by Author Quinn
My ass is numb.
I wish there’s a more fun, mildly kinkier excuse why I’ve lost sensation on my butt. Unfortunately, it’s only a sure sign I haven’t moved much in God knows how long. I should stretch, but that would require standing. No way in hell would I let Lyra, my cunt of a boss, catch me doing that. She’s been on high alert since finding out the new CEO of ARC Industries LTD is on his way to our offices. We have to be on our best behavior, and that includes no taking breaks, no leaving our tiny, impersonal cubicles, and no breathing whatsoever. She expects us to be chained to our desks till death claims us…and our numb asses.
Palms flat on the edge of my desk, I lift one bum cheek at a time, trying to get some kind of feeling back into them. Nothing.
“Screw this shit,” I mumble, a little too loudly, and Sheila, my cubicle-partner, sends me a terrified look through her bifocals.
Struggling to pull down the hem of my skirt, which had ridden up my thighs nearly high enough to show off my purple thong, I stand up. I hate this skirt. “It’ll make your ass look great, Talia,” my roommate, Stella, had said when we’d spotted this fuchsia number at Carson’s. The hell it does. It’s so tight I had to waddle to work this morning. Why I listened to her is beyond me. Good thing I have enough smarts to keep the tag on. Now, I only have to make sure I don’t rip the damn thing so I can return it. Easier said than fucking done considering it looks like it’s painted on me. What it does, though—paired with a round-necked white top, blazer, and the sexiest shoes I own—is make me look like I belong in this office. For good measure, I’m wearing my nerd chic, leopard-print-frame glasses, strictly for fashion.
Don’t be fooled by the company name. ARC Industries is full of creative types. My department has over twenty interior designers and architects. I’m one of the lucky ladies who takes care of the designers’ needs and wants, although I’m still a temp. I aim to remedy that.
This week, I’m assigned to Ingrid Aubrey. She happens to be the best in the industry, a young ingenue who appreciates her subordinates shedding blood and tears to make her life a little bit easier—unlike our office manager and my direct supervisor, Lyra.
“Is there a problem here?”
Speak of the she-devil.
Accidental flashing averted, and with blood rushing back to my legs and feet, I turn to her, letting a slow smile spread across my face. “Nope. No problem, Lyra. Just stretching.” For added effect, I raise my arms over my head, pushing the tips of my fingers to the ceiling. My crop top rides higher. My tits part my jacket lapels.
Her gaze travels down my smart, sexy-as fuck outfit. She raises her over-plucked brows, and chuckles once. Yeah, I bet I can figure out what she’s thinking. I drop my hands to my sides and regard her the same way. Today she’s wearing a body con dress and almost the same cut jacket (I suspect hers is real leather and not bought at a super sale). She wears nothing but black—like her soul. And she’s never been quiet about why a size sixteen woman like me should not wear anything remotely close to what I’m wearing today. Boss or no boss, if she says anything about me wearing a cropped top, I’ll smack her so hard the cleaners will have to peel her ass off the ceiling.
Chin up, I channel my inner Eastwood and silently urge, “Go ahead, bitch, make my day.”
Her assistant comes scurrying toward us when Lyra is about to open her mouth. Penny shoves a file at her and asks her to sign, saying, “You’re needed downstairs.”
“Now?” Lyra has one volume: super loud.
Penny literally cowers. Poor girl, I think she’s about to piss her pants. Clutching the file to her chest, Penny nods and lowers her eyes to the floor.
“What would this place do without me?” Lyra flicks her envy-inducing blonde hair over one shoulder. Before she leaves, she drags her snake eyes back to me. “Don’t waste the company’s time. Need I remind you that you’re still on probation, Tanya?”
Oh yeah, there’s another reason why I hate this bitch. She never remembers my name. I’d stopped correcting Lyra after my fifth day here, and resorted to calling her colorful names in my head.
“Wouldn’t think of it.” I add an extra oomph to my smile but I remain standing.
“Why do you have to push her?” Sheila asks when Lyra’s out of earshot. Her fingers continue to tap on the keys even though she’s staring nervously at me.
Hand to hip, I shrug. “Bitch is as bitch does.” Sheila presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Relax. She has to be on her best behavior today too. We’re not the only ones under observation.”
