by K. T. Mara
“So I’m stuck with her.”
Franco smiled meekly. “Try to make the most of this situation, Connor.” His expression turned serious again, “And please try not to get in trouble again. I have never once been reported to HR. My file contains only one page, and that’s my resume.”
“We still have paper files of resumes?” I shook my head. “What decade are we in, the 70’s?”
“Do you want to know how big your file is?” he asked me.
“No, not really.”
“It’s six inches. Wide.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll be alarmed when it gets wider than the length of my dick.”
“Connor!”
“If we computerized all of our data like other companies, you wouldn’t even notice the differences between our files.”
Franco gasped, his eyes widened like little saucers. “Is that why you’ve been pushing the storing of all our data on computers?”
“Yeah, you got me.” I raised both of my hands. “That’s the only reason. It has absolutely nothing to do with efficiency, or saving space.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You know, sometimes I really hate you.”
“That, right there,” I pointed at him. “Do you know why you’re never reported? The only person who would report you is me. I’ve been reported for much lesser offenses than telling my boss I hate them.”
“You don’t have a boss!”
Technically Nathaniel is my boss, but he wouldn’t reprimand me through HR. He would do it directly.
Franco started to knead his head. “You make me want to pull out all of my hair!”
I shrugged my shoulders. “That wouldn’t take very long, seeing how you’re almost balding.”
“I HATE YOU!” He yelled as loud as he could.
“Shhh.” I put my index finger to my lips. “Inside voices, Franco. Inside voices.”
“Get. Out.” Franco pointed his finger in the direction of the door.
“Gladly,” I raised an eyebrow, “and may I remind you I was forced in here.”
He dramatically threw open the door, making sure to create as much noise as possible during the process. The few people in the hallway turned to give us annoyed looks.
Where were they when I was being dragged against my will into a closet?
Franco grabbed my hand and pulled me towards my office. Considering our height difference, it must’ve looked like an adult being dragged by a child.
This would’ve been very amusing, if only I weren’t part of the show.
When we were finally in my office again – surprise, surprise – Trevvy was already inside. Sitting in my chair.
“Miss Trevelynn,” Franco smiled.
“You don’t have to be so polite to her.” I rolled my eyes. “She eats the goodwill of others for lunch.”
“I already had my lunch, thank you.” She stared down at my desk.
My eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. Empty candy wrappers and chocolate boxes lay massacred like a battle zone on my desk.
“Y-you,” I stammered. “How did you find my secret stash?”
She smirked. The closest I had ever seen to a smile. “Like your panic button, it wasn’t so secret.”
“Those were specially ordered from Belgium. You can’t just buy them whenever you want.”
The little She-Devil licked her lips. “Belgium, huh? No wonder they tasted so good. Too bad there’s none left.”
I was going to kill her. I lunged forward, but Franco tripped me with his leg before I could even take a step. I fell flat on my face; my forehead having the pleasure of hitting the floor first.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I stood up quickly and dusted the white specks off my pants.
“In Ancient Rome, traitors get capital punishment.” I narrowed my eyes at Franco, who was too busy whistling to pay attention to my glare.
Trevvy leaned back in my chair. “I want to declare a truce. We got off to a rough start, and I want to clear the air.”
“Why? Did you just fart?”
“Connor!” Franco yelped. He turned to Trevvy. “I am so sorry, Miss Trevelynn. He’s just being a smart—“
Trevvy raised her hand, and Franco quickly shut up. If I’d known that was all it took for him to close his yap, I would’ve tried that years ago.
“I am well aware of Shaw’s many, many faults.”
“At least I don’t repeat words like a five year old,” I mumbled.
“At least I don’t mumble under my breath like an eighty year old,” she spat.
Franco’s head was bouncing back and forth between the two of us, like a tennis ball getting lobbed back and forth. For fuck’s sake, Franco, pick a side already.
“As I was saying, before Shaw so rudely interrupted me,” her eyes snapped back to mine. “I am going to continue my position as your PA, so I want us to get along to ensure the success of our partnership.”
“A personal assistant is barely one step up from a desk jockey. I’d hardly call it a partnership.”
She kept her eyes on me, while her hand reached into my desk drawer. She pulled out a slick gold wrapped bar. Most likely my last chocolate bar.
Her fingers slowly travelled around the wrapper. It would’ve been an incredibly seductive act, if it weren’t being done to one of my most prized possessions. The lengths I went through to smuggle these chocolates past Meredith—I would’ve had an easier time escaping out of Alcatraz.
“Stop molesting my chocolate!” I yelled. “They’re worth more than you!”
“Our chocolate,” she countered. “We can either share the bar, and each get half, or,” she peeled back the gold wrapping and held it precariously close to her annoyingly sexy lips, “you get none.”
“You’re a sick twisted woman.”
Trevvy broke the bar in half. “Truce?” She held my half to me. It felt like I was being offered Eve’s apple rather than a share of cocoa heaven.
What was the point of fighting, anyway? I was fucking stuck with her, just as much as she was stuck with me.
