Ridder of Vermin

RIDDER OF VERMIN

Patricia A. Gray

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Ridder of Vermin

Copyright © 2008 Patricia A. Gray

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-2149-4 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2224-8 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2150-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/19/2009

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

For those who sometimes feel insignificant

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to the following, some of whom I know, some of whom I don’t. But I recognize the influence they all have:

To the support group at work: thanks to those who have been there for me, with encouragement and excitement for future endeavors. I especially want to thank all those who turned out for the book signings, those who got to know previous characters, and all who shared their valuable opinions as readers. Your input is greatly appreciated. Thanks to Tom for the guitar and bass lingo. Thanks also to Sandy for all her PR work, and Sylvia who contacted Oprah’s people. Maybe some day we’ll see the big time!

Thanks to my sister, Sue, for running after that kid who picked on me in fourth grade, my first experience with a bully. You stood up for me, and I’ve never forgotten.

To Carlos, my husband, for his continued love and support: thank you for all that you do and your amazing efforts to tell the world about my books.

To Josie, my daughter: thank you for being the great kid that you are. You have taught me a lot. As always, I love you and Papi.

To my parents, who always let me be me, no matter how strange that got. I miss you so.

And to all those musicians, who, like a good story, mentally take us away:

Thanks to Curtis, of Creature Feature, who bears a striking resemblance to my main character. When I saw him on stage for the first time, it was like seeing my protagonist come to life.

To My Chemical Romance: thanks for creating music and lyrics which put me in the mood to write about tortured souls. It’s inspiration that feels good, too.

Finally, thanks to a band I have adored since their beginning. My character’s favorite and mine: Iron Maiden.

CHAPTER 1

No! Please! Stop!!

The cries of pain turned to one agonizing scream. The young woman fell to the floor, her body crumpled over. Blood began to flow from the large gash to her stomach. A lone shadow appeared over her form, and the quick glimpse of a muscular forearm plunging a large blade into her chest continued until all was still and unmoving…

James watched the small television screen intently, noting the unusual camera angles and original background music used to shoot the graphic scene. As the ending credits of the movie began to roll, he smiled. They never showed the killer. No one ever knew. The final blow had taken only a second, and all that was ever revealed was the arm and the shadow.

Picking up the remote to click off the television, James stood up, suddenly sore from his position on the couch. Rubbing his tired eyes and pushing the uncombed strands of light, brown hair from out of his face, he looked over to the digital clock by the television and glared. It was already way past midnight. He had to be at work by 7:00 the next morning. Why had he gotten so involved in a stupid movie? Now he would never be able to get up in a few hours. Not that he ever wanted to get up for that job.

Shaking his head and shutting off the lights, he walked into the bedroom, anxious to try to get as much sleep as possible, knowing if he ever dozed at his job he might slice off a finger or something. Pulling his tee shirt and jeans from his lanky body, he fell onto the lumpy mattress, his naked self still hot in the little air conditioned-less bungalow he rented. James looked towards the open window, hopeful for the slightest chance of a breeze, but all he could feel was the stillness of the late night. He shoved his arm up in front of him suddenly, looking at his hand in the light from the moon. He’d better get it together and find a way to sleep in the hot, little house. He needed every single one of those fingers.

James staggered through the doors of the supermarket at 6:55 am.

You look like shit, Kevin noted when he saw his best friend.

James only glared, rubbing the sides of his face roughly and realizing his sideburns were getting pretty long.

Kevin followed him up the stairs to the employee lockers. Stopped shaving?

James glanced back at him, the whites around his olive green eyes reddened from lack of sleep. Who cares what I look like? The animals won’t care. They’re already dead when they see me.

Kevin laughed suddenly, pushing past his buddy to put on the signature green apron of produce. He paused to glance at a small mirror behind the door and smoothed his dirty blonde, wavy hair, eyed his clean-cut, clear complexion, and smiled widely, inspecting his perfect teeth.

James glared at his friend’s morning grooming ritual.

Kevin looked back. What?

Why do you care so much?

