Hi, my name’s Jake Watson. I’m 28 years old, male. Dirty blonde hair, hazel-green eyes, six foot four tall, 180 pounds more or less.
I’m well versed in four different martial arts, including krav maga. Plus boxing and kickboxing. Basically, I could tear you down with my left arm, but I like to think I’m brains too not just muscles.
I’m an overly privileged white spoiled rich American boy according to some. A deranged and dangerous threat to society according to others.
I suffer from heavy anger management issues, I’m a sociopath with masochistic tendencies and an unconscious death wish. That means the only way for me to feel anything is through self harm, and that I voluntarily put my life on the line at least half of the time.
Last week I was released from Rikers Island’s federal prison, New York, where I served 2 years for battery and assault. I have fully recovered and am glad to have found my place in society again. Thank you for understanding.
Doesn’t sound too reassuring for an introduction, huh? Yeah, that must be why my uncle incinerated me with his cold stone glare when I recited that to him.
Hey, he said I would need a statement to introduce myself to my new employees, and that is the utter truth. Shouldn’t people be warned I am oh, so dangerous and could basically snap and slaughter them all at any given moment?
I mean, that’s what the judge that put me away thought, and the prison’s shrink backed up his idea. I suppose it’s true.
I did lose my shit a lot in the past. I have been close to killing someone more than once. I did coldly plot a murder. I did beat the shit out of some guy voluntarily. I did plan to take his life with my bare hands. I did cause him to be on the brink of death and be hospitalized for three months.
But hey, I swear, I’m a pretty nice guy when you know me.
There’s just that one little detail ... I’m as fucked up as fuck. With a life like mine, a curse like mine looming over your head, you’d be too. I mean, if you’ll excuse me, aren’t I allowed to lose it now and then because the nonexistent God up there decided to make of me his favorite squeaky toy and not grant me a single fucking break ever since I breathed my first breath?
But I’m on a new lead. I am, really. So don’t you flee just yet, I promise I’ll be good.
After all, it’s been a full week since I returned to Boston, and I haven’t flipped out yet. I suppose that’s an achievement. A milestone, the prison’s therapist would call it, but too far from the final goal.
He says I need to work on my issues by cutting down or off the three elements in my life that I have been using to fend off depression and suicidal thoughts as well as nightmares.
One: violence. Work out, Jake. Blow off all the steam you’ve got at any hour you need, doesn’t matter where, but that is the only violence you’re allowed to use. That’s what Dr. Schroeder said. I suppose that for him it’s better if I destroy gym equipments other than beat a man black and blue. He’s got a point there, huh?
Two: alcohol. No drinking, Jake. Not one single ounce of alcohol in your system anymore. You’re not you when you’re drunk, he said. Ah...if only he knew I’m worse when sober.
Three: sex. Women are not sexual objects, Jake. No shit, Sherlock. So quit using them to distract yourself. Find a girlfriend, someone to turn to when you need comfort, find a woman that will stand by your side through thick and thin.
I laughed so hard in his face at that. Seriously. He basically told me to find a poor guinea pig and fuck up her life for good just to put order in mine. Doesn’t that count as sadism?
To be honest, I’m trying to keep up with these vetos, I just ... don’t succeed very much, except for the first one. I mean, violence allowed only on objects, never people? Okay, I’m perfectly fine with that and it’s really working, but the rest? Uh ... not really.
The first thing I did once out of prison was get wasted. Consequently, I slept with a bunch of girls whose names I didn’t even bother to know. My best friend’s been keeping the count, he says it’s 15. 15 girls in a week, I mean. Says it’s close to my record, but I might be losing some beats. You know, I’m not getting any younger.
In my defense, it’s not exactly easy to go on 2 whole years in prison without sex. I mean, my bunkmate would have been quite keen on helping me out, but I wasn’t keen on giving up my ass like that. I’m a fine guy, you know? You gotta take me to at least one date before I give it.
Now, enough with the introduction, I guess. If I’m too long I might have to flash you just to keep you there reading. Not that I’d mind, eh, but you might get your expectations on men a little too high then.
I stepped on the elevator, proud of myself for being on time for once in my life, and leaned against the wall, trying to tune out the crappy music around me. Remind me to talk to the maintenance guys about this.
My eyes closed, I was trying to picture myself as editor-in-chief of Lion’s Publications, to think of what would I do and why the hell did my uncle put me in this goddamn job, when something came to stop the doors of the elevator from closing.
“Sorry.” A female voice apologized, somewhat wheezy.
I shrugged, without even looking. “Just press the button.”
“Does your hand hurt perhaps?”