I reached for the chocolate, and grabbed it. “Truce.”
“Well isn’t this great?” Franco beamed. “With enough time, you two might even become friends.”
“Don’t push it,” Trevvy and I snapped at the same time.
Franco raised both of his hands in the air. “Okay. Okay,” he muttered. “Geez.”
I took a bite of the bar. It tasted more bitter than I remembered. Probably because I had to share it. I was born an only son to ridiculously rich WASP parents. I’ve never had to share a damn thing in my life.
Trevvy’s face was rather stoic. I guess forcing a truce wasn’t her idea of winning either. Only losers accepted a truce so early on. Like this, it felt like we both lost, and the chocolate was only a shitty conciliation prize.
“I still need a desk.” Her voice brought me out of my thoughts. “I’m thinking cherry wood.”
“I’m thinking pine.” I bit into a large chunk of the bar.
“And I’m thinking you’re a cheap bastard,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “No need to think, Trevvy. I’m only stingy with you.”
Frown lines creased her forehead. “Trevvy?”
My eyes widened. I didn’t mean to say it; it just slipped out, but in the span of a few hours she has already called me bastard, asshole, and an idiot. Shortening her last name is hardly a capital punishment offense.
“It’s my nickname for you.” I shrugged my shoulders. I was hoping if I appeared as cavalier about the situation as possible, it would lessen the chances she was going to make a big deal out of this.
“I don’t like it.” She bit her bottom lip. “It sounds too…cutesy.”
That was completely the point. Not that I’m going to tell her that. “It’s just a nickname. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless you make it.”
“Then how come I don’t get to—”
I cut off Franco before he could con
tinue.
Trevvy looked like she was considering the name. “So I also get to call you whatever I want?”
“Not whatever.” I clarified. “It has to be reasonable.”
She nodded her head. Her face blank, too occupied with thinking of a devious name, no doubt.
It felt like an eternity, as I awkwardly stood waiting for her to make up her damn mind. It was a nickname. She wasn’t naming the next heir to the British throne.
“Shaw,” she said at last.
I kept a neutral face, in case she was kidding. “You’re joking.”
“It’s what I always referred to you as in the past.”
“You talked about me?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “In passing. Mostly behind your back.”
As if that made me feel so much fucking better.
A beep came from my laptop. I snapped my fingers at Trevvy, and motioned with my thumb for her to get out of my chair. She sat up, but not before glaring, and giving me the finger.
I ignored her and looked at the computer screen. I noticed the name of the sender, and opened it immediately.
There is an event this evening we will be attending. There will be contacts present with connections in the Irish government. We will be acquainting ourselves with them and encouraging their aide with our expansion to Dublin. I have already forwarded the address and details to your secretary.
Nathaniel Shaw
CEO, ShawTech.
Hello to you too, Dad.
I would be watching a rare flower bloom for the first time in forty years. It sounds fun. Especially the part about it literally dying three minutes after it blooms.
The Agave Franzosinii. Even its name was ridiculous.
It was expected to flower tonight, and the guy who owned it was one of Nathaniel’s associates. The schmuck decided it was a brilliant idea to hold a large party, and provide only seconds of entertainment—and not of the exotic dancer variety either. The rest of the evening I will be doing what Nathaniel calls creating connections, but it was really code for kissing ass—Irish ass, to be more specific.
And my lucky plus one for the evening, was none other than Trevvy.
I didn’t want her to go. It was Franco’ idea…or in his words,” a chance for us to fucking bond and get to know each other better.” Except, he didn’t say fuck.
Except Franco didn’t know she and I have been classmates since Kindergarten. I know her plenty well. And being stuck with her inside a cramped car for the last hour was not helping my already shitty opinion of her.
“Are you listening to me?” She snatched the map from my hands. “You’ve been staring at the thing for ten minutes now. Let’s go already.”
I nodded my head, but I wasn’t listening. You aren’t supposed to yell at a person when he’s trying to read a map. Maps were already confusing as hell without having my concentration diverted.
Trevvy started to lean over to the driver’s seat, and I underestimated how long her arms were, and she managed to snatch the map from my hands.
How times changed. I remembered during our third grade physical education class, Trevvy couldn’t even touch her toes. Come to think of it, she used to be kind of chubby.
“You’re not getting the map back,” she snapped.
She tried to keep it out of my reach, but I had longer arms.
When she finally gave up, she crossed her arms across her chest, and let out a huff of air. “I need to know exactly where we’re going, since I won’t be getting any help from you.”
“I am helping.”
She gave me a funny look. “You think you’re helping, but you’re incapable of the act. You’re so directionally challenged you would get lost on the Yellow Brick Road.”
“It’s a fucking straight line!” I shouted.
Her expression was blank, “You’d find a way.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. My GPS picked today of all fucking days to break. “When I insult people, at least my taunts are logical.”
Trevvy smirked. “Did you watch the Wizard of Oz? Dorothy and her friends got lost on the path. So yes, it is very possible.”
