Chapter 1

I’m at the water cooler,listening to Kevin’s story of how he fought off a horde of housewives for the last TMX Elmo in Toys‘R Us,when I hear my name bellowed from the boss’s office.“Johnson!”

The few co-workers near me scatter.I wonder if I can slink away to my desk andpretend I didn’t hear when Mr.Sanford yells out again.“Johnson!In my office,now!”

“It was nice knowing you,”Kevin says as I toss my cup into the trashcan.I know all too well what this must be about—the office Christmas party last Friday night.God!Kevin claps a hand on my back like a nail hammered into my coffin.“The Rich-Meister,caught makin’copies.”

“Shut up,”I mutter.With my head down,I move through the cubicles in our small office like a man going to the gallows.Ahead Mr.Sanford’s door is open and I can see him sitting behind his desk,his movie-star good looks warring with the intense blaze of hatred in his eyes.He’s found out then,I know he has—someone mentioned it in passing,or maybe they narked on me deliberately,who knows?Who cares?Somehow he knows about the copier and that’s it,I’m fired.Day before Christmas Eve,too.Fuck.

I glance at his secretary as I pass,but the smirk she gives me isn’t sympathetic.“You’re dead,”she mouths.Though she holds the phone to her ear,I know she’s talking to me.

Stepping into his office,I figure the best course of action is to play dumb.Pretend it wasn’t me,or say I don’t remember it,I was too drunk.That’s mostly true…stopping in front of my boss’s cherry-wood desk,I swallow pastthe lump of fear in my throat and squeak,“Yes?”

Shit.I even soundguilty.Clearing my throat,I try again.“Mr.Sanford,yes.”Then,realizing that’s not a question,I add,“You wanted to see me?”

“Johnson,”he says,his booming voice filling the room around me and rolling out into the hall,where I’m sure my co-workers hang on his every word.There’s a manila folder on his desk,dead center,all by itself.The way he clasps his hands over it tells me that whatever I’m in here for is documented in it.I stare at those tanned hands with their well-manicured fingernails and wonder if this is going to be long and painful or quick and easy.Just fire me already,I want to say,but I’m too scared of my boss to speak to him in that way,or any other way.I can’t even look him in the face,this close.Suddenly I’m seven years old and waiting in the principal’s office for the shit to hit the fan.

“Johnson,”he says again,his voice slightly lower this time.My gaze flickers up from his hands to glance over his face—he has rugged looks,craggy features that remind me of Harrison Ford or Sean Connery,one of those leading movie men now slightly past their prime.He’s old enough to be my father,Mr.Sanford is,and a hard life of tough business decisions has grayed his hair at the temples.His skin has gotten so much sun over the course of his life that he sports a perennial tan—his face,hands and neck darkened and crisscrossed with smooth,fine lines.

When I first met the man,I thought him attractive,with a sparkling grin,quick laugh and strong handshake that I can still feel.But my childish crush died the minute I signed the employment paperwork.He’s a hard man to work for,with high standards that half of the employees in his firm fail to meet.I’ve been here six months and still feel my position is a balancing act—the turnover is so high in some departments,they don’t bother to get business cards printed until you’ve been here at least a year.There are only a handful of days left of 2006 and December’s the first month no one’s been let go since I’ve been here.

Yet.

Resisting the urge to wipe my sweaty palms off on my slacks,I ask,“Yes…?”

“Have a seat,”Mr.Sanford says,interrupting me.He motions to the overstuffed leather chair,the only place to sit that isn’t behind his desk.Like a puppet whose strings are cut,I plop down onto the edge of the chair.A look of irritation flickers across his face.Fingering the folder,he shakes his head sadly.“Johnson,Johnson,Johnson.”

“Yes.”With a nod,I confirm that’s me.The triple-name play,nota good sign.Now that he can’t see my hands,I smooth them down the front of my pants.I suspect he wants me to ask about the folder,so I don’t.If he’s going to prolong the agony for me,I don’t have to roll over and take it.

Without a word,he passes it to me.I know I’m just another lowly peon to him,some upstart kid in the advertising department,so unimportant he has to callme Johnsonbecause he doesn’t remember my first name.So when he tells me,“Take a look in there for me,”I know it’s not some impending business decision he wants me to review,or a major campaign he wants my opinion on,because that’s not who I am to him.This is the end of my career at Sanford and Associates,LLC.With a mix of trepidation and fear,I take the folder andhold it in my lap.

I don’t want to look inside.

As if he wants to give me some privacy,he stands and comes around from behind his desk.Past me,to close the door.That small gesture alone tells me this might get nasty.The moment he’s out of view,I open the folder and grimace at the first of several black and white photocopies staring back at me.

Someone’s ass,flattened against the copier’s glass.My ass.

Shit.

Behind that,another image of my butt—somehow,copies of my nether regions had seemed so much funnier on Friday night,especially with a half a bottle ofMad Dog-laced eggnog swirling through my system.Quickly I leaf through the pages,and see the worst of it.God.

The next image is also black and white and crystal clear—a copy of my dick,my hands pressing it flat against the glass.After that,another shot of my dick,just a fraction of an inch off from the first picture so I can tell this is a different image.Thumbing through the pictures is almost like looking atone of those children’s flipbooks where a drawing on the bottom of each page changes slightly and almost seems to move when riffled.With each copy my cock lengthens,hardening—from the drink,or the exposure,or maybe I was playing with myself as I ran off the copies,I can’t remember.But the folderis full of shots of my ass and dick,and by the next to the last page,my hard erection lies across the length of the copier glass,my balls now in the picture,squished and ready for their close-up.

Kill me now.Please.