My Boyfriend's Boss: A Forbidden Bad Boy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  Reality was tough. My mom and I moved to California from the Honduras ten years ago, temporarily moving in with relatives while getting settled. I’d enrolled in junior high and my mom had joined my aunt’s business “Krystal Klear Kleaners – Make Your Rooms Sparkle!” It wasn’t bad. It was honest work and my mom and I took home about $50 per home we cleaned. Of course, I was thirteen when I started, so I was essentially free help, someone who tagged along and dusted, did the easy stuff while my female relatives slaved away.

  But even fifty dollars a pop was far more than what we could earn in the Honduras. Ah, my home country … I shuddered at the memories. My mom and I had fled, leaving my dad and brothers behind because of the increasing gang violence. Women were prey down there, subject to the vagaries and whims of the locos, the gangs who ruled each city through terror and violence.

  I remembered one sweltering, summer day. I’d just gotten back from a neighbor’s birthday party, wearing a pink party dress and clutching a balloon, more child than woman still.

  Mom had frowned.

  “Where were you?” she asked. “It’s late afternoon. Why weren’t you back sooner?”

  “Oh Mami, the party was so fun. Some boys came by to chat with us, you know Rosita’s brother Esteban, guys who hang out with him?” I said with an innocent smile. Esteban had been slickly handsome in a blue soccer jersey with a silver belt buckle the size of my fist. I’d been duly impressed when he’d singled me out, whistling appreciatively.

  But Mami’s frown only deepened. “Esteban?” she asked, “Carla’s boy? He still in school?”

  “Oh Mami, how would I know?” I sighed exaggeratedly. The truth was that I knew perfectly well that Esteban no longer attended the local high school. Boys routinely dropped out as early as eight or nine to become runners for the local gang, strutting like cockerels on the sidewalk. Esteban probably hadn’t been in school for years.

  Mami turned away, so I couldn’t see her face. But I could hear her voice, low and urgent. “Be careful Teresita, Honduras is a dangerous country,” she intoned. “It’s not the country of my childhood anymore, there are many tiburones and sharks waiting for a girl like you.” And I’d shrugged in agreement. I was only ten then, on the cusp of womanhood, the world an exciting place filled with hot, sweet boys like Esteban.

  But everything changed a few weeks later. I’d noticed Mami on the phone a lot recently, calling around, her voice becoming hushed when I was within earshot. One day after school, she met me at the school gates.

  “Mami, what are you doing here?” I asked, bewildered. She never picked me up after classes, she was always on a job with one of my aunts. There were a bunch of girls around me, all of us in regulation blue and white uniforms.

  “Teresita, get your things,” she said calmly. “I’ve hired a taxi for us.”

  Scowling, I packed all my school supplies into my bag and threw them into the back of the car. “Where are we going?” I asked plaintively as the taxi bumped and ground along an unpaved dirt road. Honduras is a poor country, but even we pave our roads. The dirt track could only mean one thing -- we were headed out to the boonies, god knows how far from civilization.

  “I have homework,” I whined. “Carlita wanted me to come over and study!” I added, throwing my mom a reproving look.

  “Teresita,” said my mom sternly, turning to look at me from the passenger’s seat. “I’m moving you to the countryside to live with some relatives. You remember Auntie Blanca, your father’s cousin? She lives with Uncle Gordo in Guadalajita, about two hours from the city. They’ll be able to look after you until you’re married.”

  “Mami, no!” I exclaimed in shock. “No!” I reiterated forcefully. “All my friends at school, my teachers, I haven’t said goodbye, and what about Papi and Herberto and Gonzalo?” I asked, referring to my dad and two older brothers. “Do they even know I’ve left? Why?” I whimpered, my childishness evident.

  “Teresita,” my mom said firmly, sadness pulling at her mouth, “we want to keep you safe. You’re becoming a beautiful girl,” and her voice trailed off, dabbing at her eyes. “And we can’t protect you in the City. Mami and Papi have to work, and the wolves, they’re all over.” I knew she was referring to the local gang which had branded themselves as Los Lobos, the wolves. Suddenly I was sad and scared, just a little girl again, a pawn among bigger, stronger players. What had happened to my innocent existence, my safe haven of childish chatter and the latest movies?

