Stealing Office Supplies

By Simon Smith

Troy Goldman’s first real job out of college was a disaster.

Yeah, it totally sucked. And it wasn’t just the mind-numbing work: He also had the mother of all despicable bosses.

But Troy also had his first real girlfriend. Jena was perfect, he was in love, and she really wanted him to have a real job.

Plus it had taken forever to find. English literature majors with only bartending experience aren’t exactly…readily employable.

So Troy sucked it up, tried to make the best of things, even used his crappy job as a catalyst to do something way out of his comfort zone, and positive – small, good deeds to counter-weigh the drudgery of his day.

Then the unimaginable happened, a foul committed that was beyond comprehension.

In an instant, Troy’s entire world was turned upside down.

And he absolutely had to get revenge.

But it had to be done right.

Was it possible to somehow turn a monstrous happening into something beautiful? Life affirming even?

Unlikely. Highly unlikely, right?

Or maybe, just maybe, there was a way…?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Smith
• Release date: Mar 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386712428

Book preview

STEALING

OFFICE

SUPPLIES

By: Simon Smith

Stealing Office Supplies

Copyright © 2016 Simon Smith

All rights reserved

Cover by Tyler McCoy

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Formatting by:

Type A Formatting

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any way or form or by any means whatsoever without the express permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters and happenings set forth in this book are completely made up. Any similarities to real people, either alive or passed on is pure coincidence and absolutely untended by the author.

Table of Contents

Stealing Office Supplies

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

About the Author

Dedication

For my girls, Khristine, Zoe and Abbie, the loves of my life

Prologue

COME ON, YOU know you’ve done it before. Hell, everyone has, at some time in their working careers, in some form or fashion. Usually starts out with a few paper clips inadvertently left in the top right pocket of your shirt that are discovered later when you’re doing the laundry. Next maybe a chunk of sticky notepads or a pen, one of those nice gel-tip numbers that everyone covets at the office and that turns up in your pants pocket, mistakenly ferried home from work in your mad dash to get the hell out of there. Sure, you could have checked your pockets before leaving the plant, but who does that, right? Unintended acts that are completely innocent, at first anyway. But man, it was easy, wasn’t it? Why not more? A few more pens here and there, maybe matriculate up to some yellow legal pads stuffed into your white plastic supermarket lunch bag that your asshole boss always smirks at. There’s ample justification, right? I mean, it’s all such harmless shit that no one will ever miss. It’s not as if you’re swiping the Hope Diamond or anything. And my God, the supply room is overflowing with stuff even the person responsible for supplies wouldn’t remember ordering! Plus—and here’s the kicker—your little now-not-so-innocent thievery feels . . . well, it feels deserved. Come on, admit it—it feels good swiping shit from the man. To somehow combat the chronic sense of quiet desperation you feel working a meaningless job you really need to keep and would be seriously screwed if you lost. A job that you hate, working for a boss that you hate, eight plus hours a day of your life, time wasted, time that you’ll never get back. So yeah, it’s okay to admit it: Your little acts of work place disobedience are way more than justified; they’re empowering.

Anyway, what Troy did was no different, really, when you get right down to it. At least that’s what he told himself, you know, when it was all going down. That he was entitled to do what he did. And it wasn’t just on account of his crap-ass job, or mother-of-all-asshole bosses. No, it went way deeper than that. He had to do what he did. The bastard absolutely, positively deserved it . . .

The key, of course, was to do it in such a way that no one got hurt. Well, maybe not too hurt. And with an ends-justified-the-means, soul-nurturing sort of conclusion.

Check it out, and let me know what you think. I’m curious to see if you agree.

