Reluctantly You (Our Exception Book 3)

Mitch

My arms and legs feel heavy when I finally make it to the gym. It’s been a week since I’ve been here, and suddenly, I feel like I’ve lost everything I’ve worked toward.

Well, I mean, I have.

But now I’m talking about my body and the work it took to get fit. I feel like a week off has taken its toll, and I wonder if I can still bench press the amount I did seven days ago.

I sure fucking hope so. I don’t know how much more disappointment I can take.

Changing into my gym clothes in the locker room—my eyes avoiding the open shower and the naked men washing there—I walk out to the free weights, not meeting my gaze in the mirror. I know I won’t like what I see staring back at me. It won’t be a pretty sight.

Grabbing the dumbbells, I start with something lighter, my reps short, testing myself. When I realize a week off didn’t completely ruin me, my spirits lift slightly and I up my weight limit. Twenty minutes later, I end up on the bench press, straining under the amount I placed on each end.

Part of me wants to give up entirely, but I carry on.

I push through it, liking the way my body aches and strains as I work.

Really, what’s getting me through it is the red, molten anger boiling up inside of me. I’m so fucking mad. Everything’s been taken from me. It’s all gone.

I’m nothing. Just a sad man in the gym after working a job that will never amount to anything.

I’ll never amount to anything.

And because of that, I’ll never be important to anyone.

With one last heave, I sit up and wipe at my face, swiping the tears away as I go. Shit, no one better have seen that. Tears are a weakness. Real men don’t cry.

“Oh! Hi,” a voice says to my right, and I turn my gaze. I see a guy slightly younger than myself, probably late twenties, with tattoos covering his entire body. He’s wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, his hair pulled back with a hot-pink sweatband.

And in his mouth is a lollipop.

What the fuck is this? Is this a cosmic joke?

“I couldn’t help but admire how strong you are,” the guy says with a grin, his lips cherry red from the candy. “I was wondering if you could give me some pointers. I’m Emery, by the way.”

I continue to stare at him. I don’t speak to people in the gym. And I sure as fuck don’t speak to anyone when I’m feeling this bad.

He obviously can’t read the room, and instead of taking in my angry countenance and walking away, he just leans a little closer, his eyes twinkling slightly.

“I’m trying to get in shape for my man. He’s so hot, like a supermodel, and I’m like…well, I could use some work.” He glances around and then lifts up his shirt, showing me his nipples. He points at them, and I arch an eyebrow.

“I have moobs.”

I stare at him blankly as I run a towel over my face once more, inhaling deeply.

“I’m not giving you fucking pointers,” I bite out.

He sighs and his shirt falls down. “I mean, fair. It was a long shot. Anyways…if you change your mind, I’ll be over there, trying not to die.”

He grins at me, pops the lollipop back in his mouth and wanders off, a skip in his step.

I watch him go, flustered and slightly intrigued. That guy was awash in a rainbow of colors, so much so I couldn’t even make them out in their entirety.

God, I need to get a fucking grip, I think as I shake my head with a scoff.

Gyms these days just let anyone in. Fuck. Next time, I’ll bring my earphones. That way if someone tries to speak to me again, I’ll have an excuse not to listen.

I finish up my workout on the treadmill, my entire body heaving by the time I get off. On shaking legs, I make my way back to the locker room where I shower before changing and heading home. As I exit the building, I see Emery standing face forward on the hack squat machine—a machine you’re meant to use facing outward. He starts to bend down, his ass out, his arms flailing at the sides.

“I’m gonna die,” he grunts, and I shake my head at the sounds he’s making.

Fuck. It doesn’t matter.

It’s really not my business. The kid will figure it out eventually. Either from someone else or from a ride to the hospital.

I really don’t have time for anyone’s shit.

I’m barely hanging on to my own at the moment. As I drive home, my mind swirls with memories of my past—college, and when I first started at the company. A time when things were happier, better, when things were looking promising.

What would it be like to go back, to bask in that a little longer?

