Next Door Boss

by Luke Steel

  Don’t break, Demi. Simple.

  I repeat the words in my head and try to believe in them. Let him have his revenge, wait until he gets bored and moves on to some other prey. At least keep my job long enough to find a new one so that I don’t have to empty my savings just to stay in the too-luxe, too-large apartment that I can barely afford. I purse my lips, bitter about that last thought. Well at least that decision is made for me. The neighbors are a little less than friendly anyway, apparently.

  Speaking of… I rip open the envelope and peek at the invoice inside.

  Another sucker punch. Just straight to the gut with this one.

  The damage detail is six pages long. And the final total? Ten thousand dollars.

  3

  Gabriel

  One week later

  I watch her leave out of the corner of my eye, her back ramrod straight, regal as a queen.

  That went exactly the way I planned. Shock and upset. Even fear. The look on Demi’s face when she walked in and realized the predicament she’s landed in was priceless. She didn’t crumble, which was what I was really waiting for, but that’s fine. That flash of anger and backbone right before she stalked out is just going to make things more interesting. She can be angry all she wants—it’s not going to help her. Maybe now she’ll learn how it feels to be at the mercy of someone else’s poor opinions and have to act accordingly. Sure, it’s ruthless, but if everyone in the city who read that article is going to assume the worst of me, that just means I’m free to do whatever the hell I want. Opening up earned me a hit piece in the paper, so there’s no point trying to be something I’m not.

  So why do I feel this hollow pit in my chest? Indigestion, probably.

  And yet, the pit is yawning a little wider the more I brood about it. I’m not the most emo guy, but even I know I’m guilty of a little transference here. Demi didn’t write that article about me—she’s responsible for repeating the gossip, but not for what it said. Thinking back to before that whole exchange about the newspaper, I remember the way Demi looked in my apartment yesterday morning compared to the sleek, cool professional woman who walked into my office today. All those amazing curls pulled back in a tight bun, and the slim, long line of her legs in black heels. Yesterday she was all soft curves and dewy skin. And she looked happy. Today, formal and professional, she was still beautiful, but with a sharper edge. Fiery and feisty, standing up to me. And the glimpse of creamy smooth skin and round, full breasts as she knelt down when the envelope fell…

  With a start, I shove up and out of my chair, and walk over to the long glass wall, suddenly agitated. That’s what pissed me off when she was here and hardened my resolve (and something else.) Whether barefoot or in stilettoes, Demi is lithe and graceful, even sultry. That glimpse down her blouse just confirmed that under those clothes is a tight little body just begging for attention. And I don’t even think she did it on purpose! Still, it reminded me of the way that reporter’s shirt kept gaping open during the interview. I tried to be a gentleman then and look what happened.

  Now that I’m thinking about it, though, more of my memory is coming back to me as far as that interview. The reporter, Sharon or Sherinne something, had been decked out in a super tight wrap dress. Nothing anyone would wear to an office. Again, I’d passed it off because she was a reporter and media types always seem to have their own fashion rules. My schedule was packed that day, but I’d done my best to play courteous and gracious for the interview. The reporter peppered me with all kinds of questions—lots of dating and eligible bachelor crap that seemed kind of fluff for a profile in the business section. But I’d gone with it. Maybe that was her play. The tight dress, the peek-a-boo top. She might have been insulted I didn’t roll over and start howling when she flashed her tits at me, or give up six kinds of personal crap.

  Some faceless reporter I can barely remember, compared with Demi practically on her knees…Christ. I have to tug at my tie, my belt. Everything’s feeling a little tight today. I remind myself that no matter what I think of that curly-haired sexpot, I don’t need anyone in my life that thinks that little of me. I don’t care where she got her information, I’m not wasting another minute of my life hanging on to people who think I’m something I’m not.

  Never again. “Mangovan the Monster.” I wouldn’t do it for my own family. There’s no way I’ll do it for some fawning faker who talks shit behind my back.