Eyes back on her screen, Sheila counters, “Speak for yourself, you don’t have three kids to feed.” Her shoulders slump forward, and she juts her head, adjusting her glasses to focus on the document she’s working on.
I feel bad. Despite what other people might think, I do have a heart, and no, it's not black or made of ice. I care. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble, much less a sweet single mom like Sheila. Without saying another word, I sit back down and try to focus on work.
My tiny desk clock ticks another second. Two more hours and it’s lunch time. I hope the new owner doesn’t show up before then. Like any other human, I think and behave better when my stomach’s full. I would head to the kitchen for a cup of joe, but again, Lyra could be slithering back any minute now. Or worse, the new big boss. I wouldn’t want to make a horible first impression.
Only the department heads, architects, and designers have met ARC’s new CEO, having been invited to his penthouse for a meet-and-greet two weeks ago. For days, Lyra didn’t stop talking about it, and she hasn’t shut up about how gorgeous our new boss is. Considering her last boyfriend was a fifty-two year old accountant with a bad case of shit-breath and a prominent potbelly, her opinions mean nothing to me.
People like Penny, Sheila and I only know our new CEO by name: Mr. Solomon. But word’s out that his takeover was textbook hostile. There are even rumors that he’s famous for cutting jobs as soon as he shows up. Words like ‘restructuring’, ‘reduction in workforce’, and ‘strategic planning’ pop up in daily conversations, which doesn’t bode well for a temp like me. On a positive note, Ingrid loves me and thinks I’m hilarious. My job’s safe as long as I keep her lattes warm and lactose-free, and supply her with dirty jokes she just can’t get enough of. Thank you, Reddit!
At a quarter to taco time, Ingrid pops into my twobicle with a huge smile on her pretty face. We’re the same age, but where she managed to get a Fine Arts degree from Columbia, I quit Interior Design at The Art Institute when my ex, Derek, and I decided to focus on getting his career off the ground first. And I didn’t have her cushiony trust fund, but I couldn’t fault her for that. People don't choose which lifestyle they’re born into.
“Hey, ladies.” Ingrid fiddles with her neckline. Sheila and I perk up. “How are my two favorite people today?”
“Not bad,” Sheila replies, straightening in her chair.
“Starving.” I pat my half-exposed belly.
Ingrid throws her head back and laughs like a frickin’ angel. I kid you not. Do they teach rich kids in charm school how to laugh like bells? “You’re so funny, Talia.”
I’m telling the truth, but whatever. Like I said, she thinks I’m full of hilariousness. “What can we do for you?” Elbow on desk, I prop my chin on one upturned hand, and slide my glasses onto my head.
“I need the contracts for the complex on Superior. Did we receive the permits for the new restaurant on Randolph? And make sure you deliver the blueprints for the Muir condo today, and please—” Ingrid presses her palms together in prayer position “—please do not forget the all-hands meeting after lunch. I think Teddy’s on his way.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I lean back in my chair, readjusting my glasses. “Who’s Teddy?”
Ingrid steps further into our cramped cubicle and leans her tiny tush against my desk. She eyes me up and down. “Cute outfit. I love.”
“Thanks. I love your shoes.” Th
is is part of our daily interaction, pointing out what we like that the other is wearing, which forces me to constantly up my clothing game. Ingrid has effortless style. Consistently elegant, with a touch of boho chic.
She crosses her skinny ankles. “Teddy. He’ll get mad if he hears me call him that. I guess you guys know him as Theodore Solomon.”
Theodore? Seriously? I hold off a snort. The image of a sixty-year-old, rotund man in a suit, with three struggling hairs on his head, dances in my head. “Oh, you guys are on a pet-name basis?” Waggling my brows, I smile wickedly at her. As sweet and beautiful as Ingrid is, she hasn’t had any luck with men. I also suspect she has daddy issues and could very well be involved with an older man, like Teddy. “Is there something we should know?”
Ingrid laughs again and slaps me on the arm. “You’re so funny. Pet name basis.” She straightens to her full height and brushes her designer dress with her hands. “Well, I’ll let you girls get back to work before Lyra comes back.”