I don’t know. I’ll never know. You can’t change time.

When I get home, I pull my car into the garage and make my way to the front door, seeing two packages I don’t remember ordering waiting for me. Probably some subscription I forgot I’d placed and don’t need. I grab the boxes, putting them under my arm as I see that small kitten peer out from the bushes. Those blue eyes blink up at me, and I turn around, forcing myself not to look.

I may hesitate, just a moment, before going inside.

But like I said… No time for anyone’s shit.

Least of all, my own.

I crack the next morning. My head a little groggy, ensconced in a pink fog, my chest so tight it’s almost hard to breathe, I decide I need to fix this. I need to try. So, instead of waiting for one of my brothers to call me, I reach out. I call Max first, but of course he doesn’t answer. Not that I expected him to. I was always closer to Matt. But when I try calling Matt next, he sends me to voicemail after the second ring.

I glower down at my phone and run a hand over my mouth.

Fuck. Them. Fuck them for leaving me like this.

And yet, even though I chant those dark thoughts the entire way to work, I still feel my heart breaking. I tried to build a bridge and they cut me off at the knees. But what’s new? I was getting the feeling months ago that they were pulling away.

There was a time when we were thick as thieves, and now… Well, apparently they’re all married to men and didn’t think to tell me or invite me to their weddings. Not that I would have gone.

I don’t condone gay marriage. It’s not right.

Not at all.

And yet still… I wanted to be invited.

Those heartless bastards. They didn’t even think of me, consider me.

It’s obvious that they’ve never given a shit about me.

Parking my car, I stare out at the gray sky. It’s gloomy out, much like my mind at the moment. My eyes climb the sleek, modern building that my dad had leased to run this entire operation ages ago.

One day, son, this will all be yours.

I shake the thought away and run a hand across my mouth. I need to start looking for other jobs, something to pay the bills while I figure out what to do with my life. Since I’m no longer going to be inheriting this, I’ll need to find something to get me by.

I have a lot of experience in finance—I’m sure I’d kill it in an interview. What’s the point of staying here when there’s no room to progress? Everything I sacrificed for this company has all been for naught. Every late night, every unethical decision, every pay cut. All for nothing.

I hope this place burns to the ground.

I press my palms into my eyes and breathe deeply through my nose.

I don’t even want to go in today. I know as soon as I walk inside everyone will be staring at me, whispering their theories as to what happened. But I’ve never been a quitter, I was never allowed to quit. So, I step out of my car and my legs carry me into the building, my shoulders square, my chin held high.

I ignore the sideways looks of everyone as I make my way toward my office, only to stop when I realize that I’m going to the wrong one. The space that was once mine is now being occupied by a twink in a bright pink blazer. The administrative assistant.

“Oh, hello,” the man says with a bright smile. It looks like he’s wearing lipstick, and I bite back a smart-ass comment. He’s exactly the kind of man I’d have on his knees in front of me, gagging on my cock.

My eyes trail over him in disdain, swallowing down any greeting, as I turn on my heel and make my way to my office, shutting the door behind me and falling into my chair. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my fingers digging into my palms, trying like hell to contain my temper, the rage of it all. But fuck, it’s hard.

I think I’m going through the stages of grief. For a few days it was sadness pulsing through me, a dark indigo. But now I’m firmly in the anger stage, my vision flickering crimson. I want to rip everything apart. I want to self-destruct.

I want to burn it all to the ground.

My motivation to work is at zero. I want to do nothing to help this company succeed. Not after the way I was treated. But I know, when looking at my schedule, that I have meetings I need to attend.

I run a hand down my face and lean back in my chair.

Fuck this. I’m not going to go above and beyond for any of them. I’ll spend my time in any virtual meetings submitting my resume to other companies. I don’t even care if the job pays less. I just want to make sure that I’m out of here by the year’s end. I need to be out of here sooner rather than later.

A knock resonates on the door and I watch as the pretty twink in pink makes an appearance.