  When I get back to my office from a late afternoon appointment, an email from Demi with a report attachment is waiting in my inbox. Sixty pages of carefully researched market analysis and charts—a little something I’d tasked her with only two days ago.

  Skimming the file, I can see it’s all here—everything I asked for. I’m actively looking for mistakes and finding none. She’s good; I’ll give her that. But so am I. I wonder if she’s back with my dry cleaning.

  It’s been seven days of hell for poor Demi. I know this because I gave two of my admin assistants some impromptu paid vacation and forwarded all their work to Demi’s office. On top of that, her mid-manager schedule and orientation has been break-neck, administered solely by me.

  She’s takes it all. Stoic, unruffled. Not a hint of the heat I saw as she strode out of my office, her back ramrod straight that first day, her confidence unwavering. She hasn’t crumbled, which is what I’ve been waiting for, but that’s fine. It just makes this more interesting.

  And it has been, although the battle of wills manifests in stoic resolve rather than a brawl. The last week she’s done everything I’ve asked, when I’ve asked, and taken all the criticism and heckling I deign to throw at her. Each time I task her with something pointless or menial, she throws it on top of the pile and doggedly takes it down. There’s only so much fuel in that fire, though. I’m sure of it. I’m going to wear her down.

  Scrolling through the report again on my tablet, I’m whistling as I head for the elevator and push the down button to her floor. I want to deliver these thoughts personally before I head home for the day.

  Her door is closed, but I push inside without knocking.

  “Demi, I—what the hell?”

  Demi gives a little shriek and presses her shirt to her chest. She was dressing when I walked in, pulling a royal blue t-shirt over a magenta sports bra.

  “What are you doing?”

  Demi’s forehead creases and she hurriedly shoves her arms through the t-shirt holes. “I was changing for a run.”

  From where I’m standing, I can see running shoes next to the heels she’d tossed aside. Her shirt is tight over her chest, and I swallow when I think of that flash of pink in her bra.

  “We have a locker room and gym downstairs.”

  She shrugs. “I know. I don’t like to work out inside. I finished the Drexel report for you so I was going to run in the park and wait for the traffic to die down a little before I head home.”

  “I don’t care what you were going to do, there’s no reason for you to be changing clothes in your office. It’s not professional.” I don’t mention that I do the exact same thing sometimes.

  Demi closes her eyes for the briefest second and bites her lip. Then she looks up at me, her face and eyes just a little too bright. “Ok,” she says, and her tone is pitchy. “I won’t do it again.” She smiles.

  I’m still stuck on this changing business. Her bare midriff and the silky soft skin under that t-shirt. The swell of her breasts.

  “You run alone? Like…that?”

  “Well, yeah. These are running shorts.” Demi looks down at herself, lifts one leg and then the other as though I told her she had gum on her shoes. God, her legs are tan and long. I feel my half-hard dick leap in my pants.

  “Is it safe?” My voice is gruff and I have to clear it.

  Demi tilts her head at me. “I think so. It’s the park across from the office.”

  “We’re downtown, Demi. All kinds of people down here are watching for pretty women alone. Someone could jump you, or drag you into
the woods.” I feel a little heat in my neck when I realize I just called her pretty, but if she noticed, she’s not showing.

  “Gabriel, it’s downtown,” she repeats my words back to me, “so there are no woods. It’s not Central Park. It’s a trail around a fake lake. Not even. A pond.”

  “They’re not redwoods but there are trees. Bushes. And secluded places behind buildings.” I point to her headphones. “And if you’re running with earbuds you won’t hear anyone come up behind you, or…why are you smiling?”

  “Are you worried about me?” her head tilt is back.

  “Is it ‘worry’ just because I’m telling you it’s stupid to run alone and someone could hurt you?”

  “Yes,” she says, and her smile is all teeth. “Generally speaking, all signs indicate yes.”

  I sigh, hard and audibly, trying to force the frustration out of my lungs. “Fine. It’s the end of the day and going to be dark out soon, but go ahead and streak through the park alone.”