I like my customers to buy their produce from a neat, handsome guy. Kevin motioned to his friend’s unruly hair and facial stubble. You, however, look like your home is under an overpass.

But James appeared unmoved by the insult. At least I’d have natural air conditioning that way. He grabbed his ugly, brown apron and quickly tied it behind his back. He caught sight of his supervisor who was eyeing him carefully and motioning to the time clock. James grabbed the card, punched it quickly and managed a half-smile, turning his back on the guy to head downstairs to the main floor.

He’s never liked you, James, Kevin said as they walked past the cash registers. He never liked you even before he was supervisor.

And this surprises you? James commented. When he saw one of the young, female cashiers smiling at him, he rubbed his unshaven face and looked away as if embarrassed.

I think he’s got it in for you. He’s always watching you. Have you noticed?

How can I not? Either he wants to screw me or he wants to— James stopped suddenly. "Screw me." He cocked an eyebrow flirtatiously.

Kevin laughed and hit his buddy on the shoulder. I’ll see ya on break.

James watched his friend walk quickly to produce. He frowned slightly, wishing he could have that much energy. Kevin was always like that, a bounce in his step, a smile on his face, a pretty happy guy, no matter what time of day. Ever since James had known him from junior high, he was like that; even when other kids were mean, Kevin never seemed to let it get to him. And here he was, nearing thirty and still oblivious to the thoughts of others.

James remembered when Kevin was getting beat up because his pants were too short. But Kevin was still able to smile. We’re all just different, he had said. It’s okay if I don’t fit in. At least you like me.

James had only nodded at the time. That guy. His nose bloodied just because his folks didn’t have the money to buy him new jeans to fit his growing frame. And Kevin was okay with it.

As he walked towards produce, he caught sight of his friend already conversing with the new girl. James shook his head. To look at Kevin now, his nerd days long gone and that ever positive personality shining through, he had turned into one cool guy.

Forget our work assignment, Mr. McRiley?

The voice. James turned to face his supervisor. Suddenly envisioning the crowded saloon and the bully sheriff who’d come to run him out of town because he didn’t fit in, James attempted to stare the man down. His own green eyes grew cold with resentful hate, and for a moment, James believed he could pull the gun from his side and blow the guy away. Just like in those old Westerns. The saloon girl would fall into his arms, and they would ride off into the sunset on his trusted horse waiting obediently outside.

Oh God. Stop with the old movies already. This was real life, where no one understood him or his many frustrations. Truly, what could he do? The man was his boss, as much as James hated to call him that, and he still had the capability to get him fired. Unfortunately, James needed that job, even though it was a daily selling of his soul.

No, he finally mumbled, his head down and his back slouched as he walked to the rear of the store and the all-too-familiar meat department. James tried to find the joy in handling carcasses all day long, as well as working for one, but for the life of him he just couldn’t put a smile on his stubbly, tired face.

Have you ever fantasized about someone’s death?

Kevin looked up from his chicken sandwich. What?

Have you? James repeated, biting into his double cheeseburger, and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

A look of wonderment came into Kevin’s deep, blue eyes as he looked around the small restaurant at which he and his friend often ate lunch. Where’s this coming from? Worse day than usual?

You didn’t answer the question. Have you?

No.

Liar.

I’m not lying.

James shook his head, reaching for his vanilla milkshake only to slurp it obnoxiously loud through the straw. Everyone fantasizes about the deserving end of someone at least once.

And how do you know this?

I just do.

Kevin paused to sip from his bottle of water. When I’m driving and someone purposely cuts me off and gives me the finger, I might say, you son of a bitch, you should die for that! But then if I saw them end up in a fiery crash, I’d probably feel bad for thinking it.

Things like that never happen.

What?

Deserving punishments.

How do you know? Are you around every time somebody does something bad to see if they pay? Kevin took a bite of his sandwich and stared back into his friend’s serious face. So what happened to make you visit the dark side?

Nothing, James said softly, trying to forget the miserable morning he’d had at work.

Now who’s lying? Kevin asked and then glanced at his watch quickly.