I scoffed, “You can’t compare me to them. The scarecrow doesn’t have a brain, the lion’s a little bitch, and the tin man has no heart to pump blood to his brain. Dorothy’s the worst of the bunch. She went from Kansas to a land occupied by witches and midgets, via a floating house. For all we know, she was high off her ass, and dreamt the whole damn thing up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grinch, for somehow managing to ruin a childhood classic that has delighted generations of children.”
I held back a smile, but only by looking away from her and keeping my eyes on the road. “‘Tis what I do, my lady.”
From the corner of my eye, I swore I saw her lips twitching, too.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at a seaside manor. I swear all of these damn parties are seaside. I needed to stage a freak shark accident for it to fucking stop.
We were ushered into the gates. For such a fancy shindig, there was surprisingly no valet, which was a recipe for disaster. Rich people—I’m talking those with ten-digit net worth, each—can’t drive for shit. They parked even worse. They didn’t have to know how to drive; they had chauffeurs. They didn’t need to be able to park; they had valets. For the old farts that haven’t driven their wrinkled asses anywhere in decades…well, you can imagine what happens.
The parking lot had white lines drawn in the sand, but not a single car was parked between the lines. It was like a kindergarten class gone rogue—let’s see who can park the most outside of the lines!
I started circling the lot, and but I couldn’t find an empty space big enough to fit in. The only spots left were tight spaces, and I knew some asswipe was going to hit me on his way out. Not that it mattered. No doubt whoever it was could afford to buy me a new car, much less fix it. It would just be incredibly annoying. I would be driving around with a dented car, and you know people will judge me for it.
Oh, look at that guy with the huge dent in his car. Someone can’t fucking drive.
Well at least I do that.
“Just pick a spot already, Shaw,” Trevvy grumbled. “You’re wasting time.”
“Patience, young grasshopper.”
Trevvy rolled her eyes. “We’re the same age, moron. Now if you’re not too busy ripping lines from the Kung Fu series, can you please park the damn car?”
I looked at her and smiled, “Okay, but only because you said the magic word.”
“Moron?” she replied. “Good to know.”
“I meant please, smartass.”
During my third round of circling, I spotted a hand waving at me from the far end of the lot. As I drove closer, I could make out the figures of a man and woman. The hand wasn’t waving. It was flagging me down. Once I was close enough, I squinted, and finally I recognized who it was.
Derek Carter.
I quickly drove to the side of the road and parked my car. I stepped out and stood face-to-face with him, but only because the dickhead wore four-inch platform shoes. I think he was even wearing a bit of eyeliner. He looked like a half-baked drag queen.
“What are you doing here?”
He flashed me a slimy smirk. “Is that how you greet your best friend?”
Derek was my older sister’s husband, ergo, my brother-in-law. My sister forced me to be friends with him, and seeing how I didn’t have any other friends, he got the position of best friend by technicality. I didn’t even like the guy. He was an obnoxious twat, and that was coming from me; who, according to Gus, is the world’s biggest twat.
“You flagged me down like a taxi.”
“I couldn’t help it. You drive a yellow car.” He showed me a full set of teeth that had green stuff stuck in between them. I thought I heard Trevvy gag behind me.
“Umm…excuse me.” The three of us turned our attention to the woman on the ground. “Did you all forget about me?”
“Oh right.” Derek
pulled my sister up. She wobbled like a duck until she regained her balance. My eyes widened when I noticed her belly.
“Lily, you’re pregnant?”
“Yeah,” she smiled, but it quickly turned into a frown. “You didn’t know?”
Trevvy gave me an amused look. This was ridiculous. How could I not have heard?
You miss a lot of the world.
I shook my head clear of Gus’s words. Now was not the time.
Even if I was ‘out of it’ there was no way I could’ve possibly not known about my sister being fucking pregnant.
“How far along are you?” I smiled, but it felt like trying to stretch out old tapioca.
“Twenty-five weeks,” She beamed.
“Did you get hit in the head?” Trevvy snorted. “How is it you’re just learning about this now?”
It has been months since I had any contact with my family other than Nathaniel. He never once brought it up.
Lily could have at least called me.
I turned to Lily. “Because she never told me.”
“I-I…” She scrambled for something to say. Her head was like a ping-pong ball, looking everywhere at once. “I thought—I thought I heard auntie call.”
And I thought I heard a unicorn crying. Maybe it was a sibling thing. Hearing shit that wasn’t there.
She sprinted toward the main house. She looked incredibly awkward with her stomach bulging out like a turtle with its shell on backwards. She was awfully pudgy for someone who was only five months along.
Trevvy opened her mouth—probably to deliver a snarky comment—but I shook my head. I really wasn’t in the mood.
It really goes without saying, but rich people are fucking boring. Scratch that, rich old people are fucking boring. The problem with these parties is the people who attend them. Most have the ability to choose whether or not they go. Most are the heads of their respective families. They didn’t have a parent, or higher authority, force them to attend.
They chose to go, and you can never trust anyone who was willing to wait four hours for a flower to bloom then die, to know what fun means.