  Demi presses her lips together and her eyes twinkle at me like she’s flattered. It’s galling. “I won’t run after dark.” Then she swallows and lowers her chin. “I appreciate your worry, Gabriel.”

  “Anything could happen. Anywhere. You shouldn’t run by yourself.”

  She nods, placating me. She’s laughing at me. I would too. This urge to protect her is out of left field.

  “Did you receive my report?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I did.” I latch on to that one like a lifeline. Great change of subject. “Sixty pages of blocks and figures means nothing to me. What were you thinking?”

  “Excuse me?” She stands now, and my stomach drops when I see her running shorts are low and tight. Not much more than boy shorts, really. Practically painted on. “You asked for a full narrative.”

  “Sure, but as you were writing it, you should have seen that the finished product would not be sufficient without a summary explanation. Who has time to sit down and comb through this?” Her little black shorts are driving me crazy. Running shorts, my ass. And speaking of ass, I want to take two handfuls of it.

  Demi’s no longer smiling or amused. She’s getting heated, I can tell. I know she must have been pounding at the report for hours, scraping the analysis out of the data, ready to tear her hair out by the end.

  “OK. What format would you prefer?” Two burning spots of color emerge up high on her cheeks, but her poker face is back.

  “I want a full presentation and slide deck with notes presented to senior staff— “

  “Wait. Slides?”

  “—tomorrow morning.”

  Her mouth drops open and she sits down. And that’s when I let the hammer fall.

  “And I want you to extrapolate six months of data rather than the three you detail here. For context.”

  Demi looks like she’s going to be sick. “Six months? You know what that entails?” Her voice is low, more horror than disrespect. But she’s incredulous.

  Yes, I know exactly, but I don’t say it out loud. I’m effectively tasking her with a two-hundred slide presentation at six PM the night before a seven AM meeting.

  Rather than fire, there are whirlpools of pain in those pretty green eyes. And I surprise myself because I don’t like seeing that reaction on her face, even though I’m the one inflicting it.

  Her shoulders slump in her chair and she looks away at the wall. When she speaks next, her voice is so small, I can barely hear it.

  “I don’t understand this.” Just a statement. Maybe not even directed at me.

  The pit is back in my chest, but I’m not going to budge. I feel every bit the asshole she said I was when I grind out, “I don’t pay you to understand it, Demi. I pay you to do it.”

  Her head snaps back at that, her green eyes narrowed. Her back straightens.

  “Fine. Ok. Whatever you need.” She starts to gather papers on her desk, slamming some of them back in her desk.

  “Hey, easy on the furniture, maybe? I might have to invoice you again.”

  She doesn’t dignify that with a reply. But it looks like her evening run has been canceled because she’s gathering up her things, along with her computer bag.

  Brushing past me without a word is the closest thing to disrespect Demi has ever shown. Back in my office later, I think about that. I could feel the frustration dripping off her. And for a split second, a coiled aggression.

  She turns me on. I don’t lie to myself about that anymore. I loved the cheeky mounds of her ass in those little running shorts as she stalked away, and I’m imagining the heat that must come off her when she’s trying to rein it in. It’s all too easy to keep building that frustration in her, stoking that fire, then just toying with her, drawing it out.

  My cock is thick in my pants and I put a hand over it to relieve the pressure. When that doesn’t help, I loosen my pants and slide my hand in, grip the head.

  Flash back to that first morning, Demi looking soft and innocent in her snowy white dress, with the shadow of her nipples visible through the fabric. Her wide open, soft smile. Flash forward to those pretty green eyes flaring, furious, challenging me to throw everything I have at her because she won’t back down. The two versions of her melt together, until I strip her down in my fantasy, let her tear into me just as hard as I want to take her.

  For a moment, reality comes rushing back and I realize I’m jerking my cock to the thought of ripping into Demi when I know she hates me. It hurts. I wanted her the moment I first saw her and then what she said… I can’t stand it.