James saw his actions and frowned. Relax. They’re not going to send the lunch cops unless Hobart requests it.

Kevin smiled, knowing exactly who his friend was referring to. James always had various names for his boss. He went back to his chicken. You see the girl in produce?

Rebecca?

You know her name?

Sure. Remember, they introduced her at last week’s meeting?

Oh yeah. Kevin looked around the restaurant again.

James watched him. You like her, huh?

Kevin tried to appear unconcerned. Rebecca? She’s okay.

You going to ask her out?

It’s a little quick, don’t you think?

No. Why?

I don’t want to scare her off.

You won’t. Just flash those spotless teeth of yours against that tanned, beach-boy face, and she won’t be able to refuse.

Kevin glared. I’m not a beach-boy. You know where I came from.

Doesn’t matter. You’re one, now. Who cares where you moved from? You’re in Southern California now.

Yeah, but—

Yeah, but nothing. Nobody ever has to know your past. Why? Who cares that you came from those hillbillies in West Virginia?

My relatives are not hillbillies.

James tried not to smile. He knew the subject always angered his normally happy friend. No. Of course not. He looked around for effect. So, why did you change your name from Hatfield?

Kevin wanted to hit him. "Funny, McRiley. You’re probably more of a hillbilly than me. You and those Irish roots with your clans and all."

No way. Born and bred, Southern California. Suddenly, James looked down at the paleness of his arms. He noted the only color coming through was the blue from his protruding veins, the ones not covered by his vibrant tattoos running from his wrists up both forearms. Funny thing is, you look more like the California native, and I look like the hillbilly.

Kevin managed to smile. I’ve come a long way since those days when I went to class with holes in my shoes and clothes.

Yeah. You dress nice now, and I look like scum.

But the difference is you don’t care.

James shoved the rest of the cheeseburger in his mouth and nodded. You’re right. I don’t.

As they got up to leave, James noticed a teenaged couple sitting at a booth near the exit. The closer he got, the more cursing he could hear coming from the young guy directed at the girl sitting across from him. James watched as she put her head down. He could see she was shaken by the continued barrage of insults. James glared, hating to see others get picked on.

Kevin walked outside, then looked back to find his buddy no longer behind him. He poked his head into the restaurant and saw James standing at the table staring at the boy. Oh, damn, not again, he mumbled to himself.

Do you always talk like that to her? James asked.

The boy looked up at the intruder and frowned. And who the fuck are you?

You got a bad mouth, kid, James said. You need to start treating her better or one day she’s gonna take you out.

What?? The boy stared at James and then looked back at his girlfriend. Listen, asshole—

It’s true, James continued. If you treat people like shit, it always comes back on you. He paused to glance at the girlfriend who was watching in disbelief. Then, he returned to the boy. Trust me, I know. I almost lost my nuts to a girl. James winked, smiling evilly. Don’t piss her off.

With that, he turned towards Kevin and walked out the door.

When Kevin saw the two teens gawking at him, he just produced an innocent grin and followed his friend outside.

Turning the page of the music theory book, James cradled the violin in his hands, practicing both fingering and bow movement until he could take no more. Finally, he closed the book of torture, as he called it, and brought the violin back to his chin. He played a slow, sad piece, closing his eyes and feeling the instrument respond to him. As he came to a crescendo, he stopped.

Shit, he said. Fumbling around behind the theory book, he pulled out some loose composition pages and found a pencil. He began to scribble a series of notes, and then, watching the pages for a few moments, finally nodded his head. Yeah. That would sound better.

Bringing the instrument back to his face, he lovingly began his piece again, putting even more feeling into it. Once he began to crescendo, he looked back down at the new notes and smiled, the piece flowing effortlessly until the end.

He pulled the violin from his chin and smiled. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was his.

A knock sounded. James put the instrument down carefully on the table and walked over to open the door.

What was that? Kevin asked.

James opened the door for Kevin to enter. You were listening at the door?

I hate to interrupt a great melody, y’know.

James grinned. I wrote it.

It’s good. Kevin stopped and threw his guitar case onto the worn couch. But it ain’t rock.

