Page 11 of Knot So Social

“Jeremy?” My boss’s shrill voice rips through my momentary break. “Are you fucking slacking again?”

“Just wiping my sweat, Mr Kalone.” I slip my phone in my overalls and spin, making a show of wiping my face with the rag in my hand. “Wouldn’t want to drip all over the cars.”

I pat the Jeep like it’s an animal while smiling.

Do university degrees come with a class on catching your employees every time they take a breather? For fuck’s sake! I don’t even take smoke breaks like half the guys here!

His eyes narrow, but he stalks back inside without another word. Good grief. His home life must be awful.

I pop one earbud in and set my favorite playlist going. It clashes terribly with what’s blaring from the workshop radio, but, if I focus hard enough, I can tune the other out. Music is the soul’s language; the only way to not take life too seriously. That shit will give a man wrinkles.

And hair loss.

I work half an hour past knock off time, just to show that I’m not shirking, putting tools away, cleaning the impact wrenches and balancing machines, and sweeping the oil-stained floors before putting the big roller doors down.

One hand in my pocket, I slip through the office where the admin staff are still at work, just to say goodbye.

Mr Kalone spots me through his open doorway and snaps his fingers.

“I’m just on my way out,” I say with a smile, walking into his space.

It’s piled high with document towers, unopened deliveries, and several takeaway food containers.

“Here,” he says, passing me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he chucks his chin, which I interpret as an order to open it. Did someone send my mail here or what?

The tab tears under my thick fingers and the letter seems stickier than normal, the folds clinging together and resisting opening. When I finally flap the top part open, the big, bold words hit me straight in the gut.

Termination Notice. Effective immediately.

I sputter. “You can’t—"

Mr Kalone’s brows jump, and he holds my gaze, not an ounce of shame in him. Right, he can, because technically I’m a casual employee. Next month I was gonna be put on contract. Not anymore, apparently.

Well fuck me.

I stand, feet glued to the floor with my heart sinking lower. Is a man supposed to beg at a time like this? Implore a manager to keep me on at a place that doesn’t want me? That would be a life’s theme song played in a minor key. Something in my chest rebels at the idea—as it always has.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted.” I salute him with the letter and turn to go.

“Work isn’t supposed to be fun, you moron. That’s why you’ll never amount to anything.”

His words sting like a viper striking my back, but not because of the name calling. Anyone can tell from the way Nick Kalone’s going bald at an alarming rate that he’s not living a happy life. It’s the other, nameless unease within me that hurts.

And the fact the bastard waited for me to work a full day before firing me.

I pause in the doorway and turn back. My former boss stiffens, as if suddenly realizing I’m a foot taller than him. But I’d never hurt a fly.

“I hope you have a good life, sir,” I say, before waving once and taking myself right out of there.

Heap coals on their heads or something. He’s not worth me tying myself in knots over.

My truck rumbles in welcome as I flip the ignition. “Just you and me again, baby,” I mutter, stroking the faded dash.

Ominous clouds mass overhead and a chill steals into my skin as I drive, spreading through my body and diving deep into my heart. Another failure. Another story about the time I worked somewhere and couldn’t keep the position.