Chapter 1: Jessie
The flickering overhead light made shadows jump across my spreadsheet. My eyes burned from staring at numbers that meant nothing. Another Wednesday. Another eight hours of gray walls and the low hum of computers, the stale coffee smell that never quite left. I was entering data, autopilot engaged, dreaming of roasted beans and the quiet rustle of leaves in a space I owned. A space that wasn’t this fluorescent tomb.
A soft clearing of the throat behind me. I jerked, almost knocking over my lukewarm coffee. Jessie stood there. Framed in the flickering light, she looked like a startled bird, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose. Her messy dark blonde hair escaped the edges of her ever-present black beanie.
"Oliver? Sorry." Her voice was barely a whisper over the office drone. She held out a manila folder like an offering. "This got mixed into the Henderson returns. It's for the Petersen audit. Yours, I think."
Her eyes darted away from mine, landing somewhere near my keyboard. She tugged at the sleeve of her huge black hoodie, the fabric swallowing her hand. Always hiding. But the movement pulled the thick cotton slightly taut across her chest for a second, a fleeting outline of curves beneath the shapeless armor. My breath hitched. It wasn't just attraction, that tightening in my chest. It felt like… recognition. Like seeing someone drowning and realizing you’re the only one on the shore.
"Thanks, Jessie," I managed, taking the folder. Our fingertips brushed. Hers were cold. Mine probably felt clammy. "Saved me a hunt."
A tiny, uncertain smile touched her lips. "No problem." She hesitated, shifting her weight. "Did you… did you ever listen to that Soul Asylum song? The one I mentioned?"
"‘Runaway Train’?" My voice sounded too loud in my own ears. "Yeah. Last night. It’s… really good. Sad, but good." I’d actually played it three times, picturing her listening to it. Wondering what it meant to her.
Her smile widened a fraction, genuine this time, warming her whole face despite the cavernous hoodie and the heavy frames. "Knew you’d like it. The 90s just… understood feeling lost, didn’t they?" Her gaze met mine for a split second, clear and sharp behind the lenses, before skittering away again. "Better get back. Mrs. Danvers will do her rounds."
I watched her walk back to her temporary desk, a flurry of oversized fabric and nervous energy. She vanished into the cubicle maze. I’d met Jessie three months ago when she started temping, helping me untangle a mountain of backed-up filing. She was painfully shy, guarded, flinching at sudden noises. But slowly, working side-by-side sorting invoices, she’d started to thaw. I’d ramble about coffee beans – Arabica vs. Robusta, different roasts – and instead of glazing over, she’d actually listen, ask questions. Then, one day, she’d shyly confessed her love for 90s alternative, bands I hadn’t thought about in years. That was the moment, really. That quiet sharing in the stale air, surrounded by paper. I fell. Hard. Hopelessly.
We’d gone on four dates. Coffee after work at a quiet place downtown. A walk in the park where we mostly just sat on a bench, watching ducks. Lunch breaks shared on the grubby concrete steps behind the building, sandwiches from the deli. Awkward silences, sure, but also easy ones. She’d laughed once, a real, surprised sound, at a stupid joke I made. I’d replayed that sound a hundred times. I really, truly thought… maybe. Maybe she was it. The idea felt fragile, precious.
That’s why Corey, Paulie, and Tony couldn't know. Not a whisper.
My phone buzzed violently on the desk, rattling against the laminate. A new notification in the group chat: "The Boys." It was a photo. Blurry, dim lighting. A bare female back arched over a couch, hands gripping the cushions. No head in the frame. Just skin.
Paulie’s text popped up underneath: Corey’s conquest last night. Said she practically begged for it. Filthy bitch. More vids later.
Nausea, sour and familiar, rose in my throat. I swiped the notification away. My thumb hovered over the mute option for the thousandth time. Didn’t press it.
I met them years back, laboring for Corey’s dad’s construction company during a summer break in college. Hauling lumber, mixing concrete. I was the soft, slow one. The easy target. Corey, with his ropy muscles and cruel grin. Paulie, all restless energy and dirty jokes. Tony, the quiet one who always laughed loudest at the worst stuff. They never let me forget I didn’t belong. Called me "Spreadsheet" even then. But they were the ones who’d give me a ride home when my car died. The ones who included me, however brutally, when I had no one else. Loneliness is a powerful glue, even when it binds you to poison.