James closed his piece and put the violin away in its case. Okay, so you caught me.

You’re supposed to be writing stuff we can play to twenty-somethings, not sixty-somethings.

James watched as Kevin threw the electric guitar over his shoulder and plugged in to James’ nearby battered amplifier. He frowned a bit. I’m trying. He walked over to the kitchen and found his Fender Precision bass propped in a corner. It’s just hard to write with words—

I told you, I’ll write the lyrics. Kevin turned up the volume on the amplifier and played a series of chords on the guitar. Besides, your lyrics would bum people out, the downer that you are, always getting morbid on me and talking about the ultimate punishment.

Hey, I’m just a misunderstood musician. James tried to glare, walking over next to his friend, the bass slung low over his thin frame. He pulled out his second amplifier, more tattered than the first.

And a misunderstood employee and a misunderstood soul… Kevin smiled. Yes, I know of your torture. I’ve only known since we were thirteen. He watched his friend pluck a few of his strings. Hey, I could write a song about killing people. Would that make you feel better? Kevin grabbed a half-drunk glass from off the coffee table.

James made a sour face. Do you know what that is you’re drinking?

Kevin sloshed the concoction in his mouth. Flat Coke, melted ice, and last night’s bourbon.

So you’ve never thought about it? James continued. Y’know, blowing some deserving bastard away?

Kevin strummed the guitar mindlessly. You’ve been watching too many movies lately, Dirty Harry. He smiled sympathetically. Seriously, though, snap out of it, James. You can’t fix the world. It’s full of assholes who do bad things. No one can stop ’em.

But James just went on plucking his strings.

Kevin pulled the guitar from his body and moved closer to his friend, still holding the drink in his hand. Look, James, let’s get on to more important things. We’re both almost thirty, y’know.

So?

So we’re getting a little old for this rocker dream thing. We can’t blow it. This is our last chance.

But James didn’t comment, only playing a low, driving beat on his bass.

I’m serious, man. We’re fucking old, don’t you know?

James stopped. We’re not old. We can still be musicians.

Not the kind girls want!

Are you in this for vanity or to make good music? James grew angry and pulled the bass off him. You love classical. We both do. Only you’re too ashamed to admit it.

Kevin turned his back and headed towards the couch, bringing the drink to his lips. I’m not ashamed. It’s just that you can’t get the thrill of live music from classical. Not like the hard ass shit.

James followed him. Don’t lie to me, Kevin. It has nothing to do with the adrenaline high. You just want stupid girls to throw themselves at you.

Kevin scowled. And what’s wrong with that? Look, you know how we were, James. Remember? Remember how people treated us in school, like we’d never be anything? Everybody did, the teachers, the other kids…

So far, they’ve been right—

No, they’re not! We’re capable of better! Stop being so okay with our lives! We’re not kids anymore, James! Shit, we’ve been working in the same grocery store forever, and where have we gone? We’re in the same damned positions we started with! And on top of that, we still rent!

So?

So, don’t you want more from life?

James watched his friend carefully, noting his suddenly stressed features, the lines on his forehead, his narrowing eyes, and the reddish tone of his cheeks. He never remembered seeing Kevin with such a look of concern. They had always been non-assuming guys never out to satisfy an image, always just themselves. This strange, new look on his friend’s face concerned him.

I don’t need to convert to some lifestyle I’m not comfortable with, he said finally, walking past his friend to the small kitchen.

What does that mean? Kevin followed him.

James reached into the old refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Grabbing a bottle opener, he popped open the top, shaking his head. I just want to be happy, if that’s possible.

You don’t think I do? Why do you think I’m pissed? Because we need to try harder to make our lives better.

James glared, his green eyes intent on Kevin’s overly serious face.

I hate when you give me that look. Kevin glanced away.

What look?

You know. You’ve only been giving it to me since we first met. That go fuck yourself look.

I said nothing of the sort.

You don’t need to. Everybody always knows what you’re thinking from those damn, scary eyes of yours. Kevin brushed past his buddy to open the refrigerator. He saw the ice build-up from the freezer and frowned. You need to defrost, you know that?