I frowned. “Huh?” When my eyes snapped open and I saw her, I’ll admit I felt some odd stirring. Not in my loins, well, yes, there too, but mostly along my spine, like a shiver or something, as if ... nah, I don’t believe in that predestination crap.
She was young, something less than 25, had hazel hair that matched her eyes, which were trapped behind some black rimmed glasses. Pretty cute. Ordinary kind of cute, but definitely fuckable-I mean, uh ... passable.
My gaze fell on her breasts before noticing the box in her hands, and I’ll admit the sight was fine. A 38D, I’d say. Enough to have with without drowning. The rest was hidden away by the boxes and her bag unfortunately.
“Done with the gawking?” She huffed, and my eyes snapped to hers, so that I noticed her scowl. “These are called boobs, yes, every woman has them. Wanna take a pic?”
I smirked, pressing the button once she’d entered. “Well,if you’ll allow me, why not? I mean, quite impressive, I gotta admit.”
She grunted in annoyance. “Just grow the hell up. How old are you? Thirteen?”
“28 actually, but thanks for making me younger.”
She rolled her eyes, but I’ll admit I was starting to have fun teasing her. We’ve got 16 floors to go, I needed to kill time.
“So, what you got there? Seems heavy.” I asked, mentally cupping her boobs. Damn, those must be nice to squeeze.
“Does it look like I wanna make small talk?” She huffed, facing the wall opposite to me.
“Hey, I was trying to be nice.” Nah, I was trying to distract her while I stared at her boobs. Yes, I’m a dirty, dirty dog, sorry to disappoint, no Prince Charming here.
By the way, Prince Charming’s gay, accept it.
“You’d be nicer if you shut up.”
Uhh feisty...I like. “Cranky, huh? What, is it that time of the month?”
She groaned. “Oh, sure, because I’m a woman, so if I’m cranky, I gotta be menstrual. Ugh, you Americans ...”
“Us Americans? Oh, so you’re an immigrant, huh? Stealing some American girl’s job, I see ...” I shook my head, faking disapproval. “Say, who did you screw do get here?”
Uhh I just scored racism and sexism in one shot, I’m on fire this morning. Oh, did I say I loooove pissing off people? It’s fun, and this girl here was falling straight into my trap. I could literally hear her grit her teeth, I swear.
She snapped to me faster than a lynx, ready to tear me down. “You racist little piece of shit, I got where I am thanks to my own talents. You’re lucky I can’t drop this cake, otherwise I’d have already taught you a lesson.”
“Oooh ... feisty, aren’t we? You should chill, sweetheart, the wrinkly look doesn’t suit you.” I grinned. She shut up. Pity, I hoped she’d fight a little harder. She seemed like a real fighter.
She put down her boxes by the time we got to the 16th floor, and came to stand in front of me. I could notice the green rings surrounding her hazel eyes for how close she was, which was nice, but it got me actually confused. What, this kind of thing turns her on?
She placed her hands on my shoulders and I realized she wasn’t that much shorter than I. She tilted her head to the side, nearing my face, and smiled sweetly. I’ll admit I was baffled but also turned on. She was- “Fuck!”
"La prossima volta che mi dai della puttana te le taglio le palle.”
I swear,I got tears in my eyes. And not because I was emotional. She left me there, doubled over on my knees when the elevator doors opened, and she strolled out.
That fucking bitch just halved my chances of being father. Jesus Fucking Christ, I think she just broke my dick.
“What’s that smile on your face, Sissy? Isn’t it too early in the morning for that?” Tess asked the moment she came to me when I got to my desk.
I calmly placed down the cake for her birthday and my bag. “Oh, nothing, I just handled a little sexist racist.” Always feels good.
She chuckled. “Oh, no, not again ... what this time?”
I shot her a wry look. “You take these things too lightly, Tess.”
“And you take them too hard.”
I placed a hand on my hip, irritated that she would debase such episodes. It’s because of this attitude that racists and sexists think they’ve got power. It’s because women don’t speak up when harassed and called names that there has been such downwards spiral towards disrespect. “Excuse me, when some douche implies I’ve fucked my way to my job and that I’m a filthy immigrant come to steal Americans’ jobs, I am bound to castrate him, to the very least.” He’s lucky I was in a good mood this morning and that it’s my best friend’s birthday, aka Tess herself.
She laughed, predictably. I hate when she does that, she always says I’m too touchy about my nationality and sexism. Well, excuse me, given the current situation, I’m only bound to be. Also, when I came to America the first words I heard were Italian slut, so yeah, I’m a little bit touchy about this.
Don’t take me wrong, I love Boston, and the people I’ve met are mostly good, but some were total douchebags that implied I was a criminal only because Italian, and a slut only because Italian. Some Americans are real primitives. Lucky thing the majority of those I’ve met are nice people.
