by K. T. Mara
Franco smiled. “Yup.”
Before it was okay to say I couldn’t get laid because I was too busy with work. Now there was a woman my age, at my work, and I couldn’t fuck her because I wasn’t allowed.
I was starting to run out of excuses for myself, and my dick.
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Contact R
Name: Rachel Trevelynn
Age: 26
A.K.A: The Untouchable
Occupation: My personal assistant
Mood she invokes: I have something else I’m hoping for her to invoke. And it has nothing to do with my mood.
--------------------
It was Tuesday morning; the day my new PA was supposed to start.
She didn’t start for another thirty minutes and fifteen seconds, but she’ll probably get here earlier than that.
If the report I got about her was any indication, she was in a super class of try-hards.
She was an M.I.T. graduate with a master’s degree in computer engineering and logistics. For her undergrad, she double majored in computer science and business management.
She went to the same school as me and even got the same degree; sans the whole double major thing, I only did business management.
She was beyond qualified, which begged the question, why she was working as a PA?
I asked Franco, and he didn’t know either. He also doesn’t care.
I really didn’t give too many fucks either. The economy was shit. ShawTech hasn’t hired any new programmers in over a year. If I asked her, it may just dig at some open wounds.
And I didn’t like to work with emotionally fragile people. They were so fucking unpredictable.
I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds to go, and she was still not here. I didn’t care much for punctuality. Heck, I was usually the last person to meetings. But that was the problem Franco was trying to fix, and it wasn’t going to get fixed with a PA who has the same problem as me.
At the five-minute mark, I was just sitting there twiddling my thumbs.
I was not good with first meetings. Or second meetings. Mostly because whatever flaws of mine they didn’t discover during the first meeting, are usually exposed during the second.
I really wasn’t good with meeting new people in general.
Gus said I came off as rude and indifferent.
I countered that ladies love the bad boys.
The fucker almost slapped me.
At exactly one minute and thirty-five seconds after ten, I heard a knock on the door.
Please don’t be hot. Please don’t be hot.
I stopped my chanting when I realized I might get castrated if I didn’t shut up. It has to be a crime somewhere for a man to wish a woman to not be hot.
The door opened, and she’s—sweet Jesus—a redhead.
Any guy who claims he doesn’t have a preference is a fucking liar. He won’t tell you for two reasons; either the person asking isn’t his type, or he doesn’t want to sound shallow.
My preference has, and always will be, redheads.
I really hope the carpet matched the drapes.
Fuck me.
As fast as my thoughts went through my head, they all led to the inevitable truth; she was off limits. Fuck the universe for hating me so much.
She walked to my desk and extended her hand. “Hi, Connor. I’m Rachel.”
I bit on my tongue hard to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. I have astigmatism. Or as my optometrist putted it, my eyes are shaped like a football. I blame it on the shitty genetics my parents gave me. They blamed it on Mother Nature, but we all know Mother Nature already has her hands full making women bleed every month, so I doubt she has time to make mutated eyes.
Anyway, the whole takeaway is my vision is shit. I can’t focus clearly on objects that are too far away. It’s my crappy vision’s fault for not realizing sooner the woman standing in front of me was Rachel Marie Trevelynn—I knew her as Trevvy.
The infamous She-Witch of Lady Mariett’s Academy.
In our senior yearbook, she was voted most likely to get crushed by a falling house. The title never even existed before; it was created just for her—that was the power of her bitchiness.
She never talked to anybody, and when she did, it was like watching Nancy Grace and Judge Judy’s love child. The mouth on that girl—I never once saw it smile, and we went to school together for fourteen years; eighteen if you count college.
This was the first time my dick showed any sign of life in months. The fact that it was caused by a woman more annoying than Gus and Franco combined was so fucking depressing, I could’ve cried.
“T-tr…” I quickly caught myself, “Rachel.” She didn’t know about my nickname for her, and frankly, for my own safety, it was going to stay that way.
I was not afraid of Trevvy. Even if she eats other people’s happiness for dessert.
“Yes?”
I waited for signs of recognition to cross her face, but it was like trying to find expressions in rocks. Her face was, as always, a blank slate.
Son of a bitch. She forgot me?
I couldn’t believe it. I knew we never talked to each other. I could probably count on my fingers the number of words we’ve exchanged in the past decade, but for fuck’s sake. Our classes weren’t like a goddamn stadium of classmates to remember. There were only thirty.
What bothered me more, though, was that I was so damn pissed.
“You’re late.” Fucking pathetic, I know, but it was all I had.
She glanced at the clock. “Only by a minute.”
“A minute and thirty-five seconds.”
She gave me a funny look. “That’s neurotic. Only people with OCD keep track of time to the very second.” Her eyes looked over me dismissively. “Either that, or people who don’t have better things to do.”
Trevvy: 1, Connor: 0
I didn’t know how she managed to go from being very much my type, to being less desirable than a blow-up doll in less than three minutes and fifteen—
I was NOT crazy.
