Jason

For the record, I have a good reason for hating Knox (God, that name…). He stole my job.

I’ve worked at Halsey Media for five years. I started as a graphic artist straight out of college, and worked my way up to art director last year. I’m good at my job, and Mr. Halsey knows it. My goal has always been to become creative director, and it’s not like I’ve kept it a secret. Since my first month with the company, I’ve made it clear that the CD position is the brass ring I’ll do anything to reach.

Then, six months ago, Sharon Eaton retired (finally!), and Mr. Halsey went and hired Knox Pearson, a sweater-vest wearing outsider from Bremer and McKesson, to be the new CD.

Mr. H had the decency to talk to me privately before he made the announcement, but his reasons for hiring a jug-eared weasel with a name too stupid to speak were less than compelling.

Sure, he has a few more years of experience than me. And yes, he managed that Volvo campaign that blew up the internet last year and won all kinds of industry awards. But he’s just so fake. Walking around pretending to be Mr. Nice Guy with his open laugh and big brown eyes. He’s a human Golden Retriever. But he doesn’t fool me. And once Mr. H sees through his act, he’ll be out on his backside, and I’ll be in the position that’s rightfully mine.

If I can wait that long.

***

“It’s noon, let’s go.”

Krysten’s at my door, chomping at the bit for the Chinese lunch I promised her this morning.

“Just a sec, let me finish this email.”

“Screw that, I’m starving. Save it for later.” She strolls in and pulls my jacket off the hook by my bookcase. “If we don’t get there in the next fifteen minutes, there’ll be a wait.”

Krys is just shy of five feet tall, but she can eat most truckers under the table. I know better than to make her wait for food.

“Where are we going again?” I stand and grin as her face twists in shock.

“Chen’s Garden, dammit. Don’t screw with me, my blood sugar’s low.”

Krys started at Halsey two years ago. We met when I caught her stealing my leftover spaghetti carbonara from the staff kitchen. Her startled face, backlit by the dim refrigerator lightbulb, made me laugh, and we’ve been buds ever since.

I stop short on our way to the elevators, grab Krys by the elbow, and make a hard left. “C’mon, stairs.”

Krys does a double-take, then rolls her eyes.

“Seriously? Now we have to hide when we see him?”

“He left me kolaches this morning, and I don’t want him to ask about them.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’ll have to admit I ate them, and they were good. And then I’ll have to thank him. I’m not up for that shit.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You sweet talker.” The door slams behind us with a dull thud, leaving us in the stillness of the empty stairwell.

“If you’d take five minutes to get to know him, you’d realize he’s actually a really nice guy.”

“Says the woman who still has her job.”

“You still have your job, you idiot.”

“Not the job that’s rightfully mine.” I speak over the echo of our shoes on the concrete steps. “He may have breezed in with his awards and dazzled Halsey, but he’s all sizzle and no steak.”

“Oh my God, you’re deluded. Your time will come, you just need to be patient. And it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little nicer. Once the accounts are finished being reassigned, Knox’ll be your boss.”

“Don’t remind me.”