“Come on, Sissy, did he literally phrase those things or were you in one of your touchy moods?”
“He asked me who did I screw to get here, and said I came to steal American girls’ jobs, so yeah, he phrased exactly those things.” I scoffed, switching on my computer. “Hadn’t it been a sacred day, I’d have done more than kick him in the balls.”
Tess laughed harder, barely covering her face. “You did?? Really? Oh, poor guy ...”
“Poor guy?! I was the one insulted!”
She wrapped a hand around my shoulders, bumping our heads as she did her best to quit laughing. “I’m sorry, Sissy, it’s just that I know how powerful your kicks are ... the chances are, that guy’s not gonna have kids anymore.”
I grunted, sitting at my desk. “Better. Who knows what degenerate little boys he might have raised.”
Tess sort of agreed with me, but her attention soon swerved to the box on my desk. “Sooo... is that what I think?”
“Chocolate caramel cake for Ms. Tess Doherty’s 24th birthday, yes.” I answered with a grin. “Handmade by me, myself and I.” Took me all night, but I made it. This and beyond for my best friend.
Tess nearly made me fall as she jumped in my arms, cheering. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, my sweet Italian babe!” I hate that nickname, but meh, Tess gonna be Tess.
“You better take that enthusiasm with you over to the fridge before the cake melts.” I warned. “It’s an ice cream cake, as you requested.”
She grinned, doing as I said, but not before having placed one super-wet kiss on my cheek. I don’t particularly enjoy this kind of thing, I don’t even celebrate birthdays, but Tess is Tess, so... I’m even going to her birthday party tonight. Me. I hate hate hate parties. Yet I’m going to hers. I guess love that does that, huh?
I opened my files and got ready to start working. Just because it’s Tess’ 24th birthday, doesn’t mean it’s not a workday. I’m a translator, my time’s always limited. Right now I’m working on a romance novel that makes me want to carve my eyeballs out of their sockets at every single line, but it’s still my job... translators don’t get to choose, and this was the parting gift from that jerk that was the old editor-in-chief.
Good thing there’s a new one around. I feel like this one might be good. They say it’s a woman, and that she’s worked for some of the most important publishing houses, like HarperCollins, Simon and Schuster, and also some other European ones. I can’t wait to meet her, hopefully I can learn a thing or two from her.
You see, I wanna create my own translation agency someday, but I’d also like to be an editor. I already part-time do that, because the editor is quite incompetent. I mean, if you American born person need an Italian to help you edit texts in English, aka your mother tongue, then you’re pretty shitty at your job.
I like Peter, though. He’s pretty cute and nice. Dumb as fuck and definitely here because of some high connections, but cute. Plus, he’s a good kisser.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Sissyyyy!” I heard Tess squeal louder than dogs could bear before I could even get to my job. And I thought busying her with the cake would be enough. She doesn’t have much to do now that there’s a void at the top. She’s the editor-in-chief’s assistant: no editor-in-chief, paid holidays for her assistant. She should arrive today, though, I suppose that’s why Tess was running to me like crazy.
“Let me guess, the new boss is here.” I filled in for her, without tearing my eyes off of the document I was translating. Just how many different words can you use to describe a penis? This author was definitely creative in that department, believe me. Not as much creative while working on her plot... the old editor-in-chief really sucked at his job, I’m betting that’s why he got early retirement.
Sigh. People never pity translators. Have you ever considered that the shitty book you found yourself reading might have been first of all in the hands of a poor frustrated translator that’s had to read it, translate it, reread it and edit it over and over again until it was fine? I deserve way more than how much I make.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! He’s here!” Tess squealed, overexcited, shaking my shoulders.
I frowned. “He?”
“Yes! He’s here!”
I turned to face her, confused. “Who’s he? And why are you so excited about his arrival?” I thought for a moment. “Mmh, never mind, I know why you’re excited, but who’s he?” Knowing her, if she’s this excited, this guy must be pretty hot. Sometimes Tess can be a little shallow, but I love her so.
“The new boss! He’s here!”
“He? Wasn’t it supposed to be a she? Who-”
“Well, well, well ... look at that, my angel with horns.” A male voice interrupted my questions. I paled when I looked up.
“Sissy, this is Jake Watson, the new editor-in-chief.” Tess introduced with a grin.
I closed my eyes, and stood. Of course, because I’m so fucking lucky. “Let me guess ...” I started, looking him in the eyes, “I’m fired.” I suppose I better start looking for some dumb idiot that’ll marry me, because without a job, I’m bound to go straight back to my country.