The Boss

F I R E D

James loved his job.

It was everything he could have ever wanted: his own spacious desk, a designated parking spot, an infinite stream of coffee from the communal machine, great pay, great colleagues (mostly), and all just a five minute drive from his apartment that he shared with his beautiful girlfriend, Nina. There was just one thing that marred his experience at work, like a bad aftertaste in a delicious drink.

Tate McKinley, James' boss.

For some reason (James really had no clue why) Tate had had it out for the hardworking - if slightly ordinary - man since he had started at Peacock Solicitors. Nothing overt, nothing solid enough to actually pinpoint and go to HR over (not that HR were much use to anybody: Linda and Simon were the two laziest people James had ever met), but just enough to make one thing crystal clear: Tate fucking despised James.

And James really didn't get it. The 5'7'' brunette with average looks and a slight lack of muscle was in no way competition to the 6'2'' hunk with chiseled features and a mane of deep black hair, so it wasn't like it threatened his masculinity. Maybe he would have understood (if not sympathised) has that been the case: being emasculated was just horrible. But, seeing as it wasn't the case, James was stuck quietly resenting Tate.

Fortunately, James, like most Americans, had survived a bullying immersion-therapy course called Middle School, and then completed the refresher course called High School, so he wasn't too phased by the dirty looks, eye rolls or blatant interruptions that were thrown his way on a daily basis. If he could handle Xavier Fumero shoving a dissected frog down his shirt in 9th grade he could handle a few childish passive (sometimes not so passive) aggressions.

Until the 7th June that year, when James' happy little life was capsized...

( ͡°  ͟ʖ ͡°)

It was ok. This was fine. He'd make it.

James was sitting in his car, stationary in a long line of traffic caused by some pileup or some other shitty fucking reason, trying to reassure himself that he wouldn't be late. He wouldn't.

"I will not be late and I will not panic." He said, panicking.

He had left the apartment slightly later than usual because his cat had made the altruistic decision to puke green sludge down his suit just before he had to leave. Annoying (Very annoying, in fact. Ser Pounce would not be getting any treats for the next month!), but he could handle it; James always left slightly early anyway, so the setback should have only made him slightly less premature for work. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about...unless there was a huge fucking traffic jam of the very road he needed to get to work (Which there was.)

He was twenty minutes late when he pulled into the parking lot. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck my life." He muttered, practically sprinting through the foyer and frantically calling the elevator. When the doors pinged open on his floor he slunk into his chair and tried to act casual. This was the first time he had been late to work and it was embarrassing, frankly.

He though he was safe. Nobody had noticed his absence for the beginning of the morning, because why should they? Everybody gets bad mornings.

Then a dense hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that reeked of danger. Without turning around James already knew who's hand this was.

"Tate." James said, trying not to gulp like a cartoon.

"James. So wonderful to see you today. Can I please talk to you in my office?" It was posed as a question but it required no response; James was going to his office regardless. James digested the sickly sweet way Tate has talked to him on the way to the office. He was up to something, and it gave James butterflies.

"James." Tate said, his deep voice like a right hook when confined to his office. The handsome man looked even more imposing in his high-backed office chair that framed him like a throne. "Have you been having a good morning?"

"Yes. It's been fine. Some traffic, but nothing too bad. What is this ab-"

"I'll get straight to the point, James. You were late today." His smirk never faltered.

"Yes. Sorry about that. As I said it was because of the traffic. It was only twenty minutes. I'll make up the time."

Tate steepled his fingers before him. "Normally that would be acceptable, James, but that not going to work."

"Wh-"

"This is the fourth time you've been over ten minutes late this quarter."

"What? Not it isn't I-" James protested. He prided himself on always being punctual to work. This was the very first time he had been late. In fact, this was the first time he had ever been late to anything! As a youth he had been so afraid of authority that he hadn't been tardy to a single lesson or day of school. Now, infuriatingly, at 25 his punctual streak had been shattered.

"I wouldn't interrupt me, Mr Sullivan." Tate said, voice flaring in anger like a fanned flame.
"As I was saying this is the fourth time you have been more than ten minutes late this quarter and, as you probably know, Peacock Solicitors has a strict 'three strikes and you're out' policy about tardiness. Time is money after all. Now, I have put myself at risk by being more lenient with you on your third strike by letting you stay on without reporting you to the seniors. But...a fourth strike is too much for even me to excuse."

James was lost for words. He was being framed. "This is the first time I have ever been late and you fucking know it." He said, standing up from the desk dramatically.

"Mind your language, Mr Sullivan, this is a workplace. And calm down. You getting you panties in a twist is embarrassing, frankly." James reluctantly lowered his ass to the chair, seething. "And according to official records this is only the third time, but we both know different. I tried my hardest to preserve your job, James I really did, but I'm afraid...I'm going to have to let you go." He slid a termination of contract order across the table.

The words landed like a sucker punch to James' stomach. He rose from the chair and clenched his hands into fists. Tate rose also, a calm smile gracing his handsome face. A devilish fire danced in his eyes, however.

He felt ill. Faint. Angry. No. Furious. But he was powerless. Tate knew it. James knew it. Tate was smart, charming and had connections in the company. James' firing would pass unnoticed if Tate desired; fighting this was like trying to stop a tsunami. May as well let it sweep you along and just pray it ends you quickly. Even if James couldn't save his job, he could sure as hell release some pent-up rage; he had nothing to lose.

"You are the slimiest cunt I have ever encountered." He jabbed his finger at the taller man's chest. "You've hated me for no reason ever since I arrived at this place. This is illegal, but I'm not even going to try and investigate it, because rich, attractive people like you are immune to the law. The world revolves around you and I am so fucking sick of it. The day will come when the world catches up with you and kerbstomps your ass."

The smirk remained. "I didn't hate you for no reason, limp dick. I hated you because you're weak. I could smell it as soon as I laid eyes on you; cowardice, fear of rejection. It disgusted me. Instead of taking life and riding it like it's your bitch you let it fuck you into submission." He popped his knuckles and cracked his neck. "I take weak people and then I break them. Because it's fun. You're welcome."

James could have screamed. Instead, shaking, he snatched the paper and walked to the door. Just before he left he stopped. "Fuck you." He spat, with all the venom he could muster.

The door slammed shut.

"You wish." Tate smiled.