Boss

by Scarlett Ross

  “Miss Adams, please take my tray into my office, set it on my dining table and leave.”

  I nodded slightly as I was beginning to feel Lisa’s pain of trying to communicate while not dropping the entire tray to the ground. My stomach growled loudly, and embarrassingly. Lisa chuckled. Bitch, I did her a favor, and she laughs at me. Desperately, I wished she wasn’t holding my lunch tray so my foot could accidentally kick out to trip her as we left the elevator.

  We all exited the elevator and nodding toward my desk, Lisa took my tray and set it down none too gently. She gave her best fuck me anytime stare to Evan and scampered off. Sidestepping mysterious boxes that now seemed to fill the halls, I made my way to Evan’s corner. He leaned back against the wall and made no move to open the door, which sent me into a panic. What could I do? Magically sprout Inspector Gadget arms and open the door with ease? A memory of Savannah in a situation when we had gone on a mad snack run during finals came to mind. Turning, I angled my ass to the door and looked to get the doorknob mashed against one of my cheeks and squirmed wildly. Evan stopped smirking, and a dark look overtook his face. Ignoring him, I continued to hitch my ass up and down until, at last, the knob hit the right spot and gave way nearly sending me flying. His hands reached out and grabbed the tray as I fell into the office. Sprinting up and smoothing my skirt down as it had ridden up to dangerously provocative levels, my hands went to reach back for the tray, but he had already moved to a small dining area on the side of this office.

  “Impressive, Miss Adams.”

  Gritting my teeth, I said, “Is that all?”

  “Yes, for now. But make a note, Miss Adams, keep your ass available for further lunch runs. The show was too good to not see again.” Shaking out his napkin, he effectively dismissed me with a nod of his head to the door.

  Walking back to my desk, I hoped he would ask me again and soon. Spitting in Evan Mancini’s food was going to be a crowning achievement, one even worth braving the brutality of the cafeteria again for sure.

  Yet, as Mr. Barrett drives me home that evening, my thoughts can’t help but wonder what his assessment of my ass was. The only thing I can think of is he was messing with me. And the funniest thing seemed to happen, I hoped it was impressionable.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AS MY WEEKS PROGRESSED, I quickly learned that keeping my head down was not an issue. Keeping my mouth shut was a horse of a different color. The men all had their own unique way of interacting with me. Quickly, I learned that Merrick traveled frequently. As he was out of the office on business most of the time, he had yet to bother me.

  Evan would drop a stack of files on my desk, which would be waiting for me when I arrived in the morning. Most only needed revisions and making sure they were filed correctly in order of date. A dull and mind-numbing task that would take me a few hours to complete. He never checked up on my progress personally, but around late afternoon, my email would blow up with a barrage of questions on if I was filing my nails or filing the work I was given. His lunch order was placed daily via email also, and I was given implicit instructions to leave it on the empty assistant desk outside his office.

  PJ was still cordial, but his initial warmness had melted into polite quietness. He would simply ask me to arrange a meeting or send out an email informing employees of new policies for internet usage in the office. I was disappointed because my plan to use him as an ally was not making headway. I wondered if my behavior in the cafeteria had set him off me, so I was Emily Post personified if he ever came within a few feet of me. No luck yet.

  Jamison, however, had become a force to be reckoned with. His sheer ability to provoke me was increasingly hard to handle. I had become his true personal assistant up to an uncomfortable and maddening level. Breezing in, he would bark orders and slam the door to his office. Constant copies needed to made, notes dictated at a frightening pace, errands to pick up—dry cleaning and personal need items, and calling me as I waited for Evan’s lunch to tell me to hurry up since my lunch time now was eaten up by retrieving Evan’s lunch as well. My arms were so toned that I now could carry both domes and told myself if all else failed, my career as a waitress was more than secured. The three “assistants” I had seen on my first day turned out to be interns from Columbia who only came in for a five hours daily. Their exact workload seemed to be regulated to playing Candy Crush, cruising the few social media sites we could access, and gossiping about me. Once I made the mistake of asking for help on something and was treated to three frosty smiles, who told me they were only allowed to receive assignments from Mr. Monroe. Convenient as he was never here, and they seemed to have realized that they basically had been given the golden ticket of internships.

