The Dating Experiment by Briar Prescott

1

Jamie

Most people I know watch crime shows for entertainment. Not me. My interest in murder mysteries is purely educational. I’m not saying that I’m obsessed with the perfect murder, but the FBI would probably have a field day with my search history.

Over the years, I’ve contemplated many a weapon. Ice bullets with poison in them. Wooden stakes to the heart. A shot of oxygen into the vein. Adopting a cheetah and making the attack look like an accident.

“Officer, I truly had no idea Fluffball had it in him! Would you just look at his sweet face?”

I may or may not have practiced saying that a few times. Authenticity is key, and I prefer to be prepared. Just in case.

Everything about my boss just makes him supremely murderable. His flaws are many.

Connor Quinn is arrogant, impossible to please, cold as ice, and prone to finding flaws in everything. But his greatest sin might be ruining my name. And I’m not talking in the Victorian sexual-experience-out-of-wedlock sense of ruining a name.

I’m talking about the fact that he uses my name so many times a day that I’ve developed an unfortunate habit of tensing up whenever anybody at all utters any word that resembles “James” or “Jamie”. The other day, one of the interns talked about visiting Jamestown, and my left eye wouldn’t stop twitching the whole afternoon. Thanks, Maisey. The woman in the coffee shop still thinks I was flirting with her. She gave me a free cup of coffee. I gave her false hope. So, all in all, there’s balance in the Universe.

“James!”

In an uncomfortable and unfortunate Pavlovian reaction, my back stiffens and my shoulders tense like somebody has shoved a poker into my spine.

Here we go again.

There used to be a time I considered myself lucky. As far as names go, James is a relatively safe choice for any parent to make. It’s a common, classical name, if a bit boring. Still, I prefer boring over some newfangled, impossible to pronounce, sure-to-get-you-wedgies weirdness, like Jar-El 52 Mnemo. The m is silent.

James, to my knowledge, doesn’t easily rhyme with any dirty words, so it’s hard to use it for teasing and bullying. One of the jocks tried to make Jamie-Lamey a thing in high school, but after a while, he seemed to realize that he was embarrassing himself more than me with that one.

Nor are there any terrible pop culture connections, which is something every Karen, Luke, or Bart would be envious of. I figure it gets tiring at some point when people keep saying stuff like “¡Ay Caramba!”, or “Luke, I am your father” all the time. I guess there’s James Bond, but nobody who looks at me would make that connection. I’m about as deadly as a cheese sandwich, in that I could choke you, but it would definitely happen by accident.

All in all, I used to really like my name.

Not anymore.

The sheer number of times I hear the name James every day is ridiculous. Plus, it’s usually accompanied by something like, “I hear adult spelling bee contests are a thing. Maybe you should consider signing up. God knows you could use some practice in that department. The element of possible public humiliation would urge you to practice.”

Or “Perhaps you could start making arrangements for my funeral, since there’s a very real possibility I’ll meet my demise while I wait for you to get back with the files I asked for. I prefer a simple, oak casket.”

Or one of my personal favorites, “You should contact Merriam-Webster and let them know of that creative spelling of the word ‘bankruptcy’ you’ve come up with. They might want to update their dictionaries.”

“James!”

People these days. So impatient.

I throw my jacket on my desk and remember, at the last moment, to pull off my hat, before plastering a smile on my face as I make my way toward the door that separates my desk from my boss’s office.

It’s our morning ritual. He calls my name the moment I set foot inside the office. I still haven’t figured out if he actually hears I’ve arrived or if he calls me because it’s eight o’clock on the dot. If I were late, would he yell my name until I arrived? One of these days I’ll conduct an experiment, and by God, I will find out the truth. The public deserves to know.

I stop just outside the doorway and wait until I hear a displeased sigh, and then I mouth “James” along with Connor as he calls my name once more before I step into his office. It’s the little things that get me through the day.

“I’m here, I’m here,” I say, as I go and take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite Connor’s desk.

He leans back in his office chair, cocks his head to the side, and just stares at me.

I force an easygoing smile on my face as I quickly go over my appearance in my head, trying to figure out what might be wrong with it. I don’t think there are any noticeable wrinkles in my shirt, although Connor has been known to detect even the ones that are invisible to the human eye.

My dress pants are new, and I chose a very inoffensive dark gray color, so I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with them. God knows we don’t want to repeat the turquoise skinny jeans debacle of my first week here.

It might be my hair, because unless I squirt a gallon of hair gel in it, it’s just naturally messy. But it’s been that way ever since I started working here three years ago, so unless Connor has just noticed the fact that I don’t sport a neat Anderson Cooper–worthy do on my head, that shouldn’t be it.

