Page 20 of Goodbye, Mr. Winters

IVY

I’m shellshocked.

I walked to work today because I couldn’t fathom driving my car after yesterday.

Of course, he wasn’t there when I woke up. Mr. Winters is and will remain the ghost that I know he is.

Five cups of coffee later, I’m in my office. Unable to sit still, I shift in my chair. I feel him in every move that I make. With every reminder of my soreness, I realize that it wasn’t a dream.

“Do you want to pop some molly this weekend?” Smolyakov bursts into my office, casually walking up to my desk. He plops into a seat. He runs a hand through his hair once, and it behaves.

“No,” I say.

“Come on, you loved it the last time,” he insists. “We felt it for days.”

“I hate that we can do whatever we want. There are no regulations here for us. We can shoot up heroin, and they’ll applaud us,” I blurt out.

“Stop being so sensitive. A molly every five months is not an addiction. And they let us do as we please because our pay is shit, and we’ve saved their asses far too many times for them to put any restrictions on us,” Smolyakov insists. He’s bored out of his mind, and he doesn’t have anything to live for. That’s Katantia for us.

“Did you tap that last night?” he asks in a tone that feigns indifference.

Instead of responding, I frown.

“That bad?”

“Shut up,” I say.

“His son won the game, by the way. All the news reported it first thing in the morning,” Smolyakov informs me. “You must be his lucky charm.”

I don’t know many things about Mr. Winters, but I know that his son wins his games regardless of his father having a good luck charm.

Smolyakov grabs his phone, and he starts typing away. He spends his breaks with me because he hates the cafeteria. He has a delivery chef that cooks for him at home, and I’m pretty sure Smolyakov fucks him for the food, but I don’t say a thing. We’ve all got our quirks, and Smolyakov happens to be quirkier than others. He’s the oldest in my friend group, but he doesn’t look the part. He’s fit, tall, and handsome. There’s a timelessness about him like he’s not from this world.

He’s got dick and pussy lined up for days. All that bores him, though. He’s a calm man, and we’ve become best friends ever since he moved in next to me.

“I’ve got Ignas coming in soon,” I inform Smolyakov. I’m in no way relaxed. My mind keeps drifting off to Mr. Winters fondling my pussy, and I hate myself for it. “You should go.”

“Oh, he is?” Smolyakov puts aside his phone. He sits back on the chair, and he grins at the door.

“What did you do?” I ask my friend. He keeps grinning. I exhale in frustration. “OLEG! Please, why are you messing with my patients?”

“What?” He feigns innocence, shrugging. He hates being Oleg, so he’s forced everyone to refer to him as Smolyakov, which is his last name. “I went to COCKed&screwed after you so lewdly abandoned us at Gold Necklace. Ignas was there.”

“COCKed&screwed? Isn’t that for women?” I ask, momentarily distracted.

Smolyakov rolls his eyes at me. “There are women at Hole Stores, too. Do you see me complaining?”

I sigh. “Anyway. Why? Ignas is still struggling. I wish he’d just take a desk job—”

“Desk jobs don’t pay as well in this country,” Smolyakov interrupts me. He rolls his lips, and his icy eyes sparkle with mischief. “I gave him a little extra afterward. He was a good boy.”

“You didn’t,” I blurt out.

“Sure did. Might even do it again. He’s got a fine—”

The polite knock on my door interrupts our obscene conversation. “Ms. Lin? May I come in?”

“Get out!” I hiss at Smolyakov, who chuckles at my desk.