Chapter 3: Water Cooler Confrontation
The hum of the water cooler was a high, irritating whine in Mark’s ear. He stood in the doorway of the break room, the paper cup of lukewarm coffee in his hand forgotten, its heat leaching into his skin.
Derek’s back was to him, broad shoulders straining his tailored shirt. He was leaning against the stained counter, phone held aloft like a trophy. Two other guys from the audit team, Carl and Ben, were huddled close, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“See? Told you,” Derek’s voice was a smug, carrying drawl. “The new girl in Marketing? Lacy? She’s a fucking legend from back at State.”
Mark’s feet felt glued to the peeling linoleum. Don’t look, a voice in his head pleaded. Just get your coffee and leave.
But his eyes, traitors, locked onto the phone screen. Derek’s thumb scrolled, zooming in on a paused video. The image was grainy, dark, lit by the shaky flash of someone else’s phone. It showed a dim bedroom, loud music pulsing faintly from the speakers. The focal point was a man sitting on the edge of a bed, his face out of frame, his pants around his ankles. And between his legs, a blonde head bobbed with a rhythmic, unmistakable purpose.
Mark’s breath stopped.
“Legend is right,” Carl snorted, adjusting his glasses. “Damn. Who’s the guy?”
Derek chuckled, a low, wet sound. He tapped the screen. "That right there is my old high school buddy, Steve Rossi. Went to State the same years as our new colleague."
He zoomed out slightly, the blonde head still filling the frame. "Steve said she was some kind of blow job queen. A campus landmark, like the library or the bell tower." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur the whole room could hear. "Claimed she must've sucked nearly every dick at that school. For fun, apparently. Like a hobby."
The words hung in the artificially chilled air, mixing with the smell of burnt coffee and stale microwave popcorn. Carl and Ben laughed again, a sharp, percussive sound.
“No kidding?” Ben said, wiping his eye. “She doesn’t look the type. Seems so… sweet.”
“The sweet ones are always the freakiest,” Derek said, slipping his phone into his pocket with a final, dismissive smirk. “It’s a rule. Steve said she had a whole system. Something about remaining a virgin but he also said she'd pretty much suck any cock that made its way in front of her.”
Derek shrugged, a lazy, triumphant movement. "His words, not mine. But the proof is right there." He pulled the phone back out, his thumb hovering. "Want me to air-drop it to you guys? For… educational purposes."
Mark’s coffee cup crumpled in his fist. The lukewarm liquid splashed over his fingers and onto the cuff of his shirt, a dark brown stain blooming instantly. He didn't feel it. The floral wallpaper in the grainy video—large, ugly peonies in a sickly pink—it was the same pattern from the basement of the Delta Sigma house. He’d been there once, sophomore year, to pick up a buddy. He remembered staring at those exact flowers, feeling nauseous from cheap beer.
The memory fused with the image on the phone, the rhythmic motion, the whispered legend. A hobby.
He turned before the hot, sour taste in his mouth could become something else. His shoulder clipped the doorframe, a dull thud he ignored. The hallway stretched, a blur of beige carpet and generic art.
"Hey, Mark, you alright?" Ben’s voice called after him, tinged with amusement.
He didn't answer. He walked, then almost ran, past the copy room, past the rows of identical cubicles. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird. Lacy’s wide, blue eyes from this morning, so full of fabricated concern, now superimposed over that bobbing blonde head. It’s just a performance, for the sake of my career.
The men’s bathroom door hit the wall with a bang. He shoved the nearest stall door open, the latch catching with a rusty shriek. He fumbled with his belt, his fly, his hands shaking. The image was stuck behind his eyes, playing on a loop. But now the face on the body in the video shifted, blurred, reformed.
It was Derek.
Derek leaning against the break room counter, that cocky smirk. Derek in that dim bedroom, his hands tangled in that blonde hair. Lacy looking up, her lips stretched, her eyes meeting Mark’s from the past with a secret, knowing glee. The legend, in the flesh, right here in his building.
He hated it. He hated the heat pooling in his gut, the tight, aching throb it created. He leaned a forearm against the cold metal partition, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fogged the scratched laminate. His other hand moved on himself, a rough, frantic rhythm fueled by a violent cocktail of betrayal, humiliation, and a deep, shameful curiosity.
A choked sound escaped him, part anguish, part pleasure. It was fast and desperate, a silent explosion in the stale, antiseptic air. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing into his arm, the cool sweat on his skin now clammy.
The fluorescent light above buzzed, relentless. He slowly tucked himself away, fingers fumbling on the button of his stained slacks. He didn't look at himself in the mirror over the sink as he left the stall. He just ran the water, ice-cold, and rinsed his hands until they were numb, trying to scrub the feeling away.
It clung to him, anyway. The secret was out, and it was dancing in the break room without him. And he, the fiancé, had just gotten off on it. The porcelain sink was smeared. He left it there, a guilty, glistening mark.