desperate

I. ANGEL DUST

Phencyclidine; also known as Angel Dust.
Side effects include numbness, slurred speech, bloodshot eyes, unsteady gait, and loss of balance.

"You're fired."

My boss' words slice through the air around me, causing a harsh ringing in my ears. I wince at the high pitched noise piercing within my entire head, expanding down through the rest of my body. I blink a few times and shake out my hands, willing the pain to stop. Please, stop.

"Did you hear me, Miss Baldwin?" Mr. Hutto asks.

I did, but I must have misheard him. "No, sorry. What did you say?" I clear my throat, the rancid ringing finally dying down and the pain escaping my bones, muscles, ligaments.

"I said you're fired. I have to lay you off." His face is blank, eyes glassed over, mouth a straight line. He's done to other people this so many times before. It doesn't even faze him that he's ruined their lives, and now mine.

My immediate response is to smile. My smile turns into a real, hearty laugh. "You can't fire me," My hand clutches my stomach, resembling Santa Claus. "I'm in college, my brother has leukemia, I'm barely getting by. I need this job and I'm damn good at it. You can't fire me." My voice has gotten lower, more serious.

He raises an eyebrow at me, surprised by my assertion. "No, Miss Baldwin. I am certain that I can, indeed, fire you. Your personal life is unfortunate, but it has no concern with me. We do not need you here. So, please, make this easier for everyone, grab your things, and seek an occupation elsewhere. You're a bright lady, I'm sure you'll have no trouble." His fingers drum on the cherrywood of his desk. His suit is charcoal grey. Calvin Klein. He brings his other hand up to the scruff of his jaw, tracing over the beginnings of a beard. I can't help but notice the shining Rolex on his wrist.

"Do you get off on this?" I snarl, gripping the leather armrests of the chair supporting me. "Firing everyone below you, watching them scrap their lives together while you roll around in your money like a pig in mud? Does ruining people give you a hard on?"

He stares back at me intently, his face not twisting with any change in emotion. "You are dismissed."

"You do not dismiss me, Mr. Hutto. You are not my boss anymore," I remind him. Several people had told me all day that I was being laid off. I laughed at them all. Each time I shrugged off my elites, someone higher up was sent to fire me, again. I've been fired eleven times just in the past three hours. Finally, they called Mr. Hutto, CEO of P. H. Publishing House. I was summoned to his office; a large room with a floor to ceiling window overlooking Manhattan, decorated with items from only the aristocrats of the city.

He brings the pads of his fingertips together before his chest. He smiles, his first sign of humanity. "Leave my office, right now, Miss Baldwin. I will press charges if you ever return to my property again. Is that clear?"

I glare at him, the hatred in my eyes blatantly obvious. We have a stand off, who can have the most intense stare. Mr. Hutto can't stand the fact that I'm holding my own and utterly ignoring his question, so he speaks again. "I'm calling security if you are still in my office after fifteen seconds."

"Call them," I challenge. I have nothing to lose.

He wickedly smiles. "How would your poor brother hold up if you were to spend the night in jail?"

I tense at his taunting question. He's annoyingly right. I can't push my luck. Luke needs me. "Burn in hell, Mr. Hutto." I growl, snatching my bag from the ground and storming out of his office.

Embarrassment punctures my chest and stomach. My constant state of denial throughout the day has made me seem crazy and word has spread through the building. All eyes are on me as I push my way to the elevator, furiously hot tears spilling over my cheeks. The doors shut, allowing me privacy. No one dared to step inside the confined area with me. I punch the wall, letting a scream rip through me as I do so. The reflective surface remains intact, but my fist receives a nice blow, a crack emitting from it on impact. I curse, examining my hand. It's throbbing with the injury. I move each digit with minimal pain. It's not broken, thank God. I can't afford that, literally and figuratively.