When the meeting's finally over and the shame I've been carrying the whole time throughout is gone, Necksnapper holds me back to talk to me alone. I stand in front of him right now in his office, waiting to be talked to. The old guy is just writing gibberish on a napkin. I can't tell if this is an act of pettiness and he just doesn't want to talk to me or let me go, or if he's actually writing something sort of important.
I stand there for a hundred years it feels, twiddling my thumbs and rocking back and forth with the heels of my feet, until Necksnapper finally stops writing and looks up to me, a humungous resting bitch-face being his expression. It's hilarious enough to laugh at, but I keep my lips locked.
"What's really going on between you and Clayton? I thought this was just a bust-and-bolt gig." He says to me. I open my mouth, but no words are puffed out. "I-It is, I swear on my grave it is," I reply, "it's just--every opportunity I get to ask about the plan I take it, but it ends up leaving me nowhere because there's always something else he wants to talk to me about."
Necksnapper eyeballs me, unimpressed. We have a mini staring contest as he says in a low, chilling tone, "You said these very words yourself: 'sex is only my way to get to him.' Don't let things escalate, or there will be consequences."
I nod promptly. "Yes, sir."
"You are dismissed."
I exit his office and the only thing I can think of is how much I'm fucking up my life right now.