“Sloths have algae grow in their fur,” he says.

It seems we’ve reached the point where insanity has kicked in. That’s what you get for being an intolerable workaholic.

I’m not sure what the right protocol is if your boss seems to have gone off his rocker. Humor him? Laugh? Ignore and hope it’ll pass? The 911 call will be interesting.

Yeah, hi. There’s something wrong with my boss. He’s spouting animal-related trivia instead of making sarcastic remarks. Send help ASAP.

“Huh,” I say slowly. “Interesting tidbit. I read something about how trained pigeons can tell the difference between the paintings of… I want to say Picasso and Monet. Or Manet? Either one or the other.”

“Thank you for that vaguely factual tidbit,” Connor says dryly. “I was trying to see if there’s a green hue that’d indicate you’ve finally gotten to the point in your endeavor to be slow that you have other organisms declaring your body a nice territory to inhabit.”

Never mind, dear people of 911. He’s back.

I salute him. “I’ll make sure to report back to you as soon as I notice anything out of the ordinary growing on me.”

“Please do. I’m obviously very invested in the outcome of your personal journey to become the slowest man in the world.”

I tap my index finger against my chin. “I’ve always wanted to be a record holder, but the unfortunate shortness of my legs has put a swift stop to my dreams of challenging Usain Bolt in a race. The opposite seems like an achievable goal, though.”

He stares at me for a moment longer, until I sigh and ask, “What now?”

“Nothing. Just imagining what it would be like to have an assistant that could move as fast as Usain Bolt. Do you think he types as fast as he runs? It’d be a dream come true.”

I press my palm to my heart and feign shock. “You have dreams other than taking over the world and banning laughter and fun for everybody? How exciting.”

“Every now and then a new one pops up.” There’s a minuscule twinkle in his eyes, and I’m almost certain I can see the barest hint of a smile, but then he seems to catch himself and erases all that progress instantly.

A second later, he taps his collar. “Forgot something?”

I grin and shake my head. “Nope. Also, kudos. You let the false sense of security kick in before you attacked me with the dress code. Very sneaky.”

“It takes a lot of imagination to consider me pointing out your blatant disregard of our dress code an attack,” he says.

“Lucky for you I’ve always been prone to flights of fancy.”

“The lucky part is still up for debate.” He takes a glance at his watch. “Can we perhaps get to work? Or do you have any other smart-ass comments you feel the unbearable urge to make?” he asks with the usual level of exasperation and impatience as he straightens himself and leans toward his laptop.

I raise my tablet in the air and wave it in his direction.

“I’ve been ready for forever. You know, if you didn’t have the incessant need to chat with me every time I show up here, you’d be so much more productive. Just an idea to consider.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should.” I try to do a regal nod. “My advice has been known to turn people into better versions of themselves.”

I try not to take offense at the way Connor’s eyebrows seem to rise to his hairline.

“I’ll be waiting for the results of my transformation with bated breath,” he says after a second, before he turns into Mr. Efficient again and starts firing off commands.

“Schedule a meeting with the interns for tomorrow. Compulsory attendance. I’m speaking at a conference in Chicago on the twenty-fifth, so take care of the plane tickets and hotel rooms.”

I nod as I make notes.

“Is that all?” I ask because I’m sometimes stupid like that.

He doesn’t even bother to comment.

“Look through the files for the Meravida merger and send them to Mark. Also, see if he’s ready with the franchise agreement review. Try to casually float the idea that if he still hasn’t made any progress, he’ll have to start reviewing his resume. Now, as for the email you typed up for me yesterday…” He lifts a paper up between his fingers and looks at it with obvious disdain.

“You know you’re not supposed to print emails out, right?” I ask. “You’re supposed to send them with the help of your laptop, not carrier pigeons. Not to mention you’ve just added to the carbon footprint of your email. Next thing you’re going to attach a cat meme, and then we’ll all be doomed. Doomed, I tell you! Do you know the carbon footprint of a cat meme? Why do you hate the planet?”

He just stares at me for a while before he seems to figure ignoring me is the way to go.

“The reason I printed it out is that I was considering framing it and putting it up on my wall. I even have a name for it all figured out. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not really,” I say.

“Despair,” he says. “You know what inspired that choice?”

“I may have some ideas,” I mutter.

“It’s because I despair for the fate of the English language whenever I read… whatever this is.”

“Well, you know, art should evoke emotions, so that’s good.”

“Yes. The problem is I asked you to type up an email and not art. I get plenty of that at the gallery openings my grandmother insists we attend. So how about you do your best to deliver one of those to me in the next, say, fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” I say with a sigh. Crap. That’s what I get for hurrying last night, but I was running late. Connor had sprung the email on me while I was already supposed to be leaving, so I got careless, and spellcheck obviously betrayed me in the most treacherous manner imaginable.