“I’ll have the contract on your desk and all your biddings done before I head out for lunch,” I tell her, noting that she didn’t answer my question about her and Teddy.
When I drop the file on Ingrid’s desk a little while later, she’s on the phone with one of her clients. I stick a post-it note where she needs to sign on the contracts and head to my office BFF, Bryde, who works for a drool-worthy architect we call Mr. Yum behind his sexy back. Like Sheila, who I left still glued on her screen, Bryde is hunched over her desk, adjusting and readjusting her glasses on her nose.
I knock once on her desk, causing her to jump. “It’s taco time. Let’s go.”
“Christ, Talia!” Bryde slaps her palm over her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She returns her attention to the screen, clicking open a browser for an airline. Looks like Mr. Yum is going on another trip.
“Sorry, but it’s taco time.” The carpeted floor silences the tapping of my foot.
“Can’t.” She doesn’t take her focus away from the computer. “Henrik just asked me to rearrange his trips, so I’m having lunch al desko.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s Taco Tuesday!” I let a little whine out. The chick is ruining my weekly lunch schedule. “And don’t you wanna see if that cute guy we saw last week comes back?”
Bryde continues to keep her eyes on the monitor, clicking on her mouse. “Can’t. Busy.”
“Fine.” She ignores my pout. “I’m starving. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“’kay. Hey…”
I raise a brow at her.
“Don’t be late. I heard this Solomon guy’s a stickler on punctuality.”
I huff and roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll be back.”
“I’m serious. Have a taco for me. Bye.”
The universe has colluded to get me angry and possibly fired today. Not only am I late returning from lunch, there’s taco sauce on my new, still-has-the-tag-on skirt. And like a sour cherry on top, as I try to rush back to the office in my too-tight skirt, a car nearly runs me down, screeching to a stop inches away from my legs. I slam a palm on the hood and scream profanities at the careless driver hiding behind the heavily-tinted windows. And because I’m having such a wonderful moment, I flip him the bird before stepping onto the sidewalk and racing back into my office building.
People who don’t seem to be in any rush line the elevator banks. To make matters worse, I have to fight my way inside one of them since one car is out of order.
Huffing and puffing and sweaty as hell, I finally sneak into the conference room stuffed with every single ARC employee. I slide next to Bryde. Her eyes widen and she mouths, “What the hell happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Some fucker almost ran me over, and look what happened to my skirt! Oh, great.” I groan. “Now it looks like a Rorschach test.” I point at the spot on my lap. After a quick lick on my thumb, I rub at the stain. Absently, I continue yapping, “Did the boss man show up yet? Is he bald, fat and ugly like we thought?”
It takes a few synapses firing in my brain for me to realize the entire room has gone silent, and is slowly filling with a combination of murmurs, throat-clearings, and snickers. I let go of the bright fabric and glance around. Bet your ass all eyes are on me, including the unimpressed gaze of one hot-as-hell man in an impeccable navy blue suit that shouts ‘I own this shit.’ The intensity in those eyes causes me to step back, hitting the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind me.
For once in my adult life, I am speechless. Theodore Solomon, although bald, is neither fat nor ugly. He’s a piece of six-foot-five goodness that I’m willing to climb any damn time. For a minute or so, he holds my gaze. I keep my back flat against the wall, which effectively pushes out my tatas. Any warm-blooded man would be mesmerized by my tits, but not this one. His jaw tenses, and I swear he’s about to ask me to walk to the front of the room, pull my skirt up, and spank me in front of the entire staff. If I’m being honest, I wouldn’t object. The thought wets the tiny piece of fabric covering my pussy. Then he pulls his gaze away from me and continues to address the room.
I relax, sagging against the wall, and look sideways at Bryde, who appears even more scared than me, and then across the large table to Lyra, who looks like she’s about to lose her shit. Mr. Theodore Solomon talks about what his restructuring plans mean for all of us, but he doesn’t mention cutting jobs. We’re safe, for now. Well, not me. I’m pretty sure I’ll get a pink slip before this day ends. I better figure out how to get the stain out of my skirt so I can wear it for job interviews before I can get a refund.