Chapter 1

ALLEN MOVED THROUGH the office like a man in complete control of, well, everything. After all, it was entirely his domain. The dark mahogany desks and top-of-the-line overstuffed black chairs, the state-of-the-art computers and copiers, the requisite gold-framed sailing pics on the wall, all his. Every freaking plant that his interior decorator had bought with his Amex Card and had staged to perfection was his. And while the employees didn’t come with the platinum office package, he sort of owned them too. He paused in front of Troy’s desk and took in his newest employee, who was head down engrossed both in the files scattered haphazardly across his desk and the turkey, kosher dill and spicy mustard on pumpernickel he had in his suitcase-sized right hand and was hitting hard. Crumb fragments spilled everywhere, which was entirely foreseeable, given the energy Troy was putting into each bite.

Allen assumed one of his many stances—more like poses, because he was always on parade—legs wide, hands on hips, sculpted chest thrust out and barely restrained by his Armani shirt. He shook his head slightly, clearly disgusted.

Troy saw his boss assuming what he liked to call the dickhead’s Peter Pan pose. He always expected Allen to start crowing like Pan, maybe waving a dagger around too. No doubt a very small dagger, Troy inwardly mused.

But he didn’t look up.

Allen cleared his throat, annoyed.

Troy finally looked up after a few awkward seconds, smiled at his boss and said, I’m sorry, Allen; I didn’t realize you had descended Mount Olympus, flexing there before me, Herculean in stature and physique, clearly the omnipotent master of all things before you . . .

What? Allen replied. He turned and looked at Crusty slumped over the next desk behind Troy. What the hell is he saying?

Crusty threw her hands up in the air and husked, No clue, Mr. Allen.

Allen looked back at Troy, glanced at his watch. 10:30 lunch there . . . big man . . . ?

Troy grinned and took another bite. Naw, just a snack . . . I like to get a running start on lunch.

Allen smiled, took in Troy’s sagging belly straining over his tattered brown belt and cheap khakis. Really? Never woulda known that . . . stud. Seriously, you’ve been working out, haven’t you? Come on man, you gotta let mere mortals like me have a chance with the ladies once in a while!

Crusty cackled, punctuated by a wheeze that quickly morphed into one of her phlegm-clearing coughs that always made the hair on the back of Troy’s neck stand up. He was positive she was still pining away for the good old days when huffing butts at your desk and an occasional hit of Wild Turkey from the bottle perfectly positioned in the bottom right-hand drawer was acceptable.

Allen flexed first his right pec, then his left, and was about to say something else when his one-woman marketing department walked by, her perky rear end packed into a short, short miniskirt, her entire self-worth affirmed with each flouncy step.

Allen gave her his usual It’s not a question of if but when leers and her flirty smile beamed reciprocation. She shot Troy a withering, You disgust me glare and pranced by without a word. Allen watched her go with lip-smacking reverence.

Troy knew even Crusty had to admit Allen took being a pig to a whole new level, but always the loyal minion, she had her head down in a file pretending not to notice.

Allen turned back to Troy. His look hardened. Seriously, I’m not paying you to graze all day. You have twenty minutes for lunch, which isn’t at 10:30. I want this desk cleaned up, and I want both of those files perfect and on my desk by COB.

Who’s COB? A new hire?

Allen placed his hands on Troy’s desk and leaned in menacingly. Close of business, smart ass. And let me give you a little advice, you know, just guy-who-signs-your-paycheck-to-employee-capable-of-being-fired-at-any-time-for-any-reason kind of thing: Your slob routine is getting old. I don’t care what you do at home, but when you’re here, you’re mine. So clean up this desk, clean up your act, and actually do some damn work for once.

A handful of different responses rushed through Troy’s mind: Stand up and wallop the bastard, or clear the desk with one arm-swiping, file-and-crumb-scattering motion punctuated by There, clean desk, asshole were instantly his two favorites. But he didn’t do either. He needed the job, because he loved his girlfriend, who really wanted him to have a job. Plus it was Friday, and he and Jena were moving in together the next day with the help of her folks, whom he was meeting for the first time. They were getting serious, he was in love, and life was good. Hell, other than his job, life had never been better. So he sucked it up, again, and was about to mumble something semi-solicitous when Allen simply turned on his heal and strutted away.