  Chelsea continued her mission to make me the number one outcast. The cafeteria catcalls and insults started as soon as I entered and would only triple when I was walking out with both trays. Thankfully, she was such a social butterfly though that she seldom was home. My evenings consisted of arriving home, fetching a plate, and locking myself in my room until morning. Savannah had offered to come in to take me out to dinner several times, but the exhaustion was too much to make me dare try to make another venture into the city after work. The weekends were worry-free. Summer was in full effect, and the elite were loathed to stay in their homes in the city. Aunt Colleen and Uncle Herb jetted off to their Hamptons mansion no later than Friday morning. Chelsea would accompany them when she got off work or find another hotspot to hit. Seeing her Louis Vuitton luggage wheeled out by Riff Raff was a treat, knowing that I wouldn’t have to deal with any additional bullshit over the weekend.

  Mr. Barrett had offered to chauffeur me to see my dad in Cambridge, but I politely declined, knowing he had a family he wanted to spend time with. Dad was coming in to see me soon, he promised me, but where he was going to stay was still in question. My plan was to rent an Airbnb in Connecticut for the weekend, so we could spend time together and dine out quietly without the paparazzi shoved up our asses. Dad needed a break anyways. He seemed unusually tired as of late, and a nagging cough seemed to rack his body at times.

  “Ainslee, you can’t run a cigar shop without allowing the customers to sample the products. It was your idea to add the bar to the side, and it is doing wonderfully, my love! Just a little too much secondhand smoke, I’m guessing. Trust me, it isn’t nearly as bad as airplanes were when smoking was allowed. You could fly over any mountain and swear it was the Smoky Mountains!”

  Dad was famous for his dad jokes, and I always laughed heartily, mainly because he was just so eager to make me laugh. His sweet face was always on my mind when these jerks seemed to be getting the best of me. His picture on my desk had been the focal point of many meditation sessions so far.

  It was Friday afternoon in my second week, and my workload had piled up so much that the clock struck 5 o’clock, and I decided to stay. The office was completely deserted, and welcoming a chance to be in peace, I popped my earbuds in and tuned to my favorite Pandora station. My work seemed to be going much quicker without the demands of my overbearing bosses. Leaning back in the chair, my shoulders are in agony from hunching over. “Animals” by Maroon 5 comes on, and the second the beat starts, I find myself swaying to the beat. Longing to dance and let go of some tension, my hips undulate in the chair and embarrassingly heat pools between my legs. Who doesn’t get a bit hot and bothered when Adam Levine croons about being an animal? Spinning around, I start to lip-sync about dirty things we do when we feel like an animal. Inching my heels off and losing my legs to the beat, I start to perform a sultry dance, lifting my ass and thrusting a bit. Sex, damn it’s been ages. My last boyfriend, Chad, was eleven months ago, and his charisma was such a turn on that we fell into bed after five dates. The shrimp dick he had been hiding behind that amazing charisma was a shock. Four months of faking orgasms lead me to give him the let’s just be friends, I’m very focused on my future right now speech. He knew what was up and blamed my past on the supposed frigid nature I adopte
d about sex. Hot and bothered, envisioning a searing encounter with a chiseled man, my eyes closed. An undetermined amount of time later, they opened to find Jamison leaning against my desk.

  “Shit. I thought everyone was gone.” Scrambling to sit up as straight as possible and making sure my lady bits were not on display, I regretted the dance as well as cursing. My ladylike demeanor had not yet slipped since my resolve after the cafeteria incident with Chelsea and PJ.

  “Obviously. Practicing for your boyfriend or your night job as a stripper? I hear from Evan you have some moves, but I didn’t believe it until now. Lucky for you, the office is empty, save me. Quite a little show, Ain’t She.”