While I was busy debating my mental stability, she looked around the room. “You don’t have any chairs?”
“Nope,” I said, a bit too happily. Have fun standing, you witch.
“Or another desk? Where will I work?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s your problem, not mine.”
She starred at me. Her eyes weren’t even narrowed. They were just…starring. I felt like we were locked in some blinking contest. If we were, I wasn’t about to blink. I was already down two points and my fucking manhood, or whatever was left of it, was at stake.
While this technically wasn’t our first meeting, she thought it was, so the rules of first impressions still applied.
Are you a pushover? Are you a wuss? Are you a guy who gets whipped better than cream?
At the moment, I was being pushed into the third category.
She wouldn’t blink, and I really needed to.
Fucking blink.
“You blinked!” She pointed a finger at me. Her nails were really stubby. They weren’t manicured or sharp, like the women in those—Okay, maybe I did watch too much porn. Maybe that explained what I did next.
The sight of her finger pointed in my face really pissed me off. I bolted from my chair and circled the desk until I was standing in front of her.
“What are—”
I covered her mouth with one hand and used the other to pin her arms together behind her back.
She tried to break free, but I easily subdued her long enough to push her onto my desk. I dared to look into her cobalt blue eyes. They were burning with intensity, but powerless; like melted ice.
She was breathing—hard. I felt the unsteady rise and fall of her chest against my arm. I’d never seen her this close before. She was always pretty, but since graduation, her appearance had sharpened significantly.
Trevvy is Italian. Her family came from Northern Italy w
hich was why her skin lacked the classic olive complexion those near the Mediterranean had. Instead, she was really pale—like her skin never saw sunlight. Soft freckles dotted her nose. They were a stark contrast to her porcelain skin, and the only blemishes on an otherwise perfect face.
She would’ve looked like a classic girl next door type, if it weren’t for her eyes. They were cobalt blue. I’ve never seen a shade like them before. Sometimes when she starred at you, it was like looking into ice. There was an illusion that she could see right through you.
However, Trevvy’s eyes were only her second most noticeable feature. It was her hair that usually turned heads.
It was dark red, almost maroon. But in the light, it glowed like fire. It had been discussed many times among the kids at Mariett’s that if Trevvy’s personality weren’t so cold, she would’ve been called the Flame Princess.
Her thick wavy mass of hair could easily be spotted blocks away. The teachers never admitted it, but I always suspected they used her as a homing beacon during class fieldtrips.
Remember Class! If you’re lost, spot the red!
I was so close I could smell her perfume. She didn’t use a lot, but there was a soft hint of lavender that lulled the senses.
She was a confusing mix of gentle and vicious, an ideal combination.
I couldn’t help but smirk. Never in a million years would I imagine having Rachel Trevelynn pinned under me, completely helpless like a–
“Oww!” I jumped back in surprise.
She’d bit my hand, and kneed my balls. At the same time. When she was finally free, she stormed up to me and slapped my face.
I gaped at her in shock. “What the fuck is wrong—”
Son of a bitch! She slapped me again, this time with her left hand. To my surprise, they hurt equally as much. Leave it to me to piss of a girl who was fucking ambidextrous. There was no doubt in my mind I had two red handprints on my face. If there was anything I learned about Rachel Marie Trevelynn today, it was that she didn’t give out sissy slaps.
Nope.
She gave out the guy’s version of a bitch slap. No nails or screeching, but you just know that fucker’s going to leave a bruise tomorrow.
“You misogynistic pig,” she snapped.
“I’m not misogynistic. I love my mom.”
“Caring about one woman while screwing over the rest of the female population does not count.”
“Well, it should.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a disgusting prick.”
“I can’t be. I took a shower this morning.”
Her scowl contorted her entire face; even her nostrils flared. “Too fucking bad. You’re such a dirt bag you would need at least a dozen showers just to get rid of your stench.”
“That’s really exaggerated, even for a hyperbole. I smell like a field of daisies.”
“A field of dead daisies.”
For once, I really wished I had a sarcasm-filter. Not that it would work. I’m only fluent in sarcasm. If I had a filter, though, I would be rendered mute.
In the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. I managed to catch her hand before it made contact with my face.
“You,” I pointed a finger in her face, “are ridiculously slap-happy.”
“I have a black belt in Krav Maga. You’re lucky I didn’t use my fist,” she spat back.
It was amazing how every word she said resembled a snake shooting venom. It was practically a superpower; albeit, a very shitty one.
I released her hand, and made sure to take a few steps back. Krav Maga was serious business. I’d heard the rumors. It was a real ball buster, and I didn’t want to lose any in a freak accident at the office.
I backed towards the desk letting my thumb find its way to the panic button discretely located near the edge of the corner.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you really going to call security on me? I was the one who was harassed.”