As mesmerizing as Mr. Solomon’s subtly-accented voice is, I couldn’t concentrate any longer. I calculate the amount left in my depleting savings account and how I can make it last until I land another temp position. I highly doubt Lyra will give me a glowing reference, but Ingrid might. I’m in deep shit. It wasn’t easy finding this job. If push comes to shove, the taco place is hiring. My stomach gurgles at the thought of getting paid in tacos and wearing that god-awful forest green apron their underpaid staff wears. Oh God, they all wear hairnets! I absently fiddle with my dark brown curls while I swallow this information.
A nudge to my ribs brings my attention back to the room. Bryde subtly nods her chin and pushes me toward the door. I guess the meeting is over. I’ll have to text her later for any important info I’ve missed—not that it’s going to matter after I get my ass booted out of here. My aforementioned ass is almost out the door when someone calls my name. Bryde and I turn and see Lyra’s devilish smirk.
“Mr. Solomon would like a word with you,” Lyra says. Her pointy chin lifts. Smug bitch.
My eyes widening, I send an SOS signal to Bryde, even though I know she can’t do a thing. “Pray for me,” I ask her as I pivot back and stop at the end of the conference table. Luckily, Lyra isn’t the only one who stays behind. Mr. Yum and Ingrid talk amicably with the dapper CEO. There’s a weird pinch in my belly as I watch Ingrid touch Mr. Solomon’s upper arm, and I recall our earlier conversation about Teddy. Her hand stays on his biceps, and she leans in and whispers something in his ear. His impressive broad shoulders relax, and one corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile, a secret smile only meant for Ingrid. Yeah, if they’re not banging yet, they will be soon. The pinch intensifies in my gut.
Henrik extends his hand to Mr. Solomon. “Anything else you need, just ask.”
“Have the blueprints ready for the new shopping centre. I intend to check in with each designer and architect before the week ends,” Mr. Solomon tells him, and the men shake hands. He reaches for Ingrid, placing a large hand on her tiny waist, and quickly kisses her cheek. “See you in a bit.”
“Be nice.” She pats his shoulder, and then smiles over at me. Henrik and Ingrid walk past me, and she touches my arm. I don’t care for it. It’s meant to soothe me because she knows I’m getting fired. “Good luck, Talia,” Ingrid mumbles.
I am so fucked.
I nod and glance down on my pr
etty shoes. Hell, there’s taco sauce on them too.
“You may leave now too, Lyra.” Mr. Solomon’s booming voice takes my attention away from my shoes and I stare at Lyra. She pops her mouth open to protest, but she shuts it just as quickly, but the smirk returns on her sour face. “Have all current bids and proposals at my desk before the day’s done.”
“Yes, Theo.” Head held high, she click-clacks her way out of the conference room.
Struggling not to fiddle with my skirt or my hair, I wait for the shitstorm that's about to rain down on me. While I think of reasons why I shouldn’t be fired, my heart is jack-hammering in my chest, and I’m starting to sweat. Not a pretty sight.
Mr. Solomon closes the door behind Lyra, then takes a seat at the head of the Philippe Starck rectangular table. The chair groans underneath his weight, and its wide back barely matches the broadness of his shoulders. With one hand, he unbuttons his suit jacket, and the panels slide back, exposing a crisp white shirt and a plain, dark blue, skinny tie. His impeccable manner, the way he carries himself—relaxed, yet powerful and authoritative—and the fact that he’s wearing what could be a real diamond tiepin should impress me, but something else, something totally unexpected catches my attention.
Underneath his sleek navy trousers is one hell of an impressive boner.
What’s more shocking though is he doesn’t seem to be hiding it. Mr. Solomon is proud of not-so-little Solomon straining at his zipper. I catch a moan between my teeth, and tamp down any notion that his hard-on is meant for me. After all, he and Ingrid were all over each other just moments ago.
“Sit.” Even though his voice is low, barely audible, it has a commanding tone that’s hard to ignore.
On your lap? I want to ask, but I shake my head instead. “I’d rather stand.” If he’s going to fire me, I’d prefer staying on my feet, with hopes of escaping quickly after he’s done with whatever he wants to say.
I hold my chin high, defiant, proud, and our gazes lock once more. There’s a twitch in his jaw, and somehow, seeing it calms my nerves. Maybe he’s as uncomfortable as I am.
