Chapter 13: No One Else
The fluorescent hum of the office pressed in on Ron. He sat rigidly at his desk, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. The spreadsheet before him blurred into meaningless grey grids. His entire awareness was focused on the throbbing heat beneath his left ear. Puck’s mark. Fresh. Insistent. He’d spent the last hour subtly angling his head away from the aisle, tugging his collar higher, feeling the phantom pressure of her mouth, the shocking intimacy of her tongue against his skin right here, under the buzzing lights, surrounded by colleagues.
He kept replaying it. The sudden tug on his tie, the cool fingers slipping under his collar, the hot suction. The absolute terror and… something else, something warm and unwelcome coiling low in his gut. He took a shaky breath, trying to focus on cell B14. Think about the Henderson account. Think about depreciation schedules. Think about anything but…
"Hey, Ron?"
He flinched violently, knocking his knee against the desk drawer. Susie from reception stood at the entrance to his cubicle, leaning slightly against the fabric partition. She smiled, warm and easy, clutching a small stack of inter-office mail envelopes. Her bright blue cardigan was a splash of colour against the beige.
"Susie! Hi." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "What’s… what’s up?"
"Just dropping off the mail run." She held out the envelopes. "You okay? You look a little flushed. Flu going around?"
"No! No, I’m fine. Just… concentrating." He took the envelopes, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. His neck felt like it was glowing. He angled his head further towards his monitor. "Thanks, Susie."
"No problem." She lingered for a moment, her gaze drifting curiously over his desk – the meticulously arranged pens, the framed photo of his parents smiling stiffly on a beach vacation years ago. "That Henderson file finally came back from Legal, by the way. Looks like they approved the revised expense categorization. Saved the day!"
"Oh! That’s… that’s great news." Relief washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the panic. A genuine smile flickered. "Thanks for letting me know. That was a headache."
"Tell me about it." Susie laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Those guys move slower than continental drift. Anyway, just wanted to give you the heads-up before I head out. Have a good one, Ron!" She gave a little wave and turned, her sensible flats making soft clicks on the linoleum as she walked towards the elevator bank.
Ron slumped back in his chair, the envelopes forgotten in his hand. The brief respite evaporated. The mark pulsed. He touched it lightly, wincing. Susie saw me flushed. Did she see it? Could she tell? Paranoia prickled his scalp. He felt exposed, branded. He fumbled for his mouse, clicking aimlessly on the spreadsheet, trying to bury himself in numbers. Anything to drown out the memory of Puck’s triumphant eyes, the feel of her hands.
Across the cubicle farm, near the large windows overlooking the parking lot, Lily "Puck" Puckerman had frozen mid-stride. She’d been heading towards the exit, her black leather portfolio clutched tight under her arm, the image of professional departure. Until she saw it.
Susie. Leaning into his cubicle. Smiling. Laughing that bright, empty laugh. Touching his mail. Talking. Her Ron. Flushed. Flustered. Talking back.
A cold wave washed over Puck, instantly vaporizing the lingering satisfaction from her morning’s claiming. The carefully constructed veneer of control shattered. Jealousy, raw and acidic, surged through her veins, hotter than the coffee she’d brought him. Her knuckles whitened around the portfolio handle. Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
Talking to her. Smiling at her. After what I gave him. After what I marked him with.
The rope burns above her collar seemed to pulse in time with her accelerating heartbeat. The sterile office air suddenly felt thick, suffocating. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, grating against her nerves. She watched Susie walk away, that cheerful blue sweater bobbing, completely oblivious.
Puck couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The image burned: Susie’s easy smile, Ron’s flustered response. A red haze descended. The possessive fury she usually channeled into predatory focus now threatened to erupt uncontrollably. Her vision tunnelled. The portfolio slipped from her grasp, hitting the carpet with a dull thud she didn’t hear.
She needed air. Now. Before she did something… visible.
Turning abruptly, she strode towards the main exit, her boots striking the linoleum with sharp, staccato cracks that silenced nearby conversations. Heads turned. Kevin from Sales paused mid-sentence about his golf handicap. Puck didn’t see them. Didn’t care. Her face was a mask of icy fury, eyes fixed straight ahead, seeing only the imagined intimacy between Ron and the receptionist.
She pushed through the heavy glass doors into the late afternoon glare. The cool air hit her face but did nothing to quell the fire inside. The parking lot stretched before her, rows of anonymous cars under the weak autumn sun. Her own black Honda Civic waited near the back.
But her gaze snagged on a car closer to the entrance. A modest silver sedan. Susie’s car. Recognizable by the slightly-too-cute "Be Kind" sticker on the bumper and the little potted succulent visible on the dashboard.
It sat there. Innocent. Cheerful. Like its owner.
The red haze intensified. The coiling fury in her chest demanded release. A physical outlet for the emotional storm threatening to tear her apart. Rational thought evaporated.
Without breaking stride, Puck altered her course. She walked directly towards Susie’s car, her movements stiff, purposeful. The gravel crunched under her boots. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
She stopped beside the driver’s door. Looked down at the clean silver panel. Imagined Susie’s smug face behind the wheel.
The kick wasn’t wild. It wasn’t a flailing tantrum. It was a controlled explosion of pure, focused rage. She drew her leg back, clad in sharp, pointed-toe boots, and drove her heel forward with all her strength, putting the weight of her body behind it.
THUNK-CRUNCH.
The sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet lot. Metal buckled inward violently just below the door handle. A sharp, deep dent, radiating spiderweb cracks in the paint. The car alarm remained silent, but the impact echoed in Puck’s bones.
She stood there for a second, staring at the damage. The jagged edges of the dent gleamed in the sunlight. A tremor ran through her, part adrenaline crash, part lingering fury. The red haze receded slightly, leaving behind a hollow, trembling coldness.
She didn’t look around. Didn’t care if anyone saw. Breathing heavily, she turned on her heel, walked the remaining distance to her Honda, unlocked it with a sharp beep, and slid inside. The engine roared to life, unnecessarily loud. She reversed out fast, gravel spraying, and accelerated towards the exit without a backward glance.
Inside the sterile office, Ron Milson finally managed to click cell B14. He typed a meaningless number. His neck still throbbed. He had no idea the storm had just passed, leaving its violent signature on innocent metal outside. He only knew the phantom pressure on his skin, the terrifying pull towards Thursday, and the desperate, lonely hope that Susie hadn’t noticed anything unusual about him at all. He meticulously aligned the stack of mail Susie had delivered, his hands steady only through sheer force of will. Outside, the lone dent in the silver sedan gleamed accusingly under the fading sun.