“Hi, Mitch. I’m Shiloh. Sorry I just stared earlier. I didn’t realize who you were until Gus told me. You were moving pretty quickly.”

Who the fuck is Gus? I cock my head at him.

His eyes meet mine, and he looks almost contrite. “I’m really sorry about the situation with your office. I did tell Gideon not to upset the order of things, but he insisted. And you’ll learn that there’s really no telling him no. He’s a stubborn little shit.”

I can imagine that, and I hate him for it.

The way he made me feel small…

“Why are you here?” I finally ask, and he places a hand on his narrow hip and shrugs, his pretty eyes batting subtly.

“Just wanted to apologize. I really don’t want any hard feelings with this transition.”

“Nothing you can do about it,” I reply, and then narrow my eyes, wanting to proposition him, but realizing that’s crossing a line.

No, I have plenty of options. I don’t need things getting complicated with the boss’s assistant.

“Right, well, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you.”

I don’t say anything because for me, it’s not on the wrong fucking foot. This whole transition is on the wrong fucking continent.

“Anyway, I’ll see you around,” Shiloh tacks on, and I watch as he gives me a sweet wave and then shuts the door quietly.

I let out a shaky breath and crack my knuckles. Fury pushes through me, and I stand up and move to the other side of the room, the peeling dark green paint staring back at me. My fists squeeze as I try to breathe deeply.

“Fuck this. Fuck this,” I grind out.

After work today, I’m going to need to beat the shit out of something or I’m going to put a hole through this wall. Good thing the gym is close by because if I have to see Gideon before I manage to express some of this rage, I may find my fist connecting with his jaw.

And I don’t want to go to jail for assault.

My hands flex and I pull them up to the back of my neck, holding on as I try to gain my bearings. I manage to bring myself under control after a few minutes before sitting down at my desk and pulling up my schedule. I have a shit-ton of meetings. But I don’t want to be on camera. I feel too vulnerable today. So I make sure that I keep my video off, working on my resumé, not paying much attention to anything being discussed. I want no part of it. I don’t fucking care about the performance of the different departments or reviewing actuals versus budgets.

Why did I ever want to do this?

My mind zones out, and for a moment, I think back to a time in high school when I wanted to be an artist. When the colors swirling all around me were put to canvas. That dream lasted a few years until my dad crushed it.

Art is for pussies. I won’t have my son become a limp-wristed fairy.

I rub at my chest and look at myself staring back in the small, blank space on the computer screen.

Who the fuck am I? I’m just a man trying to live up to the expectations of a father who never loved me, who was so quick to disappear when he found out it was all a lie.

I’m a fucking lie.

“Mitch, we’d like to hear from you,” a familiar voice says, and I see the small blue box lit up. Gideon. He wants me to speak.

I have nothing to say.

I click on my audio and lean forward, still off screen. “I have nothing to report.”

Gideon is quiet for a moment and then moves on, his disappointment heavy even through the computer.

Welcome to my life, asshole.

By the time lunch rolls around, I slip out of my office, planning on just leaving for the day when Gideon stops me in the hall.

“Mr. Morris,” he says, his voice making shivers pulse through me. I straighten my shoulders and turn around. “Where are you off to?”

“Lunch,” I bite out, forcing myself not to blink. If I do, my eye may twitch and it will give away how infuriated I am. How upset this transition has made me. How much my life seems to be falling apart at this moment.

I don’t want to appear weak to this man. He seems like the kind of person to latch on to it, to exploit it.

“You’re early. Your lunch isn’t for another thirty minutes. I’d like to see you in my office.”

I feel my teeth grind. “I’ve never had to check in and out of the office before.”

“Hm, yes. Well, things will be different now.”

He tilts his head and watches me intently, making me shift on my feet. For some reason, just his simple stare makes me nervous. And yet it’s in my bones to be contrary. I’ve never been known for being nice and malleable. It’s why my dad wanted me for this job. I can cut when I need to.