And Connor’s not even done yet.

The tasks pile up on my tablet screen, and I’m starting to think I should be flattered the man thinks I’ll be able to accomplish everything he’s throwing my way by tonight. I suppose it’s nice he seems to believe in me.

When he finally finishes, I slide my eyes over the calendar to make sure I’ve made note of everything.

“You’re still here,” he says after a few seconds have passed. “Are you trying to confirm the sloth hypothesis, or…?”

“Nope. Just enjoying your company,” I say sweetly.

He just rolls his eyes. “Just go already, or I’ll be tempted to fire you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I say flippantly, but I get going anyway. If I want to leave before the new day is going to dawn, I have to get cracking on my to-do list.

“One more thing.” Connor’s voice stops me.

“Yes?”

“Under no circumstance are you allowed to forward my brother’s calls to me.”

I raise my brows. That’s a first.

“Why not?”

Connor seems startled by the question.

He squints his eyes at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m kidding or not. “Because I say so?” he offers as an explanation.

I roll my eyes. “That one didn’t work on me when my mom used it, so it’s not going to cut it now either, I’m afraid.”

He sighs. “Can you just for once in your life follow a simple request?”

“I could.” I start to get up, but then I flop back down.

“Then again,” I say as Connor groans loudly, “it seems like a weird order. What if Gray has something important to say?”

“He won’t.”

“People do have emergencies,” I point out.

“And we have the police, fire department, and ambulance expressly for that reason,” he replies.

“What if he needs you specifically?”

“I’m not indispensable, so I doubt that will happen,” Connor says.

The Quinns are not a typical nuclear family, but they seem to love each other, and more importantly, they actually like each other. All in all, I’m having a hard time trying to figure out why Connor is suddenly so adamantly against speaking to Gray.

“Are you fighting?” I ask with a frown that is deepening by the second.

“No, but maybe I should try that,” he says, perking up a little.

“You’re being sketchy. I feel tempted to investigate.”

“I strongly urge you not to give in to that impulse,” he says.

“It’s like you don’t even know me. Now I have to figure it out. My Spidey senses are tingling.”

“I’d really prefer not to know too much about any tingles you may or may not have.”

“You know, the quicker you tell me what’s up, the quicker I’ll leave you alone,” I say.

He takes a moment to weigh the pros and cons. I can almost see the list forming in his head.

Pro: I’ll get rid of Jamie.

Con: The chip on my shoulder is programmed to explode if I reveal any type of personal information.

Connor is a daredevil, it seems, because he takes a deep breath, sends me an annoyed look that I ignore quite easily, seeing as he’s given me so many of those over the years that I’m frankly immune already, and says, “He’s trying to guilt me into a party.”

“That absolute monster,” I say. “How dare he want to spend time with his brother!”

He throws me an annoyed look.

“It’s about my… birthday.” He makes a face like the word tastes foul.

I nod carefully, because I remember very clearly how he told me that being born was not an accomplishment worth celebrating since billions of people had managed it over the course of history, so I’m not sure if I should acknowledge the impending doomsday in any way. I’ve also been advised not to utter the phrase “Happy birthday,” or I’d get an express membership to unemploymentville.

“Gray seems to think we need to celebrate.”

He looks equal parts puzzled that somebody would come up with something as crazy as celebrating a birthday, and like he’s debating which continent would make for a good new home after he’s run away from his current one. I bet he’d go with Antarctica. The decided lack of people must be very appealing for him.

“Isn’t your birthday in three months?” I clarify.

“They’re trying to sneak attack and get me to commit in advance.”

“So you’ll avoid them until July? I highly doubt having me lie to Gray that you’re at a meeting will do much to deter him,” I point out. “He’ll just enlist your gran to help, and you know as well as I do she’ll drag you, kicking and screaming, out of this office. I mean, it’s the big three-eight, after all.”

He squints his eyes at me, jaw clenching.

“Why are you still here?” He looks like I’ve just derailed the best plan he’s ever had.

I widen my arms. “I’ve asked myself the same question more than once, believe me. I’ve tried to leave so many times, but it turns out you don’t pay me shit if I just sit at home, and I really need the money for such trivial joys as food and rent.”

“I’m tempted to consider paying you not to show up.”

I cock my head to the side. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

A hint of a smile plays on his lips before he shakes his head and points toward the door.

I salute him before I walk back to my desk, humming Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” loudly as I go.

“James?” he calls.

“Yup?”

“Will you kindly, please, shut up?”

Happy workday to me.