 so he can greet Mr. Wentz. Or, as Mikey likes to call him, Satan's Groom.

Luckily, he makes it to Starbucks in record time. But unfortunately for him, the store is crowded. 

"Mikey! Hey!" Jillian's voice shouts over the madness, and Mikey looks at her desperately. She's holding two venti cups in her hand. 

"Literally saved my life," Mikey breathes, weaving through the sea of groggy employees. He takes the lattes from Jillian, gives her a twenty, and smiles at her. "Thank you! Thank you." 

He bolts through the door without another word. He's running through traffic and walking in front of people without a second thought. "Excuse me! Sorry! Sorry, my boss is strict! Sorry!" He apologizes repeatedly to people, all of whom give him sympathetic glances.

He barrels through the door of the office and jumps into one of the crowded elevators just as it's about to close. He looks around.

"Everyone okay?"

There are a few responses, most of which are yeses, but Mikey hears one "No, I'm dead inside."

"Yeah. Me too."

The door shuts.

When he gets out, he rushes to the front desk, where Eleanor glances up at him nervously. "Cutting it close." She sees Mikey's panicked expression. "One of those mornings, I'm assuming."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Mikey says, hurrying past the desk.

And, as it seems, he's extremely unfortunate this morning, because as he's making his way to Mr. Wentz's office, he runs into the postman and spills one of the lattes.

"Sweet..." Mikey begins, ready to curse the poor boy out, but he decides that there's no time for that, and goes to Ryan's office instead.

"Sorry!" The postman calls, looking apprehensive as he pushes his cart down the hall again.

He passes Bob in the hallway. "Rub some dirt on it, dude," he says with a snide look, adjusting his tie. Mikey rolls his eyes at him.

When he gets into Ryan's cubicle, he finds the man playing a game of solitaire on his computer, the office chatroom still opened so he can be warned when Mr. Wentz comes in.

Ryan looks up at him expectantly and sees the coffee stains on Mikey's shirt. Mikey looks at him with a stone-cold expression.

"I need the shirt off your back," he says, "literally."

"You're kidding, right?"

Mikey sighs. "Yankees. Boston. This Tuesday. Two company seats for your shirt. You have five seconds to decide. Five, four, three, two..."

He gets Ryan's shirt and walks on.

"I know," He says, looking pleadingly at Ryan, who shakes his head. Mikey tries to adjust his jacket with one hand. "Later."

He waits at Mr. Wentz's office, the non-spilled coffee on the magazine table. He fixes his posture when he sees the message on a computer outside of the office: It's here!