My First Time With My Dad's Boss

by Sienna Swan

  The buzz of my internal line takes me by surprise. I should be the only one left in this building. The bulk of my employees swarmed out of here over two hours ago. I check my Rolex and it’s almost 7:00 p.m. and a quick glance at the incoming call reveals its location as the security hut by the main entrance.

  “Roarke,” I say as I pick it up, and my tone lets them know this better be good.

  “You have a visitor, Mr. Roarke,” the voice says. “A Cassandra Newark is here to see you, she tells me it’s important.”

  Cassie Newark.

  Her name conjures up the smiling little girl I handed a ballerina doll to at her sixth birthday party, but that is shortly overwritten by the image of the shapely young teenager I’d been introduced to a few years back. Cassie’s dad is Thomas Newark, the man who’s been at my side since we started this business back when we were still in college. Back when we were friends. Close friends.

  The man was smart - he’d put family before business, and I’d been happy to buy him out when it was clear he wanted a different path than the one we’d been walking.

  He was smarter still for keeping his hours short and his wife and daughter far away from this place, and I’d have happily indulged him that balance forever, should this merger not require me to offer up my very finest commercial sacrifices.

  I’m under no illusion why Cassie Newark is asking for an audience. I’m both irritated and impressed in the same breath by her audacity to show up here, at my office, for a showdown with a man she’s only met twice in her life.

  “Send her up,” I tell the security assistant, and I hear the barrier being raised.

  It takes Cassie Newark seven minutes exactly to make her way to my office door, and when she arrives she’s breathless and rosy-cheeked, staring in through my interior window before she decides to knock on the door.

  I beckon her in, fully aware I’m not smiling as she pushes the door open.

  I’m disappointed to find that she hasn’t made even the slightest effort to impress me. She’s wearing denim cut-offs that barely cover her ass, some tatty band shirt that hangs low on her very grown-up cleavage, and her blonde mane is wild around her pretty face, her eyes hurt and demanding as she stares me down.

  She stands across from me with her arms folded, and I’m certain a meek little thing like Cassie has had to psych herself up for this on the drive over. She’s fierce but it’s fake, a brash attempt at being a big, bad girl for the sake of arguing some conscience into me, no doubt.

  It won’t work, of course.

  I stand up myself, but make no attempt to offer her my hand. It’s when I’m at full height, towering over her and casting an impressive shadow over her tight little body, that I notice the ridiculous red polish on her toes.

  She’s in flip-flops. Fucking flip-flops.

  Nobody has worn flip-flops in my office before.

  “It’s late,” I tell her. “I have business to attend to.”

  “Business like firing my father?” she asks, and all the bluster disappears from her.

  “Business, as I said.”

  “Does business makes you cast aside people who’ve supported you their whole life?”

  I’ve supported Thomas Newark plenty much over the years, just as he’s supported me, but that’s none of her goddamn business. There’s no way her father knows she’s here. There’s no way he would tolerate her stepping in to fight his battles for him.

  “You should leave,” I tell her. “Your father and I decided on a severance package. He was happy with the outcome.”

  “He’s going to say that, isn’t he?!” she yells, and the venom in it takes me off guard. “What’s he supposed to say? Please don’t fire me?! You shouldn’t even be thinking of firing him! He’s given his whole life to this business!”

  No. He hasn’t.

  It’s in that moment I realize what a spirited little brat my friend has raised. She’s had her hardships, of that I’m well aware. Losing her mother in her pivotal teenage years was a tragedy that got Thomas plenty of time off to grieve. The poor man’s devastation was enough to convince me that out of the two of us, I’d gotten the better deal.

  Business may be tough, but it doesn’t rip my soul out of my chest and tear it into slivers of pain.

  “It’s done, Cassandra,” I tell her and drop back into my seat. “You should leave now. You can feel good for trying, but this matter is closed.”

  “Closed?” The hint of nerves in her tone are intoxicating. All her gusto must have been taken up getting here, I doubt she’s even considered what would happen should she make it this far.

  “Closed,” I confirm. “Security will raise the barrier for you when you leave.”

  “But I…” she begins, and her shoulders deflate somehow. “I wanted to talk about it…”

  I can’t help smirking at her. “You wanted to speak with me about your father’s career?”

  She nods. “You could reconsider, right? I mean he’s been a good worker, right? And you’re friends…”

  Part of me toys with the idea of being honest with her, but my nondisclosure agreement contract has conditions rendering that impossible. Also, it’s none of her fucking business.

  “It’s done,” I snap. “Don’t make me call security up here.”

  “You wouldn’t!” she says with wide eyes, and I see the disillusionment kicking in - the realization that I’m not the kind man at her birthday party who bought her a doll.

  “Believe me, I would,” I say and hold up my telephone extension to demonstrate.

  “Please…” she says, and I can’t help but admire how determined she is to fight this, even though the wind has been well and truly knocked out of her sails. “There must be something I can do to… convince you…”

  Fuck, how my dick twitches. The very fact that my friend’s daughter affects me this way sickens me. “Convince me how, exactly? You’re just a girl.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m woman enough for some of the things I can offer you…” She takes a step forward and I battle the urges to march her out of there and bend her over my desk simultaneously.

