Taming Her Boss

by C. M. Stunich

  Insufferable woman. Arrogant. Cocky. Infuriating.

  Intoxicating.

  My face is within inches of hers and my breath is locked tight in my chest. There are words resting there, secrets trapped in the darkness of my lungs, letters swirling around waiting for the right moment to strike.

  I run my tongue over my lower lip and her eyes follow the movement. Good sign. She finds me attractive. Women often do. But this girl is different than the others. Instead of being intimidated by my presence, my power, my standing in the company, it seems to enrage her. I like that. A little anger can go a long way – especially in the sort of context I'm now ruminating about.

  “Hire me?” she asks incredulously, eyes locked onto mine with laser focus. Eye contact. A rather overlooked and certainly underappreciated form of communication. We both know that whoever looks away first will have conceded something. We remain locked together as I open my mouth and breathe hot air across her lips. To her credit, she doesn't stumble and her words remain solid and full of steel. “How exactly do you mean? Are we discussing a promotion here?”

  “Not like a promotion,” I purr, resisting the urge to switch on my full charm. I don't want to sweep down and overwhelm this woman, turn her into a giggling kitten that's just begging to be stroked. But maybe I should try, just in case. I have to make certain she's the right one. I've been searching for a while, too long really. There have been some hopefuls in the past, but they've never passed my test. It's not hard. I just want to see backbone, gleaming white backbone.

  I have to admit though, I haven't felt this way about a woman in a long time. As soon as she started to stand up to me, I felt my body growing hot and my heart starting to pound. Even now, as I sit here, I can almost imagine what it would be like to kiss her. She has a full, round mouth, like a rose.

  I can only pray there are thorns.

  I do my best not to shiver with delight. A piercing kiss, something with bite and substance. Even the thought is irresistible; it's something I've never had, after all. With considerable effort on my part, I pull away from her and let the magnetic current between us stretch thin. If this girl, this woman with a boy's name, Oli, if she can feel it, she doesn't let on.

  “If not a promotion, then what? A side project? Something for you to amuse yourself with in your spare time?” Those full lips twitch, just so. A slight adjustment that tells me Miss Oli here is not enjoying herself as much as I am. That's alright with me. I didn't expect to find her today; I'm certain she didn't expect to encounter me ever. Just a few more tests, and maybe we can come to terms. I've been dreaming of this day for years. Ever since I realized that something was missing. I had – have – everything that most men dream of. Money. Power. Prestige. Women.

  So what's missing?

  My therapist says the lack of a strong, female role model in my childhood has cut me to the bone, that I'm damaged. But she can go fuck herself. This goes way beyond that. I turn away from Olivia and move back around my desk, settling into my chair and leaning into the leather. If I act calm, surely my nonchalance will translate? I can't let Olivia or anyone else know how much I'm craving … that. My tastes are unusual for a man in my position. I squeeze my hand into a fist, skin sliding across the leather on top of my desk. I wish I had a nice, neat whisky to help me through this. I feel my muscles tensing up, and I have to push back the urge to scowl.

  “Spare time?” I ask Oli, shoving the words in her face. I put force behind them as I look down my nose at her. “You're certainly delusional if you really believe that. While you're over there piddling around at your desk, I'm working eighty hour weeks.”

  Oli snorts, a very unladylike gesture.

  It's fucking delectable. Imagine, eating caviar all of your life and then biting into a hot dog – a big, fat cheap one. Something greasy, wrapped in paper and served out of a cart. I like the snort, the way she lets her head fall back, the laughter that follows after. It's so unlike anything I've surrounded myself with before. It's not that Olivia's rough or cheap, not in the slightest. It's that she's different.

  “Eighty hour work weeks, huh? That's real rich, Mr. Lyndon. My apologies if I sound skeptical, but what is it exactly that you do around here? You certainly have no idea what it is that I do because if that was the case, you wouldn't have stormed into the lunch room with a tempest raging between your ears.” Olivia gestures wildly with her hands and then rakes her fingers through her hair, letting them trail down the pale skin of her throat. I follow the movement with my eyes, letting my gaze linger … on a high collar and a silver necklace. There's not much of Miss Oli on display. Her outfit is conservative and high-brow. Her black slacks professional and well-fitting. Nothing overly ostentatious or perverse about it.

  She passes another test, and I try not to grin. We're not through here yet. Not by a long shot. Even if she really could do what I'm asking, there's always the chance that she could refuse. The type of woman I'm after would be more likely to spit in my face than say yes. God help me if she did.

  “And you wouldn't be asking me to take on another project if you knew how much work I had piling up on my desk.” Olivia checks her watch in a rather overdramatic gesture. I bite back another grin and wait for her to continue. “So if we're finished with our little chit chat here, I'd like to get back to it.”

  “Didn't you hear me?” I ask her calmly, wrapping my fingers around some of that rage she stirred up in me earlier. It'll be better if I can hate her, if I can keep her at arm's length. The sex will be better that way. “You're fired.” Olivia's pretty face flushes, those full cheeks ripening, staining pink with the anger that turns my cock to steel and causes my stomach muscles to tighten in anticipation. Before she can protest, I hold up a finger. “Unless you're willing to hear me out.” I open up both hands in a placating gesture. It's all for show, of course. Nobody in the Lyndon family gives a shit about anyone else. I'm not here to calm Olivia down. Everything I do is to protect my own interests.