Chapter 2

JENA THOUGHT ABOUT giving him a little heads-up talk before Mother and Dad arrived, you know, sort of a here’s what to expect, here’s what you’re going to be up against kind of thing. But she thought better of it because, at the end of the day, it really didn’t much matter what she told him. Troy was going to be Troy no matter what, in the presence of God or the pope or the president, or even her father, who, when she was growing up, thought of himself as the strongest parts of all three. The fact that Troy was so comfortable in his own skin was one of the things Jena found so appealing about him. And mind-boggling. Being content with who you were just wasn’t that easy, not in Jena’s world, not without meds anyway, and God knows she’d tried enough of them. But he was, and for the past six months they had been together, and that togetherness was helping empower her to, well, to figure out who she really was. What a beautiful concept. It was like the prison door was finally opened, and although the bright light of freedom still sometimes seemed impossibly intense, and daunting, she was still free. Jena moved closer to Troy and linked her arm around his waist as they stood waiting in front of the condo complex main entrance. She couldn’t stop that same goofy grin that had been around a lot lately from quickly taking over her face. Not that she wanted to anyway. She was just too damn happy.

Jena’s dad and mother were driving down from their estate home in northern Jersey to Annapolis, Maryland, to meet Troy and to help them move into their new place. Dad was forgoing some golf tournament at the club, her mother some bullshit garden group social, both events critical and their absence a monumental loss, a fact Mother made abundantly clear to Jena when they spoke by phone a few weeks prior. Jena told Mother not to sweat it, they had the move covered, and to come down when it was more convenient. Jesus, they’d shown no interest in meeting Troy in the six months he’d been in her life; what were another few weeks? Yet mother was insistent they be there to help. No one could lay on the guilt like mother. It was her greatest weapon. But the thing was, for the first time in her life, Jena felt almost . . . ready to take on Mother and Dad, and to handle their obvious disappointment with her decision to live with Troy. And disappointment might be a huge understatement. Seriously, their youngest daughter shacking up, living in sin? The Murrays just didn’t do that. Only six months into a relationship? Scandalous! And the result, Jena knew, meant a quick strike one in their assessment of Troy and the proposition of Jena and Troy as a couple. That Troy was a non-believer and, even worse, not a Catholic was an un-hittable hundred-mile-an-hour fastball on the outside corner of the plate called strike two. In one of Jena’s fledgling but still not entirely convincing moments of boldness, she had told Mother that Troy called himself a lapsed polytheist. Talk about a conversation killer. And of course, there was she and Troy’s whole living on the financial fringe thing, and Troy’s obvious lack of motivation to fight and claw his way up the financial ladder and become a millionaire captain of industry as Dad had. That alone was a no-brainer of a called strike three. So Jena knew that she and her first real boyfriend had totally struck out with her parents and, as a result, were heading back to the dugout without even having been given the opportunity to take the bat off their shoulders. But it was liberating in a perverse sort of way, like the pressure was off to expect anything but bad out of the get-together. The only question was how bad.

They showed up right on time—Dad was never late, ever, it just wasn’t in his DNA, plus in his world only slackers were—and pulled up in front of Jena and Troy in some shimmering brand-spanking new silver sports car thingy Jena remembered Mother telling her about. Dad had on his standard mirrored Aviators and, as usual, took his time getting out of the car, which, of course, meant Mother didn’t budge either, Murray’s rules, just sat there, eyes forward with her standard pained expression. Jena had a quick flash of a fantasy that one day Mother would shoot Dad the finger and bound out of the car before him. It could only help with her digestive problems. As Dad slowly removed his glasses, adjusted and reprogrammed or recalibrated or whatever the hell he needed to do with the machine’s instrumental panel, such an inordinate amount of time that Troy was prompted to remark to Jena out of the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes off Dad, I thought your dad was a Wall Street guy, not a cop . . . is he pulling my file in there . . . ?

Jena’s mouth formed into a crooked little smile. Naw. The world waits for Dad.

Troy nodded slightly. Does the sun check in before rising every morning, make sure it’s cool to proceed?