  “What exactly are you offering me?” I ask her, knowing I shouldn’t.

  “Me,” she says, “I’ll do anything you want, just as long as my dad can keep his job…”

  “Anything?”

  Her lashes flutter. “Anything, yeah…”

  A lesser man would be tempted, but I have work to do.

  “Your father is a proud, capable, hardworking man, Cassandra. He wouldn’t beg.”

  “I’m not my dad,” she whispers, “and I would beg. If you wanted me to. I’d do whatever you wanted if it means my dad can keep his job. He loves this job.”

  “I don’t want you to beg,” I snap. “He’d be disappointed in you for offering.”

  I’m a dick for saying that, and I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Her fluttery lashes open wide and her pretty mouth falls open.

  “Dad taught me to be strong and stand up for those I love,” she says.

  “You should go,” I tell her. “Now.”

  Her eyes are fierce as they stare back at me, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s always been this bratty. The girl needs discipline to tame her wild spirit and put it to better use.

  “I came here to save my dad’s job,” she insists, “and I mean it, I’ll do anything. I saw the pictures of Dad’s work events when he was younger, I know you like blonde girls. Young, pretty blonde girls...”

  I’m too taken aback to stop her flow. I stare transfixed, curious how far she’s willing to take this.

  “I’m not just offering you a cheap fuck,” she says, and it sounds obscene from her pretty mouth. “I’m offering you my virginity.” She folds her arms for effect, clearly thinking I want her. Such arrogance.

  The little brat knows she’s a pretty one, I’ll give her that.

  “And I don’t want it,“ I snap, even though my dick is hard as a fucking rod under the
desk.

  Her eyes search mine, trying to uncover a lie in my stare, but I’m cold as ice and I give her nothing. A stand-off, neither of us speaking as she weighs up her next move.

  She sighs and I know I’ve won this round. I’m strangely disappointed.

  She turns on her heel and heads away without another word, her flip-flops making a godawful fucking flapping noise on my hardwood floor. Her dainty red-polished fingernails are on the handle as I call her back. Her shoulders tense before she flashes me a glance back over her shoulder. Her eyes are watery.

  “Did you graduate high school?” I ask, tossing a pile of paperwork to the side.

  She nods. “Yes, earlier this summer.”

  “Can you type? Answer the telephone? Can you keep your mouth shut and listen when you’re being spoken to?”

  She nods again. “Yes.”

  “If you want to talk about your father’s position in more detail you’ll have to earn my ear. I’m very busy, and I’m short of a secretary.” I don’t know why I’m doing this, but my eyes are unwavering on hers. “You’ll be my new secretary. Unpaid. I’ll see you in the morning. Seven sharp.”

  She doesn’t flinch. “Sure,” she says, then pauses. “But tomorrow’s a Saturday.”

  “And what difference does that make?”

  She shrugs and then she smiles. Her smile is beautiful.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Roarke.”

  Chapter Three

  Cassie

  What have I done?

  It’s not so much a cry for help as sort of a shell-shocked, dazed and confused question that keeps running in circles in my head as I slog down the stairs and head toward my dad’s car. I’m not sure what happened in Mason’s office – can I call him Mason, or is it Mr. Roarke? – and I’m not entirely sure if I know what I just said yes to, but the flipping my stomach is doing is telling me I’m in for some heavy-duty introspection.

  I get in the Focus in a daze and start the engine, waving loosely at the security guard as he lifts the barrier for me and lets me into the warm summer night from the Roarke Incorporated lot. As soon as I turn the corner and the big, boldly printed logo of the company disappears from sight, I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.

  I get about half a block away before I have to slam my foot on the brakes and stop by the side of the road. I’m hyperventilating and the car seems to be closing in on me a little and I’m pretty sure my nostrils are letting in about a tenth of the oxygen I need to function. It feels like a fitting punishment for what I just did in there.

  “You offered your virginity to Mason,” I say out loud. The words sound like they’re being spoken by someone who definitely isn’t me.

  That girl sounds brave, and stupid, and incredibly reckless. I’d be okay with being brave, but none of those other characteristics seem to fit me. I’ve never done anything without obsessing over it and overthinking it time and time again. Tonight, however, I somehow managed to get up the nerve to march into Mason Roarke’s office, demand he give my dad his job back, and then offer him myself up on a platter.

  And he said yes.

  I’ve just made good on every teenage fantasy I’ve ever had. My sixteen-year-old past self would be proud, and horrified. Probably both at the same time.

  I can’t believe he said yes.

  He wasn’t saying yes to taking my virginity, right? Because that would be insane. So far removed from anything reasonable that I don’t think there are words to describe it. But maybe he did? And if he did, what the fuck am I going to do now?

  Stacy. Stacy will know, I tell myself deliriously, fumbling around on the passenger seat for my phone.

  I don’t know why I think Stacy will know. She’s as much of a virgin as I am, but I think I just need an outside perspective on this right now. I’m just about to call her when my phone starts ringing in my hand and it spooks me so bad I almost chuck it at the windshield.