“Not for me,” I reply and then turn around and make my way out of the building.

Fuck him. I can go to lunch whenever the hell I want. He’s not going to micromanage me just because he has his name on the paperwork now. I’m the finance director. He’ll have to fire me to get his way.

I return from lunch incredibly late. I took my goddamn time, knowing that by doing so I’d be missing a meeting I needed to attend. But then again, who even fucking notices when I’m gone? No one seemed to when I was out for almost a week. They all thought I quit and didn’t even bother to contact me to ask. They were probably happy to see me gone.

It’s not like I’ve made friends while I’ve been here. I’ve never really felt the need to chat with my coworkers. I was here to make money, to rise to the top—not for superficial relationships.

I inwardly scoff as I make my way back to my office, but before I can reach it, I see Gideon chatting with Shondra at the front desk, looking amiable and friendly. But when his gaze turns toward me, it hardens. Flicks of anger pulse around him, and he arches an eyebrow when he sees my movements stutter.

“Mr. Morris. Glad you’re back. I’d like to speak to you in my office now.”

“I have a meeting I need to attend.”

He stands a little taller and his jaw twitches. “You can attend when I’m done speaking with you.”

I feel like stomping my foot, like throwing a fit, but I don’t. I just follow him to his office, the one my father practically lived in. It’s different now, newer, less cluttered. Gideon is a different kind of man, it seems. Much more minimalist and modern. Where my father had a large mahogany desk, he has a sleek glass one. The book shelves that lined my dad’s space have been torn down. I wonder what he’ll put there instead.

My eyes swivel to Gideon, who is taking a seat behind his sleek desk, hands folded nicely in front of him. He looks immaculate, strong, and I find myself standing a little taller.

“Take a seat, Mr. Morris.”

“I’m good where I am.”

He lets out a dark chuckle. “Your behavior is…exactly what I was expecting.”

I feel my teeth grind. “Yeah, good for you.”

“I wish I’d been wrong. But then, the apple doesn’t seem to fall far from the tree.”

My jaw clenches. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Gideon cocks his head and his hands part, those neat nails tapping on the glass top.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I expect you to remain professional while working for me.”

I look away and stare outside. Why the fuck should I even respond? He didn’t ask me a question.

“Will you continue to do your job, Mr. Morris?”

“Have I been demoted? I don’t even know if my title is still the same.”

For some reason, mentioning this makes me feel vulnerable, weak, and I hate that I even asked. I should have just gone on like I didn’t notice. Let him or his little gay assistant hand me my notice.

“It’s still the same. For now.”

I feel sudden relief, hating that this is how it is now. Rolling over and begging for scraps.

“I do realize that this transition was unexpected, and I assume you were not part of the discussion with your father…”

I grind my teeth audibly as I wait for him to finish. I can’t even look at him. Can’t fucking look.

“But I do hope that things can move forward seamlessly. I really don’t want to have to find a new director and train them.”

“And I really don’t like being threatened,” I bite back, my eyes smashing into his.

He looks perfectly cool and collected, handsome against the backdrop of the city and sea.

I hate him.

Disgusting rich prick who thinks he’s better than me.

“No one is threatening anyone.”

I scoff and look outside once more. I want to leave. I want to fucking run. I can feel myself starting to crack, darkness oozing out of me, and I hate that he can probably see it. That he can glimpse the man I am deep down, past the rough exterior and angry façade.

A broken, sad man.

“Anyway, I see that you’re in two more meetings before the day is through, and I expect to have some reports from you by Monday morning. Is that doable?”

I flick my eyes over to his. Those dark, knowing eyes.

“Yes.”

“Good. Alright, then I’ll let you get to it. If you need anything, you can let Shiloh know. He’s my right-hand man.”

I don’t respond, just stroll out of his office—my father’s former office—and straight into my new grim, crowded space.

I join the meeting like I said I would, but I’m late and I keep my camera off, trying to pay attention but simmering and hyper-focused on Gideon fucking Masters.