  But I bit my lip and tried to look brave, holding back tears. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t have a choice either. I was exiled to some isolated farm to live with an elderly aunt and uncle, rarely to see my friends again. I sobbed quietly, my cries barely audible in the back of the car. But it didn’t change my mom’s mind, her back straight and resolute.

  “Vamos, Teresita, take care my darling daughter,” she intoned before dropping me off, the taxi doing a U and disappearing in a cloud of dust. And with a heavy heart, I began trudging to my new home … unsuspecting of the danger inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matt

  It was so fucking boring at these things. I looked around the dinner table, the women dressed in couture, the men in slick dinner jackets. I could have sworn our hostess had a real fur stole around her neck, which was ludicrous given that the pea shoot soup had dribbled a bit of neon green onto the white fur.

  “Matt,” she called out, her voice ringing out across the table. “Tell us what you’re up to these days. You and your brothers are filthy rich from the Sterling Pharmaceuticals IPO, isn’t that right?”

  Ah, trust Delinda to be discreet. Of course, all the guests already knew that Sterling was a fucking unicorn, one of the few start-ups to successfully launch and go public. And yes, my brothers Jake, Caleb, Cade and I were now fucking billionaires, the toast of San Francisco. But really Delinda? Did you have to make a pronouncement at a crowded table?

  I responded the only way I could. Delinda was married to Bill Dowd, one of the top VCs in the valley, and not someone to offend.

  “Darlin’ Delinda, I’m up to this and that,” I said smoothly. “Sterling keeps me busy on a day to day basis and I have a coupla hobbies,” I drawled.

  Delinda smiled sweetly.

  And have you been seeing anyone special?” she asked with a wink. “We’ve got some very eligible ladies seated right here.”

  I fucking growled under my breath. I hated being set up on blind dates, introduced to all sorts of “eligible women” who oohed and ahed at everything I said, swooning at my every gesture. But again, I needed to play the gracious guest.

  “I’m just a farm boy,” I drawled again, “Much too simple for the likes of the gorgeous ladies here,” I said, smiling at the assortment of thin, starved beauties arrayed around me. I swear, each of these women could use a good meal … yeah, a hefty ham sandwich would do it, if they weren’t already vegans, fruitarians or South Beach disciples. My smile didn’t reach my eyes, but based on the predatory looks and competitive hair-tossing, these women already had their claws out.

  “Well Matt darling, we’ll have to get you set up!” crowed Delinda. “All it takes is the right woman and you’ll be a married man in no time, isn’t that right Bill?” she said, nudging her husband. “We were married on the fly, honey, and wasn’t it just the most wonderful whirlwind?”

  Bill, who had obviously been in this situation many times before, ignored his wife as he spoke to another guest. But the rest of the table tittered politely, even as we smiled. It was common knowledge that Bill and Delinda and begun their affair while married to other people, destroying their families in the process.

  But that was their business, not mine. I just wanted to finish this dinner and get the fuck back to my penthouse before getting up again for another hectic day.

  Ah, the grind. Lately, Sterling Pharmaceuticals hasn’t been enough for me. Sure, it’s worked its magic and my brothers and I are wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. But there was somethi
ng about the old days that was missing, something that had changed. Maybe we’d gotten more corporate? We’d gone from an office of ten to a thousand employees in five years flat.

  And it’d been a transition. Before I was a simple country boy tasked with marketing, pushing Sterling products on anyone and everyone who would listen. I talked my head off, maybe selling snake oil in some cases, but hey, that’s what sales guys do right? I loved every second of it, the fact that we were boots on the ground, charting new territory, exploring the great unknown with new drugs, new customers, new market segments.

  Now I’m fucking Senior VP of Marketing, head of multiple divisions. I wear a fucking suit to work every day, and have an office as big as a cavern. I have three computers, a private bathroom, and all the pussy I need just by flashing my business card.