  Josh Szelicki. It takes a moment before the name registers as a human being and not a figment of my clearly disordered imagination. I thumb the call and put the phone to my ear, wondering at the same time why I didn’t just hang up on him. Clearly I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone not well-versed in my personal brand of crazy.

  “Hey, Josh,” I say, trying to act normal while my brain is still berating me for what happened five minutes ago in Mason’s office.

  “Hey, Cassie. Um… so… I know our date is tomorrow,” he starts, clearing his voice as he says ‘date’, “but I was wondering what you’re doing tonight. I mean I obviously know that you are probably super busy because it’s a Friday and you’re you and everything, but I’m at Diner 27 and if you wanted to… I mean if you’re free…”

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell him, ending the call before he can get another word in.

  I toss the phone aside and take a deep breath, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard now that my knuckles are white. I’m going to go to the diner with a reasonably cute boy and pretend like none of this has happened and that I am still Cassie Newark, responsible, sensible, and absolutely not someone who would sell their virginity for a questionable office job for their father.

  Yup, that’s what I’m going to do.

  As I drive, I see the phone flashing every now and then with new notifications, and I know it has to be Stacy. Removed from the initial shock, I rethink my desire to talk to her right away. Maybe I won’t need to admit to anything. Maybe I’ll walk into Mason’s office tomorrow at seven and he’ll just laugh me out of the room, like he basically did today.

  I just couldn’t take no for an answer, now could I? I berate myself, groaning at the mess I’ve gotten myself in.

  Despite it all though, as I park the car and grab my phone and wallet and head into Diner 27, my mind keeps wandering back to Mason and the way he looked at me. He’s a little older now, and I swear it makes him even hotter. Those slight lines around his eyes, the way his jaw seems to clench when he’s annoyed – which truthfully does appear to be all the time from the scant moments I’ve spent with him – and the way he seems to be bursting out of his tailored suit made me squirm with lust.

  Even though I know this is incredibly stupid and I can only assume he’s playing me for a fool, I’m certain I’ll be thinking of Mason Roarke tonight when I get under the covers. I swallow dryly as I wave at Josh, images of what it would be like to be pinned under Mason’s hard body as he takes what I offered him playing in my head.

  I sidle into a seat and find a strawberry milkshake waiting for me. My favorite. I muster a smile and Josh is blushing scarlet.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, clinking it against his chocolate one and giving him a wink as I take a sip.

  I’m fully expecting him to call me on my bluff at any moment. It feels like I’ve got ‘SLUT’ stamped on my forehead and that everyone can see it. This is not me, this girl who plays with her sexuality that way. This is not something I would do. So why did I blurt those words out?

  “I’m glad you could come,” Josh says, looking genuinely happy to see me.

  I immediately feel like shit for having shown up here and giving him hope like this. The date on Saturday was going to be a stretch to begin with – he’s leaving for college at the end of summer and I’m… well, not – but now it seems like I’m taking part in a bad play that I’ve put together for myself.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I say, wondering who he pumped for intel on me – my milkshake preferences aren’t on my Instagram account, I think.

  We fall into a pattern of awkward small talk. He asks me what I’m going to do with my summer and I narrowly avoid blurting out ‘my boss’. I ask him about the school he picked – UCLA, I’m jealous because I got in there too – and he tells me about how much Honors Math sucked and how glad he is that he’s out of high school. We bond over our common love for Labradors and lament about how dumb the new tagline our high school picked is.

  Who thought ‘Education finds a way!”
isn’t something that kids are going to make fun of? The memes write themselves.

  I almost feel normal by the end of our milkshakes, though I’ve desperately ignored my phone and clung to every word Josh has said just to avoid hearing my own thoughts. As soon as we stand up and he waves off my offer to split the bill, the guilt comes roaring back and I can’t ignore my brain anymore.

  It’s basically been looping images of what Mason would look like shirtless for the last half an hour. That’s not a reel easily set aside. I feel like the biggest idiot in the world as Josh and I walk to our cars. I’m distracted and still a bit manic, so I only barely manage to dodge out of the way when Josh tries to kiss me.

  He looks mortified. I clap my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide. I think he got a mouthful of hair and now he’s beet red, a deeper shade than the initial blush, and I want to crawl under a rock and die. I think it’s a sentiment we both share.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Josh,” I sputter, but he’s waving me off and practically sprinting to his car.

  “My bad!” he yells from somewhere a car-length away awkwardly, before scrambling in his hand-me-down jeep.

  I groan as he pulls out of the parking lot, leaning against the hood of the Focus. Staring up at the sky, I wonder if it couldn’t just open up and smite me down. I think I deserve it right about now.

  If this whole thing with Mason hadn’t happened, I’d probably have let Josh kiss me. He’s cute, and he’s nice, and he’s… well, safe. He’s everything Mason isn’t.

  Apparently, that’s a problem now.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. I answer it, knowing already that it’s Stacy.

  “Hey, Stace. I’ve dug a hole for myself and I need your expert opinion on whether it’s deep enough to bury me in,” I tell her, more than ready to confess all my sins at this point.

  I need to talk to someone, lest I find another Josh Szelicki and break his heart because I’m too busy not dealing with stuff that my big mouth created.