  That’s the last thought I have as I’m pumping my cock in my fist, the whole time imagining taking Demi a hundred different ways. It’s my fault, but even now I want to pin her to the wall and kiss and lick and fuck her until all of it fades away. Have her the way I want, so she’ll see me the way I really am, not the monster they say I am.

  4

  Demi

  I deserve this.

  I’m currently lying on the filthy floor of the company parking garage, likely ruining yet another skirt and blouse, trying to reach my car fob. The car fob that I somehow managed to fling under my own SUV and now can’t reach at all. I want to scream.

  It’s been two goddamned weeks of torture, a.k.a. my new job, and I feel like I really am going to break. In fact, that’s half the reason I ended up here. I was so excited just to flee the damn building for the day that when I finally dug my keys up from the very bottom of my bag and yanked them out, they got stuck on the lining. I was so frustrated, I jerked on them and the stupid fancy keyring my roommate gave me broke apart. My house keys and car fob went flying. I found the other keys, but of course, my car fob flew right under the car, smack in the middle underneath. I’ve tried reaching it from all four sides of this freaking car and no dice. Since I’m on the ground anyway, I feel like pitching a full-on, full body tantrum.

  But I deserve this. If it weren’t for my Big! Dumb! Stupid! Mouth! I might not be in hell right now.

  After another couple of seconds of pointless straining—I can’t flatten by boobs or my ass enough to shimmy further under the car—I give up and rest my cheek on my hand. I hate my life.

  Gabriel was not kidding when he said he wants me to quit. Anything and everything he can possibly do, he has done. Endless copies, report tweaks, errands, and meetings meant to overwhelm a personal assistant, on top of the work load and responsibility of a senior manager two grades higher than my own. Constant reviews. And that presentation! Up all night, literally, to get it done. I arrived at work the next morning riding the hard edge of a caffeine rush so strong I might as well have mainlined the stuff, only for the meeting to be cancelled just before it was scheduled to start. I was so relieved and tired I seriously considered begging off for rest of the day, only to learn the thing was re-scheduled ten minutes before noon, and I was expected to present it while Gabriel and the rest of senior staff enjoyed a working lunch. And, of course, all of it was pointless and for nothing because during the actual presentation, Ga
briel himself admonished me for creating too much material—despite the fact he’d been the one to request so much—and directed me to truncate the thing to ten key slides on the fly while twenty people watched and waited, gulping impatiently through it all. I gave the presentation as best I could, grilled by Gabriel personally and in front of everyone, while I stood there flipping through slides and reciting data on the fly.

  Thing is, I knew he was doing it on purpose, to rattle and break me, and I still nailed it. Take that, Mangovan. Take that.

  But game face aside, inside I’m in knots all the time. I realize it’s not going to stop. He’s not going to stop. Just won’t. I can’t win this, I know it, and I need to figure out something else. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to convince anyone else I’m worth hiring after I lost a job at one of the premier companies in the country less than a month after they hired me.

  “Sweetheart, you’re not even on the ropes. You’re on the ground. It’s time to throw in the towel.”

  I feel my stomach clench when I hear his voice from above me. This is the very last thing I need right now.

  I lift up onto my knees and glare up at Gabriel Mangovan.

  “Didn’t you leave for the day?”

  He arches a brow at me. “Not that I have to explain my schedule to you, but I had a meeting outside the building and decided to come back to the office and finish some things.”

  “Why are you in the garage? Don’t you have a limo?”

  “Sometimes I drive. Why are you crawling on the ground?”

  I look past his shoulder and see a silver Mercedes parked in a premium spot by the elevators. The man walked all the way over here just to torture me. It’s frustrating that he looks so good doing it. It’s after hours, but the man looks freshly shaved, perfectly tailored. I hate the way he slicks his hair back at work—I much prefer the easy, tousled way he had it that first morning I met him—but Gabriel is a Spartan soldier in a suit. Dangerous. Devastating. And a total ass.