coffee.
“Hey, Candle!”
Timothy Butler entered the room with a grin that cut across his face. The other employees scattered. Donovan shot a quick glance over his shoulder, muttered “Shit” under his breath, and began to pour his coffee.
Just smile
, he told himself. It wasn’t that simple. When Donovan did not respond, Butler repeated himself. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment. His name was
Donovan
Candle. Not just “Candle.” Butler’s insistence on dropping a person’s first name was grating on even the best of days. Donovan tried to maintain his composure.
“Morning,” he said. He poured cream and sugar into his coffee.
“How was your weekend, Candle? Mine was great—”
Oh really? How great was it?
Timothy Butler yammered on. For Donovan, knowing his boss spoke only to hear his own voice made his presence all the more intolerable.
The discomfort in his stomach returned with force, startling him so badly that he almost dropped his mug. A few drops of coffee spilled onto the counter. Butler’s words—something about a weekend, a lake, time on a boat with his wife—ran together, and for a few agonizing seconds, all Donovan could hear was a low, metallic drone.
What the hell is happening to me?
The feeling ceased. Butler was still talking. Donovan put a hand to his forehead, and it came away slick with sweat.
“—played eighteen holes after we got home from the beach on Sund—”
Donovan knew this conversation, had heard it a thousand times before. He’d seen others caught in this same corner, forced to listen to Butler’s monologue about weekend excursions, and now it was his turn again. After nine years Donovan had learned to tune him out.
He stirred his coffee. The sensation swelled in the pit of his stomach once more, but only for an instant.
Maybe Butler’s sucking the life out of me
, he mused. The thought made him smile.
“So, yeah, how was your weekend, Candle?” Butler clapped a hand on Donovan’s back, causing him to spill a few more drops of coffee, this time onto his shoes. He looked into his boss’ cold, blue eyes and forced a smile.
“It was a weekend.”
Staring into his superior’s face, Donovan was reminded of how little he’d accomplished—how, after nine years, he’d advanced only one or two rungs up the corporate ladder. Timothy Butler, only a few years older, had a much higher salary and a more fulfilling life. Would these things be Donovan’s in the years to come?
Yes
, he told himself. He wanted the extravagant stories and financial freedom. He wanted that new TV, he wanted to buy Donna that jewelry she’d had her eye on, he wanted to finish that novel. He wanted to remodel the guest room, to have a child, to build a legacy and pass it on.
He wanted life with all its trimmings. Staring into Butler’s eyes, he realized he’d have to work harder, to toil and reach for that goal. He’d have to want it more than anything else.
“Mr. Butler,” he heard himself say. Butler’s eyes seemed to reflect the sparkle of his perfect teeth.
“What’s up, Candle?”
“Just wanted to remind you about my review tomorrow.”
Butler’s expression faded, and for a moment Donovan feared the man had forgotten about his review, but then his face lit up and he said, “Don’t worry, amigo! It’s all taken care of!”
Relief came over him, but it was short-lived. As Timothy Butler walked away, Donovan saw the man’s reassuring facade fall away for an instant. He stood there, not quite sure whether it was his imagination or something more sinister. Butler’s expression seemed so conniving. It made him uneasy, a feeling that followed him back to his desk.
There he finished his coffee and continued working through his lunch hour, making cold calls to customers in an attempt to sell them a service they did not want. As the hours crawled by, he found he was unable to escape the black cloud of Butler’s mysterious expression. All afternoon, he struggled to
“Hey, Candle!”
Timothy Butler entered the room with a grin that cut across his face. The other employees scattered. Donovan shot a quick glance over his shoulder, muttered “Shit” under his breath, and began to pour his coffee.
Just smile
, he told himself. It wasn’t that simple. When Donovan did not respond, Butler repeated himself. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment. His name was
Donovan
Candle. Not just “Candle.” Butler’s insistence on dropping a person’s first name was grating on even the best of days. Donovan tried to maintain his composure.
“Morning,” he said. He poured cream and sugar into his coffee.
“How was your weekend, Candle? Mine was great—”
Oh really? How great was it?
Timothy Butler yammered on. For Donovan, knowing his boss spoke only to hear his own voice made his presence all the more intolerable.
The discomfort in his stomach returned with force, startling him so badly that he almost dropped his mug. A few drops of coffee spilled onto the counter. Butler’s words—something about a weekend, a lake, time on a boat with his wife—ran together, and for a few agonizing seconds, all Donovan could hear was a low, metallic drone.
What the hell is happening to me?
The feeling ceased. Butler was still talking. Donovan put a hand to his forehead, and it came away slick with sweat.
“—played eighteen holes after we got home from the beach on Sund—”
Donovan knew this conversation, had heard it a thousand times before. He’d seen others caught in this same corner, forced to listen to Butler’s monologue about weekend excursions, and now it was his turn again. After nine years Donovan had learned to tune him out.
He stirred his coffee. The sensation swelled in the pit of his stomach once more, but only for an instant.
Maybe Butler’s sucking the life out of me
, he mused. The thought made him smile.
“So, yeah, how was your weekend, Candle?” Butler clapped a hand on Donovan’s back, causing him to spill a few more drops of coffee, this time onto his shoes. He looked into his boss’ cold, blue eyes and forced a smile.
“It was a weekend.”
Staring into his superior’s face, Donovan was reminded of how little he’d accomplished—how, after nine years, he’d advanced only one or two rungs up the corporate ladder. Timothy Butler, only a few years older, had a much higher salary and a more fulfilling life. Would these things be Donovan’s in the years to come?
Yes
, he told himself. He wanted the extravagant stories and financial freedom. He wanted that new TV, he wanted to buy Donna that jewelry she’d had her eye on, he wanted to finish that novel. He wanted to remodel the guest room, to have a child, to build a legacy and pass it on.
He wanted life with all its trimmings. Staring into Butler’s eyes, he realized he’d have to work harder, to toil and reach for that goal. He’d have to want it more than anything else.
“Mr. Butler,” he heard himself say. Butler’s eyes seemed to reflect the sparkle of his perfect teeth.
“What’s up, Candle?”
“Just wanted to remind you about my review tomorrow.”
Butler’s expression faded, and for a moment Donovan feared the man had forgotten about his review, but then his face lit up and he said, “Don’t worry, amigo! It’s all taken care of!”
Relief came over him, but it was short-lived. As Timothy Butler walked away, Donovan saw the man’s reassuring facade fall away for an instant. He stood there, not quite sure whether it was his imagination or something more sinister. Butler’s expression seemed so conniving. It made him uneasy, a feeling that followed him back to his desk.
There he finished his coffee and continued working through his lunch hour, making cold calls to customers in an attempt to sell them a service they did not want. As the hours crawled by, he found he was unable to escape the black cloud of Butler’s mysterious expression. All afternoon, he struggled to
Similar Books
Run
Eve Vaughn
Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6)
Heather Hiestand
The Cellar
Richard Laymon
Picture Perfect
Steve Elliott
The Change Up
Elley Arden
Signs of Struggle
John Carenen
The Banished of Muirwood
Jeff Wheeler
Facelift
Leanna Ellis
Kinetics: In Search of Willow
Arbor Winter Barrow