Yeah, yeah, someday. James walked back into the living room, his beer in hand.

Why don’t you just buy frost-free?

Sure, no problem. I just happen to have an extra five-hundred burning a hole in my pocket. He looked back at Kevin.

There’s that look again! Kevin pointed to his face and half-smiled.

Putting his beer down reluctantly and grabbing his bass, James slung it back over his shoulder. Okay, corporate sell-out, wanna-be. Listen to this.

Kevin opened his bottle of beer and smiled when his friend began a slow, driving beat, and then ran his fingers down the neck to produce a sudden conglomeration of deepness.

I’m lead, not you, Kevin commented over the music, downing his bottle of beer.

Yeah, well, come in when you feel you can keep up, pisshead.

Kevin smiled, walking to get his guitar and slinging it on. A bleeding run of notes followed James’ nimble fingers, and they both grinned, mimicking each other until they were both laughing.

Almost as good as sex, Kevin said, wiping sweat off his head, throwing his pick onto the coffee table. Shit, when are you ever gonna get air for this place?

When we sell our first album, James mumbled, taking off the instrument and returning to his beer. I’ll buy that when I buy the frost-free fridge, he added sarcastically.

Hey, how much beer you got? Kevin turned off the amplifier and pulled off his guitar, leaning it against the torn cushions of the couch.

Enough. Why?

Let’s get shit-faced.

We have to be at work at 7:00 in the morning.

So? We will.

If I’m late one fucking minute, Murgatroid will chew my ass off.

Kevin laughed with the array of names James always had for his supervisor. He walked over to the refrigerator to grab another cold beer. Don’t worry; if we’re late, I’ll cover for you. He likes me.

But James just shook his head. Everybody always likes you. I don’t get it. You’re not a kiss-ass.

I’m friendly, that’s why. Kevin popped off the top with his teeth.

You’re gonna need fakes soon if you keep using those things as tools, Hillbilly.

Kevin grinned. I’ll risk it.

So how come people give in to you? Just for your friendly face?

Well, it helps that I don’t stare at them with melancholy eyes that tell them to go fuck themselves.

My eyes only say the truth. James managed a wicked smile, and he went to get another beer.

Besides, who would want to approach you? You have this eternal wall that you’ve built. Your little fortress of protection.

Pulling another bottle from the refrigerator, James looked back at his friend. If I’m so eternally protected as you say, how come you approached me your first day in junior high?

Kevin walked to the couch, moved his guitar, and plopped down. ’Cause you weren’t like the others.

How so?

You know; the other kids all looked at me like I was from another planet. Every time I glanced at them, they made faces and turned away, or they’d talk to their friends about me. Kevin took a long drink from his beer and then set it down on his crisp, new jeans. You didn’t do that.

If I recall, I never even looked at you. James unplugged his Fender and switched off the other amplifier, walking over to the couch to join his friend.

Exactly. You never judged me.

James stared into the brown glass of his beer bottle. How could I look at you and judge you when I was too busy trying not to be seen myself?

Kevin smiled his usual wide smile, his large, white teeth standing out from his tanned skin, and his blue eyes twinkling under his long, blondish, curly bangs. It was like love at first sight. I knew from the moment I saw you trying to avoid me that first day. So I decided to chance it and sit with you at the lunch table.

James rolled his eyes, brushing his falling hair out of his face as he brought the cold beer to his dry, chapped lips. There was a reason I was sitting alone.

You always said that. In fact, you told me that day. It was your way of warning me to get the hell away from you. Only I didn’t listen.

That was your first mistake.

And remember that day when those eighth grade kids started making fun of me, picking on me because of how short my pants were? Remember?

James, too, finished his beer and leaned over to put the bottle down hard on the scratched, second-hand coffee table he had bought from Goodwill for four dollars. Yeah, but I didn’t get involved ’till I saw you bleed. Then I knew they needed to pay.

"So you were the one who rigged that firecracker in the trash can, weren’t you? Kevin pointed his finger suddenly. I knew it! You never admitted it, you juvenile delinquent!"

