Don’t fuck the boss.

This should be rule number one; the very first fucking thing anyone tells you when you reach adulthood.

Work hard, stay focused, do your best each day, and—the best fucking one—strive for greatness.

Yeah, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.

All of that is shit your teacher and professors tell you as you graduate from secondary school or whatever university you found yourself at. They should just be real and tell you the truth.

Kiss their arses, but don’t fuck them.

Keep your mouth shut, and be a yes man kind of person.

Oh, and the second most important thing; your education—the degree you put blood, sweat, and tears into—doesn’t amount to anything and doesn’t guarantee you the fucking job you deserve.

But the most important is to never, ever fuck your boss, or your boss’s wife, daughter, son, husband—you get it; the list can go on and on. No matter what you think certain pussy will taste like, control your fucking dick. Keep it in your pants. Don’t beat off to thoughts of them in your head; don’t even look at them when you are at work. Keep your nose down and stay focused on the real reason you are there.

To bloody work!

This shouldn’t just go for us guys. No, it should go both ways. Ladies, you get a job and you think your boss has a fine arse and can give you everything your heart desires just because they’re rich, leave it the fuck alone. I don’t care what those novels you read tell you. Fucking the boss never ends well.

It sure didn’t improve my life six years ago after I moved to the States. At the time, I was unstoppable—bullet proof, if you will—and I fucked myself over.  Not only did I put a damper on my professionalism and career, but my ego took a massive hit as well.

That’s what leads me to where I am at today. I’ve been with Havre and Bell Accounting Firm since I landed on this side of earth. Since I’ve been here for six years, you would think my seniority would mean a better job, but it doesn’t. Stuck in an entry-level position is just the start of my woes. Expendable, useful at times, but overall, I’m a fucking grunt worker.

My education goes to being the aid to my boss, Candy—the very one I fucked by the way—bringing in new clients to keep our firm going. And let me be clear; Candy Havre is the only daughter of one of the firm’s owners. I’m a legend around here now and not a good one. Think Clinton-Lewinsky kind of fame. The new people quickly learn about me and advance while I stay where I’m at.

In a tiny arse cubical forgotten in a corner.

I overlook work functions unless they are mandatory. Every company picnic, Christmas party, or any other function my attendance isn’t required is one I stay the fuck away from. I don’t care to be around people who judge me by my appearance.

They see the typical bad boy with my arms, back, and chest inked. My nipples and dick are pierced, too, but no one aside from Candy knows that. Hell, they even judge me based on my haircut.

Fuckers.

It doesn’t matter that I work hard; researching, providing estimates, and so on to draw new clients in. I help sweet talk them, and then get cast away. No one sees my other side; the good guy who wants to do a good job and has dreams.

Why don’t I leave my shithole job?

I like the United States. Don’t get me wrong, I love my homeland of Australia, as well, but I feel freer here. I’m away from my family and allowed to be myself. I love my parents and little sister, but they don’t let me breathe when I’m there. Not after what I went through.

My parents are blue-collar workers, and great. My sister, Priscilla, and I never went without. As kids, we knew we couldn’t ask for a whole lot, but we never felt deprived. My dad is a full-time mechanic at an auto dealership in Sydney. He’s been working on vehicles since before I was born. I was lucky enough to spend an exuberant amount of time during my childhood under the hood with him. It was his dream I would do something great with the knowledge he passed down to me, or at least follow my own dreams of becoming a professional motocross racer, but I didn’t. Instead, I chose a profession no one would have guessed—accounting.

What can I say? I like numbers. It’s steady, and I don’t have to make regular trips to the doctor’s office to set a broken bone or get any scans.

My mum is a sweet little soul. By day, she cleans the homes of wealthier people, and at night, she cleans a couple of small businesses. She made sure Priscilla and I was able to attend college and neither she or my dad would accept a single cent from my sister or me as payment for our educations.

They were heartbroken when I left for the States, but they understood why. At twenty-two years old and fresh out of college, my life was racing with my best mate, Jax, who happened to be an American. Until my last race. We ended up in a pileup, which stole Jax’s ability to walk, and I couldn’t live with the guilt. I still can’t handle it most days, and I refuse to get back on a bike. Part of my mind knows it wasn’t my fault, but it still feels that way.

Well into the race, I was following the rider in front of me too closely, and Jax was right on my arse. It happens with races; everyone is gunning to get to the front and take the win. But I should have been paying closer attention to the rider in front of me. He was unfocused by the corner, and I was far too close to react when he slammed on his brakes. I tried to turn, but I had nowhere to go. My front tire slammed into the side of him as Jax’s bike hit me from behind. It continued until we were in a massive pile.

Most of us walked away with a few scrapes and bruises, but not Jax. I could still hear his screams as we pulled him from under the mountain of mangled machines. That day changed everything.

No matter how much Jax tried to get me to realize it wasn’t on me, I couldn’t look at another bike, another race track, or anything related to the sport again and feel the same joy I had before. I tried to push the pain away, but I still carry it with me. I sold my bike, forced the money into my parents’ account, and settled on where in the world I would go.

Sandy, Utah, the southern part of Salt Lake City, is where I decided.

Jax’s hometown became where I would hang my hat if I wore one. I helped him through rehab, physical therapy, and when he healed he tried to encourage me to get out on my own, but I still live with him. I want to make sure my friend is always okay.

Jax is still part of the motocross world with his own work. He, along with our other American friend, Levi, tell me daily to go for it again; to get back on a bike, and to fall back in love with the one thing that always made me happy. I was too good to hang up my gear. I brush it off, but I’ve come to realize how much I hate my bloody life.