Chapter 11: It wasn't my fault
756 Words
Ash had just finished scrubbing the sleek black company car until his hands ached and the skin on his knuckles looked raw. The vehicle gleamed in the faint sunlight, and for a moment, he let himself feel a small shred of pride.
But that moment didn’t last.
A loud splash yanked his attention upward. Out of nowhere, a bucket of murky, foul-smelling water cascaded over him, drenching his freshly washed shirt and clinging to his skin in cold, slimy patches. The stench hit his nostrils instantly, like rotten vegetables mixed with stale mop water.
The gasps and snickers started immediately.
Two young men in neat suits, clearly junior staff from the Langston Group offices above, were leaning over the railing of the loading dock, the empty bucket in one’s hand. “Oops,” one of them called mockingly. “Guess we missed the drain!”
Ash’s chest tightened with fury. He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. He wanted to shout, to march up there and demand they clean their mess. But the image of his little girl, Nora, flashed in his mind, her small hands clutching his worn shirt, her bright eyes full of trust. He needed this job.
He swallowed his anger like bitter medicine.
By now, more workers had gathered at the entrance, whispering to one another, smirking, and pointing. “Is that the new guy?” “Nah, that’s the driver.” “Driver? Looks like a janitor to me.”
A burst of laughter rang out.
Ash forced himself to keep breathing, wiping the sludge from his arms. The cold had seeped into his bones, but the humiliation burned hotter than any sun.
He started toward the company entrance, hoping to duck inside and at least rinse off in the bathroom before anyone else saw. But the security guard stepped into his path, one thick arm stretched across the doorway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the guard asked, his voice deep and unyielding.
“I just… need to clean up,” Ash said, trying to keep his tone even.
The guard’s eyes flicked to the puddle forming at Ash’s feet. “You’re dripping filth all over the place. You’re not messing up the company floors. Step back.”
Ash’s jaw tightened. “I work here...”
“Not inside, you don’t,” the guard interrupted, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. He gave Ash a shove, not hard enough to knock him over, but firm enough to make it clear that the conversation was over.
The laughter from the doorway grew louder. Someone pulled out a phone, angling it toward Ash like they were recording. His face burned.
“Asher!”
He turned to see the secretary, Veronica, descending the steps with deliberate grace. Her red lipstick still immaculate, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement.
She stopped a few feet from him, eyes scanning his sodden, dirty state. A slow, amused smile curved her lips. “Well,” she said, “you’ve certainly made an impression on your first day.”
Asher bit back a retort, settling for a tight, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Fault or not, the optics aren’t great,” she said smoothly. Then, as if she were granting him a favor, she added, “The boss won’t be in today, so you’re free to go.”
He blinked. “Free to go? After...”
“I’ll send you an address,” she interrupted, already pulling out her phone. “You’ll pick up Mr. Langston from his home tomorrow morning. Be punctual. That means no excuses, no delays, and certainly no showing up looking like…” She waved a hand at him, her expression dripping with disdain. “…that.”
Her voice was loud enough for the onlookers to hear, and another ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.
Asher felt the humiliation twist tighter in his gut. Every instinct screamed at him to defend himself, to tell her and everyone else exactly what had happened. But instead, he nodded once, short, sharp and turned away.
As he walked toward the road, the wet fabric of his shirt clung to his back, each step squelching in his waterlogged shoes. He could still hear the workers’ laughter echoing behind him, a sound that followed him long after the Langston Group building was out of sight.His clothes reeked. His hands ached. But worst of all, his pride felt like it had been scraped raw.
- Writer