His friend put on a look of innocence. Hey, it was a fucking chemistry experiment gone awry. I can’t help it if those guys happened to be throwing their trash away at the very same moment the firecrackers went off. He began to pull at the dried skin on his lips.

You always pick your lips when you lie! Kevin laughed, slapping his knee with his hand. I remember seeing their hands after that. They had to have all kinds of stitches. Man, you almost blew their fingers off!

James just pulled his hand away from his lips and looked over at his smiling friend. That was the whole point of the experiment. You can’t make a fist without fingers, now can you?

Kevin got up to get another beer. You’re such a bad, bad boy. And to think I’ve allowed myself to be corrupted by you all these years. Reaching into the refrigerator, he threw one bottle to his friend, still spread out on the couch.

James caught it and smiled, handing it back to Kevin. Do you mind, oh human bottle opener?

Kevin took it from him and put it between his large teeth.

James nodded in appreciation. What a team we make.

Speaking of that, I got a gig for us. Kevin stumbled over the table with his long legs.

James looked up. Yeah? Twenty-somethings or sixty-somethings?

This time, Kevin rolled his eyes. Okay, okay. Sixty-somethings. But it pays two-hundred for just a couple of hours.

Where?

Pasadena. A little café opening in Old Town.

James drank again from the bottle before he put it down between his thin legs. Pasadena, huh? Artsy-smartsy yuppies they are.

Exactly. If we play well maybe someone will want us for something else.

I don’t know, James said slowly. "I don’t think we have that gigolo look."

Kevin slapped him on the arm. Music, asshole.

Or better, maybe one of them will adopt us or something. James stared aimlessly, enjoying the buzz he was beginning to feel on his near-empty stomach. Then I wouldn’t have to work at some stupid grocery store cutting up animal bodies eight hours a day with some cock-sucking supervisor up my ass all the time.

Kevin looked at his friend and suddenly handed him his beer. Here. Have mine. You’re still way too uptight, man. He sat back and grabbed the remote. Any dirty channels?

James held the two beers in his hands and glared, putting one to his mouth and then the other. How long have you known me? Have I ever afforded premium channels? Shit, let me see. With our first platinum album I have to buy a refrigerator, air conditioning and now stupid, expensive erotica. He looked over towards his friend. You’re worse than a wife.

Putting his large feet on the coffee table and stretching out on the lumpy sofa, Kevin only smiled. But I give you the beer from my hand and play lead to your bass.

James felt himself thinking less of his hated job, and more of the present blissfulness entering his often frustrated mind. He grinned suddenly. And in Pasadena, you will be the acoustic back-up to my sorrowful violin.

Kevin stopped switching channels when he came to what looked like a potentially heated sex scene on the television, and then waved it off when it didn’t materialize. He sighed loudly. Twenty-nine and playing for people who will always have more than us, he said, somewhat dejectedly.

James heard the sad tone in Kevin’s voice. But we sound good. We always sound good, no matter the audience. We do it for us, remember? No one else. We don’t have to feel ashamed of that. Be proud of your talent, man. Not everyone has it.

Finally, Kevin threw up his hands, disgusted over the lack of excitement on the television. That’s it! Where’s your porn tapes?

CHAPTER 2

That’s two pounds of top sirloin, James said, wrapping the meat in paper and handing it to the customer across the refrigerated counter.

The older woman smiled appreciatively. You always cut the meat just like I like it, James, she said, taking the bundle in both hands and putting it in her cart.

James managed a smile back. The old lady was a regular and one of his best customers. She reminded him of the kind of grandmother every kid wants. Thanks, Ms. Mitchell. I’m glad you like it.

You just keep it up, James. She nodded self-assuredly and grabbed the cart handle with both hands. And I’ll keep coming around.

James watched her leave slowly. He hoped whoever called her grandma appreciated her. Not all old ladies were as nice as she was.

As he returned to finish unloading the truck behind the store, he caught sight of his supervisor coming near the back. James cringed slightly. Ignore him and maybe he’ll go somewhere else.