By the time I leave for the gym, I’m vibrating with anger. I’ve stewed on him. Obsessed. As soon as my hands are wrapped, I’m going to beat the punching bag to within an inch of it’s sad, pathetic life. I’ll be imagining several faces while I do it, as well.

I change quickly and then wrap my hands, moving toward the room with the free-standing punching bags. The gym is fairly empty for a Friday, but as I pass the machines, I see the tattooed guy wandering around, a lollipop in his mouth and a confused look on his face. When he sees me, he shoots me a smile and waves, which I ignore.

No time.

And I’m angry. Pissed, even. I need to punch shit.

A few minutes later, my fist landing on the bag over and over, I feel a presence appear beside me and then hear an off-tune whistle.

“Wow, sorry about that,” Emery says. I don’t need to look to know it’s him. I can tell by the way he speaks. “I should practice my whistle. That was atrocious.” He tries again and it’s even worse, a long wobbly screech that’s cut off when he starts choking.

“Shit,” he wheezes, and I stop, leaning my forearm against the bag and turning to face him. My skin is warm from exertion, and I have sweat sliding down my face, but Emery doesn’t look like he’s been working out at all.

“Do you need something?” I bite out, trying to play it cool. Don’t want to accidentally use him as a punching bag.

“Oh, I just…you know, wanted to say hello and see what you were doing.” He leans a little closer, smelling distinctly like cherry candy. “I don’t know how to use those machines out there. They’re frightening. One almost killed me the other day. Just tried to smoosh me.”

“You can ask a trainer and they’ll show you how to work them.”

He bobs his head and pops his lollipop back in his mouth. “I think I’d like to try these hanging bag thingies that look like ball sacs.”

I arch an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, go ahead. No one’s stopping you.”

He bounces over to the small bag a few feet from me, and I watch as he throws a punch at it, gasping when he makes contact.

“Oh, ouch! That hurts.”

He waggles his hand in front of him and blows on it, turning to look at me with stained cheeks.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this, dude. I just want a six pack.”

I feel my lips twitch, and I force back a smile. I will not encourage him speaking to me. He seems like a clinger. And I don’t need that shit in my life, especially when it’s all falling apart.

No. I’m angry and mad.

Yes, very angry.

I turn back to my bag and get to work, exhausting myself before moving out into the main area and hopping on the treadmill. In the distance, I see Emery using the free weights, making funny faces at himself in the mirror and giggling. After ignoring him, he’s left me alone.

Thank fuck.

I turn my gaze back to the televisions and pick up the pace until I can no longer breathe. When I finally jump off the machine, I’m tapped out and panting. But I still press on, working on my legs with weighted squats. I do just a few reps while trying not to look at Emery, who is on the floor trying to do a push-up, his ass in the air, his elbows barely moving.

This kid could really use a trainer, a personal one. Seven days a week.

He seems a little hopeless. But also determined.

I wonder what that feels like?

I don’t ponder it too long, just move to the lockers when I’m done, my body aching in the best way as I step into the open showers, thankful it’s empty as I wash the sweat of the day away. When I leave the gym, I feel slightly better. Smashing the bag was helpful in releasing the tension building up inside of me. I should do that every morning as well, especially since I have no one to meet with me for basketball anymore. And I dropped out of the soccer team I’d signed up for, not in the mood for it this year since Matt bailed on me.

He sure did lead me on when it came to that. He could have just said he didn’t want to from the beginning.

When I make it home, I hear the telltale meow from the bushes and ignore it, moving inside and setting my things down in the kitchen. As soon as I’m alone, the drab gray walls seem to almost immediately start closing in on me. My mind wanders to the lonely creature outside, starved for attention. And before I can question it, I grab a can of tuna from the cabinet, open it, and set it outside my front door. I don’t wait to see if the cat eats it, but at least I did something.

It’s more than my dad’s done for me.

More than anyone has done for me.

Maybe now it will shut up and leave me alone.