Now we hung out most Fridays. Drank cheap beer in Corey’s perpetually messy garage, the air thick with weed smoke and the sound of a perpetually blaring game on TV. My role was clear: audience. Laugh at their jokes, even when they punched my arm too hard "playfully." Listen to their graphic, often disturbing, sexual "exploits." Pretend I didn’t see the endless stream of photos and videos in the group chat – girls they’d filmed without consent, girls they mocked ruthlessly. Misogyny was their default language. I hated it. Hated myself for sitting there, silent. But where else would I go? Back to my empty apartment? Back to just spreadsheets and cafe dreams?
The thought of them knowing about Jessie… knowing her name, picturing her… it made my skin crawl. They’d dissect her. Mock her hoodie, her glasses. Make crude guesses about her body beneath it. Demand details I’d never give. Turn something fragile and real into filthy locker room fodder. No. She was mine. My secret sanctuary in this grinding, gray life.
Five o'clock. The fluorescent hum seemed to intensify, a final assault. I powered down my computer, the screen blinking into blackness, reflecting my tired face. Grabbed my bag. Passed Jessie’s desk. She was carefully stacking files, her back to the aisle. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t risk someone seeing us leave together.
Outside, the late afternoon air was a relief, cool and real after the canned sterility. I walked towards the bus stop, the weight of the week settling on my shoulders. Then, the familiar, jarring blare of a horn.
Corey’s lifted pickup truck, mud-splattered and aggressively loud, pulled up hard at the curb. Paulie hung out the passenger window, leering. "Spreadsheet! Get your ass in! Party starts early!"
Corey grinned from the driver’s seat, teeth white against his tanned skin. Tony just nodded from the back, already cracking a beer.
My stomach clenched. "I was gonna get the bus…"
"Fuck the bus!" Paulie yelled. "Get in! We got stories. Corey bagged a wild one last night."
Laughter exploded from the truck.
The bus stop sign was right there. Freedom. A quiet ride home. Avoid the garage, the noise, the inevitable barrage of filth. I hesitated. Corey’s grin faltered, turning impatient. "You coming or not, Princess? Don’t make us beg."
The familiar pressure built – the pressure to belong, even here. The fear of being left completely alone. My feet moved before my brain could stop them. I walked around the front of the truck, the headlights like accusing eyes. Opened the creaking back door and climbed in. The cab reeked of stale beer, fast food, and sweat.
"Attaboy," Corey said, gunning the engine before I’d even shut the door. We lurched into traffic.
Paulie twisted in his seat, already scrolling on his phone. "Check it, Ollie. Proof of Corey’s epic lay." He shoved the screen towards me. Another photo, even more explicit than the last. I looked away, out the window at the blurring office buildings.
"Put that shit away, Paulie," Corey chuckled, not meaning it. "Save it for the big screen in the garage. Gotta set the mood." He glanced at me in the rearview. "So, Spreadsheet. Anything interesting happen in Numberland today? Any hot temps walk by your sad little cube?"
My blood ran cold. I kept staring out the window. "No," I mumbled. "Just spreadsheets."
Paulie snorted. "Figures. Bet you’re pent up, huh, buddy? Need Corey to find you some easy tail? He’s got the magic touch lately." He elbowed Corey.
Corey smirked. "Maybe. Though finding fresh meat that ain’t completely busted is getting harder." He looked back at me again, his gaze suddenly sharper, probing. "You sure nothing happened today? You look kinda… twitchy."
Panic fizzed in my veins. Did he know? Had someone seen me talking to Jessie? "Just tired," I said, forcing my voice level. "Long week."
Tony, silent until now, took a long swig of his beer. "Probably just thinking about his little treehouse coffee shop again." His voice was flat, dismissive.
They all laughed. The sound filled the cramped cab, pressing in on me. Corey turned the music up – some aggressive rap – drowning out any chance of further conversation. But his eyes lingered on me in the mirror a moment longer. Suspicious. Calculating.
I slumped lower in the sticky vinyl seat, watching the city crawl past. The secret of Jessie felt like a live wire in my chest, sparking under their scrutiny. How long could I keep it hidden in a world this small, surrounded by vultures? The truck pulled into Corey’s driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. The garage door yawned open like a dark mouth. Laughter spilled out from inside, where the big screen TV already flickered with pre-game highlights. My sanctuary felt very far away. Paulie slapped my shoulder. "Come on, Spreadsheet! Drinks are on you first round. Time to hear how a real man gets laid." He winked. "Maybe take notes. You might need 'em someday."