  But something deeper has shifted within me and the company, too. Sterling’s culture has morphed and I miss the days when our outfit was nothing more than a bunch of twenty-something workaholic boys, reeking of testosterone and BO.

  “Matt,” a high-pitched voice interrupted my reverie. I turned to see a glamorous raven-haired girl walk towards me. Or maybe sashay with a predatory look is a better description. The girl was stunning, her hair done up in some elaborate design, her red dress long and floor-length, displaying every inch of her stunning figure.

  “You remember me, right?” she asked teasingly. “Vanessa, from the MOMA gala?”

  My mind ran furiously as I tried to remember that night. I’d worked late, pulling on my tux in my office while a car waited downstairs. Hey, just call me James Bond okay? It was part of my job as a marketing guru to meet the right people and see and be seen.

  I vaguely remembered a couple of women at the event, but I couldn’t place the girl before me.

  “Oh right,” I said vaguely. “Hi, how are you?”

  “Jake, surely you remember our conversation?” she said with an eyebrow arched. “And what happened afterwards?”

  Oh fuck, had some shit gone down? I seriously had no memory of that night, but when you work like a mofo life passes in a blur. Maybe we went to a bar afterwards and I fingered her under her dress? Boned her even? I had no fucking clue.

  “Silly, you promised we’d hit up L’Osseria’s wine-tasting event later this month,” she trilled, lightly placing a manicured hand on my arm. “I’m the wine coordinator at Slanted Plate, I can introduce you to the finest flavors,” she said suggestively. Ugh, these women were so over the top, I could feel bile rising in my throat.

  I was about to politely decline when Delinda swooped in, having overheard our conversation.

  “Oh that’s perfect,” cawed our hostess. Again, a model of discretion. “Matt would love to take you, I know he’s got tickets, that company of his buys the best of everything,” Delinda announced. And it was true. I was in the client service industry so Sterling purchased VIP passes for a myriad of high-end events, but with potential customers in mind, not dates for executives.

  But again, I was caught in this fucking web of feminine wiles. I didn’t want to go, fuck I didn’t even want to be here, but I found myself nodding in agreement just because it was easier.

  “Sure,” I rumbled. “Give my office a call,” I said, proffering my business card.

  “Matty, you can do better than that,” Delinda said slyly. “Give her your cell.”

  It took all of my strength not to wring this fucking bird’s neck at her own party. If her husband weren’t Bill Dowd, I swear I’d be a murderer already. But graciously, I scrawled my cell number onto the card and handed it with a fake smile to Vanessa.

  “Looking forward,” I rumbled.

  “Me too,” she panted breathlessly, her scarlet lips twisted in a smile revealing sharp, tiny teeth. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Teresa

  Oh shit, I was late again. Class had gotten off five minutes later than expected and I’d missed my bus to Pacific Heights, where the client lived. I’d have to walk and that promised to be a demoralizing experience. San Francisco is a city of steep hills and trekking to Pac Heights from Civic Center was going to test my lung capacity and overall fitness.

  Sighing, I hoisted my bag up and slung it over my shoulder.

  “Heya pardner, need help with that?” asked a male voice behind me. It was Orlando, one of my fellow classmates at City College who fancied himself a big man on campus. Ugh, he was so greasy and slimy, he reminded me of the goons back home – just boys with guns loosely tucked into their waistbands, thinking that made them men.

  But Orlando’s weapon wasn’t a firearm. His was his connection to the mayor. A nephew of Mercedes Diaz, Orlando constantly bragged about his famous relative, peppering each conversation with “Aunt Mercedes this, Aunt Mercedes that.” I admit, I was glad it was an election year. Even if Mercedes Diaz had done a decent job as mayor, I just wanted to shut Orlando’s trap once and for all.

  “Um, no thanks,” I demurred, trying to make my way past him. “I gotta roll, okay? I’m late,” I said impatiently as he purposefully blocked my way.