Dammit! When I told them to install the button, I specifically mentioned the word discrete, and I’m pretty sure I also added super in front of it. Now because of some idiot’s inability to follow directions, I might lose a ball. Or two.
Oh God.
Trevvy rolled her eyes, and to my surprise—and relief—turned around and headed towards the door, but before she opened it, she turned and gave me one last death-inducing glare. “You’re a fucking moron, Shaw.”
I opened my mouth, and promptly closed it in case my comeback made her change her mind and return.
We all know the real moron is the fucker who installed the world’s most obvious panic button.
When I heard the distinct slam of the door, I relaxed into my chair.
Things really didn’t go how I expected. The good news was Trevvy would most likely quit, and I’ll be saved from having an assistant sent from hell.
-- Are all men born idiots, or are they all destined to become one? --
He pushed me onto a table. Why am I even surprised?
Connor Shaw was a flirt in elementary school. He was a womanizer in high school, and a certified man-whore by graduation. He was the quintessential example that some personalities withstood the test of time.
Too bad his resilience to his depravity was not even remotely admirable, or a note-worthy accomplishment. After the stunt he just pulled, I have more than enough reason to quit. ShawTech will give me an apt severance package to not sue Shaw’s pants off.
I would have probable cause to leave, and my parents would have to understand, and they’d find someone else to do the job. If they were normal and even cared an ounce about my safety and wellbeing, which they don’t.
They would say I was being prideful brat, who wouldn’t know resilience if it slapped her in the face. A little careless flirtation never hurt anyone. Just imagining the twisted things they’d say to rationalize the situation as my fault made me cringe.
I wouldn’t win. They would.
I couldn’t go back to that. I drained all of my strength just to leave once—I threw away all of my integrity and morals just to have this chance. To give it all up now, after I’ve made it this far, just because of Connor Shaw. I couldn’t let this become the biggest regret of my life. I was so close to getting everything back.
To back out now, would be the death of me.
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Contact N
Name: Nathaniel Shaw
Age: 51.
A.K.A: My dad
Occupation: CEO of ShawTech
Moods he invokes: Nothing
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It didn’t work.
She didn’t quit. Instead, she went to the HR department and filed a complaint against me. Now, I not only owed her an apology, but I also have five hours of mandatory sexual harassment seminars I needed to attend.
When I walked past her on my way to the HR office, she stuck her tongue out at me.
My mother was a southern belle, very old fashioned. She told me to always respect women, and all should be treated like ladies. Rachel Marie Trevelynn couldn’t possibly be considered a lady. She-devil was more like it.
“Connor!”
I looked behind me, and there was Franco, walking at five miles an hour—an impossibly impressive task for a man who has stubbier legs than an Oompa Loompa.
“Get in here!” He grabbed my arm, and physically dragged me into a nearby cleaning closet.
It was tiny and suffocating. Only a few inches separated our bodies.
“No offense, Franco, but you’re really not my type.”
“You harassed your new PA?!” Franco screeched. His face was really crowding my personal space. I tried to back up, but my body was already pressed tightly against the wall.
I lifted my hand up. “In my defense…”
“No!” Franco hit my chest with one of his knuckles. “You are not going to talk yourself out of this one. I cannot believe you!”
“I feel the same way when I think about my many talents.�
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Franco let out an exaggerated sigh.
“I have a problem with you, too,” I quipped. “Do you mind telling me why Rachel Trevelynn is my new PA?”
“W-well…” Franco was starting to stumble. I mentally cracked my knuckles. This was my chance to transfer the fault to him.
“You knew about this, and you didn’t think to tell me? We were classmates, Franco. We didn’t like each other, either. Shouldn’t she be learning to take over her family’s business, instead of playing desk monkey for me?” I tried to sound as angry as possible. It wasn’t as easy with Franco cowering lower into the corner with every word I said.
I expected him to cave in a about a minute and thirty two seconds. Instead, he bolted upright and straightened his back.
“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!” He screamed.
What the fuck?
Franco started pacing frantically around the little closet. “Mr. Shaw, I mean your father, told me not to tell you. I asked him for the reason, as well, but he was very general about it. All he said was Mr. Trevelynn wanted his daughter to have more experience with hospitality, and since Mr. Shaw owes Mr. Trevelynn a favor, he thought this would be a perfect arrangement.”
“That makes no damn sense,” I scowled.
While I wasn’t sure what Trevvy’s family did for money, I knew she had to be rich. Lady Mariett’s wasn’t a boarding school just anybody could get into. Not only was it expensive, it was pretentiously exclusive. I heard a rumor her family was involved in the service industry—hotels or some shit like that.
“If he wants her to have more experience, make her work in one of their hotel chains. Have her scrub toilets, or fold bath towels for all I fucking care. Why does she have to work with me?”
“I told you, I don’t know! Go ask your dad!”
Like that would get me anywhere. Seeing Nathaniel Shaw for matters other than ShawTech business would require me to schedule a formal meeting with his secretary. There might be a slot open in six months.