Jena shifted her hips, leaned closer into Troy and pinched his left butt cheek. You catch on quick.

Dad immediately went to Jena, which meant Mother was stuck with Troy. She eyed him nervously, taking in his stained Annapolis Beer Festival T-shirt, ripped cargo shorts and seven-year-old green Converse high tops held together with well-positioned strips of gray duct tape. Her displeasure was more than apparent; shit, it was palpable. Jena silently screamed, Judgmental bitch, to herself. There was no way Troy missed it either, but he did what only Troy could do: He beamed, then moved his six-foot-three-inch, 240-pound frame over to Mother and embraced her in a huge bear hug. Jena swore Mother’s feet actually left the ground and quickly tried to remember that ever happening before.

Jena felt like jumping up and down too.

Mrs. Murray! It’s totally cool to finally meet you!

Mother, stunned, quickly disengaged, staggered back and tried to gather herself. In her world, people did not bear hug. Air pecks on the cheek, a slight shoulder squeeze after a few glasses of pinot, and maybe, in the rarest of circumstances, if you’d known the person for at least forty years and were consoling them in a moment of extreme loss, a brittle hug with only elbows making any real contact. But never, ever a bear hug.

Jena watched Dad as the hug went down, saw his color rise, his jaw set. She knew he was pissed, really, really pissed, but that he wouldn’t just haul off and hit Troy. In Dad’s world, you just didn’t do that. But he wanted to, and sure as shit felt justified in doing so. Boys like Troy didn’t bear hug his wife, and they sure as hell didn’t date girls like his daughter. Period, end of discussion. It had nothing to do with Jena. It had everything to do with Dad. It had been the story of her life. Jena went to the Catholic all-girls high school she did and the college she did not because she wanted to but because Dad did. It was all about his bragging rights over a scotch and soda after eighteen holes at the club with his buddies. Jena should be dating according to the prescribed rules of engagement: a chaste courtship with an attractive, well-put-together young man with a III or IV after his name, a thorough knowledge of golf course etiquette, and a bright financial future. So no, Dad couldn’t simply coldcock Troy. But Jena knew what his play was going to be, had seen it lots of times before, and watched him clench and unclench his fist in preparation. Dad had a vice-like handshake. No, more like a vice on some serious ‘roids. He was in his mid-sixties but had the body of a thirty-year-old athlete as a result of hours at the gym, hours of handball and racquetball and tennis and God knows every other racquet or stick sport known to man, all of which he was either reigning or past club champ at. He moved toward Troy and thrust out his hand: time to squeeze the life out of the disrespectful little bastard, bring him to his knees, the proverbial kick to the balls, Dad-style.

Troy eyed Dad’s outstretched hand, quickly assessed the thick, rope-like forearm muscles and bulging biceps just beneath his pressed green golf shirt, shot Jena a wink, and before anyone could exhale, used his four-inch and sixty-pound advantage to perfection and had Dad in what mother would later relay with a shudder to her friends at garden club as a another one of those horrific gorilla embraces.

Before Dad had a chance to figure out what the hell had just happened, Troy said, Mr. Murray, a real pleasure to meet you, sir! He turned his attention to Dad’s car. "And sweet ride you have here. A new Hyundai sports . . . thing, right?

Dad was back from the hug trauma and said, seething, between clenched teeth, No, not a Hyundai. My God, not even close to a . . . Hyundai. It’s the 2014 Austin Martin DB5.

Jena had been watching the whole exchange, all of it, the Mom hug, the Dad hug, the obvious mis-que on dad’s new car, with a mixture of horror and pure pleasure. The small part of Jena still hanging onto her old self couldn’t believe what had just happened. But the mostly new part, the follow your own bliss Jena was having a blast. But she did need to jump back in, salvage a few shreds of the meet-and-greet.

It’s super cool, Dad!

Troy winked again, this time at Dad and said, It sure is. He nodded across the parking lot in the direction of his sagging dark blue but mostly rust-colored Jeep and said, "That beast over there is