  “Hey chica, what’s the rush? Headed to the library? Surely you got a few minutes to spare for old bro here,” he drawled, his hands in the pockets of oversize jeans. I swear, why do men dress like clowns sometimes? I found the homie look unattractive and unappealing. Flat brim cap, big oversized sports jersey coupled with jeans that were three sizes too big, falling down his ass. Orlando looked ridiculous, his boxers showing as he tried to hoist the waistband up.

  “No Orlando, I have a J-O-B,” I spelled out for him. “We don’t all have the luxury of having rich relatives.” It was widely known that Mayor Diaz owned an apartment building where she allegedly let Orlando live for free when he was in school. He was supposedly learning the ropes of property management as well, to take over for his aunt as she ascended further up the political ladder.

  “Listen chica,” he drawled, not at all put off by my behavior and insinuations. “Where ya going? I gotta ride, I can take you,” he said thumbing to a rice rocket parked at the curb. I sighed. I really didn’t want to, but I was running late and it was unprofessional to show up to a job sweaty and disheveled, not to mention unprepared and apologetic. So I gave in and sighed, “Fine, fine. Let’s go.”

  Orlando chuckled knowingly and held the door open. The car was slung so low to the ground that I practically had to crouch to get in, my bag throwing me off-balance.

  “I gotcha,” he leered lasciviously, his hands on my shoulders and then trailing down my back as he “helped” me into the car. Shudders of distaste ran down my spine, but I swallowed hard and made myself get in. What was the worst that could happen? It would be a short ride, maybe ten minutes at most.

  The homie got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and turning up the funk. Oh great. We were going to be cruising in Pacific Heights, a tony neighborhood, as he blasted bachata and the latest reggaeton. Okay, this was already embarrassing me enough already and I thought seriously about throwing myself from the car.

  But it was too late. He’d pulled away from the curb and I gave him directions towards my employer’s home. Fortunately, the music was pounding so loudly that conversation was impossible. I thanked my lucky stars and stared straight out the window as Orlando bobbed his head in time to the music, like a chicken darting its head back and forth.

  Finally, we pulled up to a stately townhouse, perfectly decorated, the doors imposing.

  “This where your job at?” asked Orlando, finally turning down the tunes.

  “Yeah,” I said shortly, grasping the door handle and swinging one leg out. “Thanks so much for the ride, I’ll see you at school.”

  But Orlando wanted to be thanked more than just verbally. He grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly to him, his face oily and pimply as I was forced closer.

  “Heya chica, a beso for my efforts?” he said silkily before planting those rubbery lips on mine. And I screamed, my spine stiffening involuntarily, my body goi
ng into full panic mode. Sweat broke out and my vision started to blacken, I was in the midst of a nightmare, thrashing and struggling like a wounded animal until I felt heavy arms pull me out of the car, thrusting me out of danger.

  Matt Sterling, my employer, stood there, a look of rage and fury directed towards the much smaller man before him.

  “What the fuck?” asked Orlando plaintively. I swear, even Mr. Sterling’s shadow was scary to see.

  But the big man didn’t say anything. He just … growled, if that was possible and Orlando got the message. The passenger door slammed and Orlando pulled away from the curb in a hurry, the rice rocket’s engine a cacophonous wail as he got the hell out of Dodge.

  “So Teresa,” said the big man, turning to me. “Care to explain what that was about?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt

  Teresa was delicious to behold, even trembling and fearful. The brunette’s hair had pulled loose from her ponytail, tendrils framing her face, her denim shirt molding the contours of her breasts. I could sense her generous cleavage, ripe and luscious, straining against the buttons, envisioning each nipple to be a pretty pink, perfect for suckling.

  Okay, so this girl wasn’t exactly supermodel type or even the kind that you see at parties I frequent. First, she was far too short. For some reason, the women at society soirees are always so fucking tall, six feet or over. I don’t know how but those bitches must be wearing stilts at all hours, comfort be damned. By contrast, Teresa would never be more than shoulder-high on me … five five at most.

  Plus, she was curvy in the most delicious ways. Her hips, ass, breasts … fuck, my cock was stiffening just looking at her. But first things first. The girl was sobbing furiously, her head twisted away from me so all I could see was the cascade of hair.