  Cringing, my heart floors hearing my dreaded nickname. Son of bitch, he’s been talking to Chelsea. My awful years of being bullied after the crash come flooding back. Ain’t She instead of Ainslee was adopted when news got out of our fall. Walking in every day, the sounds would haunt me as the kids taunted.

  “Hey, there she is! Ain’t She something? Her family just ruined the market my old man said.”

  “Ain’t She, going to have to start shopping at Goodwill soon?”

  “Hey, Ain’t She! My mom needs a part time housekeeper, you interested?”

  Slamming my hands down on the desk, I move to swivel to face him head-on.

  “You know I seem to be remembering the employee policies I so carefully had to look over. Wasn’t harassment of any kind one of those policies? Because correct me if I’m wrong, but taunting your assistant with a childhood nickname that was found to be a direct form of bullying should qualify.”

  Jamison throws his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Hey just a little good old-fashioned ribbing. Everyone here is fine with that; it’s not meant to be malicious in anyway. We all have nicknames here. Want to know mine?”

  “No, I would not.”

  Sliding his lanky frame toward me across the desk, I notice his shirt is unbuttoned down to mid-chest. The tautness of his muscles is pronounced, and though the biggest part of me wants to continue this little exchange, I slide away from him. Heat still pools in my nether regions from my impromptu performance, but my brain is telling me he’s just fucking with me. My withdrawal only seems to up the ante because he stretches a leg across my desk. Equally as muscular in his thighs, the suit he wears seemed to be designed for one purpose alone, to draw attention to his manhood. And said manhood seems to be straining against the seams as if my little show may have had an impact.

  Maneuvering his head toward me without releasing his casual position, he whispers inches from my ear.

  “You should know my nickname; it may give you some insight into who I really am.”

  My eyes grow wide at our extreme closeness, and I freeze, waiting for his nickname.

  He sticks his shoe up and waggles it at me. Confused, I see a wad of gum and shot him a bewildered look. His nickname is Double Bubble?

  “Extra. My nickname is Extra. The dictionary defines extra as to a greater extent than usual. My needs are always greater than usual, my appearance is always greater than usual, and above all, my confidence is greater than usual. Funnily enough the gum just sort of happened this morning, and I had no idea it was a name brand.”

  “Extra. Seems like you got the short end of the stick in the nickname-giving pool.”

  “Oh, I don’t think any end of my stick could be described as short. What are your thoughts, Ain’t She?

  “My thought is take your dirty shoe off my desk so I can finish my work, please.” The please is spit out with enough intensity, he seems to know my patience is at an end.

  Slipping off the desk, Jamison smiles and slides off the offending shoe. He places it carefully on my stack of work.

  “Scrape that off when you get a minute, Miss Adams. I have dinner plans and have a spare pair in the closet in my office, but gum can be difficult to remove, so have it done before you leave. One does not allow Gucci to be soiled, ever. Enjoy your weekend.”

  He walks with one stocking foot into his office and picking up the shoe, I fling it against the door. Demeaning doesn’t begin to describe the feelings my head is processing. Opening a drawer in my desk, I extract a letter opener. Several minutes later, the offending gum pops off of the shoe, but there are still some remnants in the grooves. A shoemaker I am not, so this will be as good as it gets. Staring at the gum wad, a devious idea strikes up in my enraged brain, and picking it up gingerly with a Post-it, I slide the gum into an envelope. Jamison is a tea drinker, saying coffee is too passé for his refined palate. The image of me dunking the tea bag along with the gum into his cup takes hold, and now Monday seems a million minutes away.

  Extra, yes, this vendetta did just get a lot more extra.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER THE INCIDENT on Friday with Jamison, I spend the weekend relaxing and plotting. Clearly, the men are going for blood, so my need to up my game is spiking into epic proportions. My hacker buddy, Simon, has informed me I will need to either gain administrative access or create my distraction long enough to transfer the necessary files onto a USB drive. The main issue will be finding the program that holds all the data and then locating the correct files. Requesting administrative access will be my first stop. PJ has kept his distance, but Monday morning, I make a quick detour to his office. Studying the patterns of the men has made me aware of their schedules. PJ is always the first in the office. Arriving no later than 6 a.m., he brings in his coffee and bagel, says hello to the security guard, and heads to his office. After his breakfast, he works out in the company gym, located on the eleventh floor, for forty-five minutes and returns to his private bathroom to shower and dress. The computer is fired up at 7 a.m. to check the latest security reports, and another coffee break between 7:30-7:35 a.m. All this essential information was given to me by Paul, the brutish security officer who had accosted me the first day and has since been more than happy to be my whipping boy for fear of being reported to Regina.