Walking out the rear door and into the bright sunshine, he heard determined footsteps behind him. Shit.

McRiley?

James finally turned, but not before he grabbed a large box from the refrigerated truck. It felt good when the cold air rushed out to his face, and for a moment, it helped offset the 100-plus degree summer day.

I need to talk to you. His boss stood in front of him, almost ominously.

Let me get this inside first.

No. Now.

Rolling his eyes, James turned back around, threw the box in the truck, and followed the man into the store.

Walking behind him through the aisles, James felt like a small child right before an impending punishment. As he slowly climbed the stairs after him, James tried hard not to sneer too much. His facial expressions were always getting him into trouble, and the last thing he needed that morning was more problems on top of his already throbbing head.

His supervisor motioned for James to take a seat opposite the desk in his small office. Sitting in the straight-backed chair, James observed it was already placed in a corner, appropriate positioning for bad employees like him. He leaned over slightly, craning his neck while he looked for the dunce cap that must have accompanied the chair.

His boss watched him and frowned. Bored already, Mr. McRiley?

James sat back up in the chair, trying not to slouch. He stared at Winston in his shit-brown eyes. No, I’m not, Win— He stopped suddenly, catching himself playing his usual games. No, I’m not, Grant. The bastard’s real name always left a sour taste in his mouth.

Grant continued to glare, attempting authority with his most troublesome employee. James McRiley was one pain in the ass. He shook his head, watching his employee stare at him. This is the second time this week you’ve come to work in an unacceptable manner.

James rubbed his chin slowly, feeling the small hairs against his sensitive fingers. "You don’t like when I come to work sans shaving, do you?"

Don’t give me that crap, McRiley. Look at you! Your hair, your bloodshot eyes—

What’s wrong with my hair?

Look at the length! You look ridiculous! Are you selling meat or are you playing the part of some stupid musician you sometimes feign to be?

James stood up suddenly, looking down at his boss. Don’t call us musicians stupid!

Grant rose to meet him, standing a couple of inches taller. "You musicians? You’re a butcher, McRiley, and that’s it. That’s what the weekly paycheck is for, not your outside hobbies."

It took every bit of control for James not to grab him by the neck and choke him until his face grew blue. Instead, he kept his hands by his side, clenching his fists until all knuckles cracked. "At least I have hobbies, Grant, and a life to go with them. Not like you. You have no idea of any life outside this store."

His boss breathed in deeply. Sit down, McRiley.

James stood a moment before he finally relaxed enough to return to the uncomfortable chair. He was surprised the asshole hadn’t hooked it up to the electricity so that punishment could be inflicted at the same time. The fucking, sadist prick.

Grant walked over to take a drink of water from the cooler before he addressed his employee again. Your hair is too long.

Show me where in the contract it states what length my hair should be.

Don’t quote your union privileges to me, McRiley. It is store policy that hair be no longer than the top of the collar.

James exhaled slowly. Face it, Grant. The hair, the eyes, the mouth…it doesn’t matter what part of me you pick on. Nothing I ever do is right for you. It never has been. You’ve never liked me from the moment you stepped foot in this store.

His supervisor only smiled, throwing the disposable cup in the trash and returning to stand in front of him. And what does that mean?

It means that the minute we met, you decided right then and there you would make my life miserable by whatever way you could. And part of your plan to do that was satisfied when you became my boss.

"You’re just jealous that despite your seniority over me, in just one year, I was promoted to supervisor. He grinned cruelly. Admit it, McRiley. It really got to you. That’s why you’re the constant pain in my ass."

James stared up into his boss’ eyes. Don’t blame your hemorrhoid flare-ups on me, he said sarcastically. "And for your information, I could care less about being in charge. I’m perfectly fine where I am. My previous supervisor had no problems with me, and you know it. I’m a damned good meat cutter; I always have been. The customers like me and the staff likes me. All except you."

Grant turned his back on his employee suddenly. You’re full of it, McRiley. If I don’t care for you it’s because of your lack of appreciation for your job or anything else.

James