  My plan was to be waiting in the elevator when he exited after his workout. The endorphins surging through him might make him so elated that my request would be instantly given without too much fuss. Paul even provided me with PJ’s regular coffee order, so additionally, I was equipped with a coffee for him just to make me seem more genuine. The main issue was timing my appearance in the elevator with his. Quickly, I decided to wait for him to exit the gym and pretend I was also in the office early and headed to the thirty-eighth floor to catch up on my extensive workload.

  The rush of the normal hours of arriving colleagues would have made this a failed mission, but PJ was the early bird. Leaning against the wall, I waited to see PJ surface and was practicing my ninja-like reflexes to push the up button, get into the elevator, push thirty-eight, and pray my timing worked out so he would be right behind me to push the button as well. The precision of the timing was crucial, or it would be more than obvious that I was clearly stalking him.

  Thankfully my balancing skills were quite adept from the lunch runs that the coffees did little to slow me down. Checking my watch, I calculated PJ would be leaving the gym within one minute. I pushed the up button, slid into the elevator, and waited. My heart was beating a mile a minute, but no one entered. Shit. Should I exit and try the maneuver again? I hadn’t actually seen PJ enter the gym, and suddenly, I felt foolish. This would undoubtedly be the one morning he slept in or decided to take a rest day. Who am I kidding? My wannabe Nancy Drew ways were sorely lacking, and the plan was a failure. Sighing, I realized my budget was going to be pressed if I continued my Starbucks runs for two, and I went to push thirty-eight. As I reached forward, the door opened abruptly, and my eyes were met with a shirtless, sweaty PJ.

  He looks shocked. My hands seem to lose the ability to hold onto anything, and the coffees start to slide. He goes to catch them, and it’s like a slow-motion moment from hell. He reaches toward me. When I go to steady the coffees, my arm connects with the wall of the elevator, and hot coffee splashed all
over him. His chest gets the worst of it, and the noise he makes lets me know it’s piping hot. My hands fly to him, dropping the two coffees and making him groan more.

  “Ainslee? What are you doing here?”

  My hands move to wipe away the coffee, and immediately I realize my mistake. He’s shirtless. His abs have abs, and his pecs are incredibly toned. My eyes have never seen anything like them. Running my hands up and down, I attempt to remove the spilled coffee, and just like that, I am feeling up my boss. My Adonis-like boss, who is so sculpted that I basically desecrated a living art statue. Feverishly I wipe, and PJ just stands there with his mouth twisted in some weird frown-smile. Eventually, after what seems like an hour, he stills my hands with his. My breathing is rather heavy, which is embarrassing, except that he seems to breathe in the same rhythm. Our eyes meet, and we both have to gulp down any emotions we were feeling. But the air is sizzling, and recovery takes longer than expected. Only when I feel hot coffee invading my shoe do I squeal and move back. PJ steps back into the corner of the elevator and begins to wipe his chest, not that anything remains. I had detailed his chest like a car wash attendant. Reaching out for the last time, he grabs my hand. Pulling me to him, I suddenly think this was all a bad plan because my brain has checked out, and now my only agenda is to taste those perfect pink lips. He reaches out and strokes away a splash of coffee on my throat. Dangerously close, my head tips back, and he continues his exploration of coffee spots. This is so wrong, I think. His hand on my cheek stops any further thought, and my eyes lock onto his. Damn, he’s beautiful. PJ leans in, and my heart rate spikes. However, he hands me a handkerchief. Who is this guy who carries a handkerchief in the twenty-first century and especially with gym apparel?