  “You're just begging for a lawsuit, aren't you, Lex?” she asks, emphasizing the use of my first name, like we're buddies. Friends. My scowl comes back, and I rise from my chair. I try not to grit my teeth; it's not good for the crowns.

  “Listen here, Miss … ” I search my brain for her last name again and come up empty. It's not my fault. I didn't have time to research this one. She's worked here for some time, I know, because I've looked at her before. Oli is a gorgeous woman, small but sharp looking, slender, full chested. I think I convinced myself that she was too pretty. Maybe that's my problem? Maybe I've been too judgmental?

  I turn away and look out the window, across the bay and the blanket of fog that suffocates this city like a noose. I resist the urge to lift my hands, like I did when I was a child, press them against the glass and close my eyes. Instead, I glance over my shoulder at Olivia. She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. I smile and turn back towards the window.

  “You'll have dinner with me tonight or you'll start looking for a new job in the morning.”

  I expect laughter, a snide remark, something, anything other than the sound of my office doors slamming shut behind her.

  That arrogant, piece of shit.

  I storm through the front door of my townhouse, kicking off my heels as I go, keeping the straps hooked on my finger as I use my heel to slam the door shut behind me. My panty hose whisper across the carpet as I make for the dining room.

  I almost forgot it was Friday night.

  “You're home early. Everything okay at work?” That's my mom, the psychic. Well, one of them anyway.

  “Friday night. Poker night. Fantastic.” I step up to the table, grab the bottle of Pinot Noir in the center and skip the glass, pouring the liquid straight down my throat. My mothers exchange a nervous glance. Here's the thing with them – they know everything. And I mean everything. I don't know how. Must be instinctual or something. All I know is that lying never got me anywhere with them, so there's no point in hiding my frustration. Instead,
I just vent. “You two have got it right,” I say as I look between their crinkled brows and matching frowns. “Men are such pigs.”

  “Olivia,” Mother begins – this one's June, by the way. “Sexism runs both ways, you know.”

  “Pray tell us then, who the pig is? You can't possibly have been offended by all 3.5 billion men on the planet all at once. Name the asshole for us.” Carol shuffles the cards and looks at me from under a sweep of blonde bangs. She's too pretty for her age. It should be illegal. When we go out in public, she's the one that gets hit on by all the men my age. And the women.

  “Alexander Lyndon.” The words are short and sharp. I promised myself I wouldn't get mad, but every second I spent with that man, my ire grew hotter and more violent. He's so fucking full of himself, it makes me sick. But at the same time, his voice was like a physical force against my mouth. When I was standing there, I could almost imagine what it would be like to kiss him. He has a hard mouth, but I feel like if I applied enough heat, that it might melt. “Ugh.” I turn away and focus hard on the painting above the niche in the wall. Maybe if I stare hard enough, the paint will rearrange itself and spell out some answers on the canvas? In my mind, I'm already adding up the cost of my mortgage payment, my car, my credit cards. I can fight Lex in court (one of my mothers is a lawyer, an environmental lawyer but still). I might even win. But it's still going to cost me.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” Mom asks while I stare at the oil painting of rotten fruit. I bought it at a gallery showing after way too much wine. I figured since I paid for it, I might as well hang it up. It's taken me this long to really admit that I hate it. I'd like to snatch that painting off the wall and smash it in Lex Lyndon's face. But I can't. And I won't. You are in control. Always in control.

  I take a deep breath, straighten out my blouse, and turn around with a faux smile spreading across my lips. Lex will not get the better of me. He's just a bully. A rich, powerful, semi-attractive bully. No crushing on the boss, Olivia, I tell myself with a small stab of disgust. I thought I was resistant to his lure when in reality, he just hadn't ever turned his full attention on me. I felt like a moth fighting against the pull of the sun. Oh, please. Get a hold of yourself. Attractive physical qualities does not a good partner make.

  “It's nothing I can't handle.” I look between my mothers and move over to the sound system, checking on the night's playlist. Six straight hours of jazz music. A small frown tugs at my lips. When I get angry, I like to listen to angry music. Somehow, it makes me feel better, like my problems are small fish in a big sea. Does that make any sense at all? “A simple disagreement with my boss that I see no trouble sorting out in court.” June groans and takes a hefty sip of her wine as I turn back around and ease around the side of the table. It's a tight fit, but that's to be expected in the middle of the city. Everything here is narrow and stacked. My house is just one of four crammed into this little space, sharing walls with my neighbors on either side. I wanted an end unit, but just so you know, the Lyndons don't pay that well.

  “Olivia, is this something we need to worry about?” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I hold up a finger to put a pause on June's question. There's a new email in my inbox. And it's from Lex.

  I will be at Frances on 17th Street at eight tonight to discuss the business proposition I have in mind for you. If you choose not to show, I will take that as a sign that you are no longer interested in working for the company. Please let me know if you'd like me to send a car around for you.

  I tap out a quick response and shove my phone back in my pants pocket. Meet me at the Burger King on Van Ness instead. Otherwise, be prepared to hear from my lawyer in the morning. I smile at the thought of seeing Lex in his dark suit and his blue-green tie standing in the middle of dirty linoleum and orange plastic seats. God, I'd pay to watch him down a greasy burger. Now that would be a sight to see. It might even be worth hearing him out. I don't like to lose, and I certainly won't give into a bully. Lex can show up at the Burger King, but I won't be there. I just think it would be funny if he did. Maybe I'll do a drive by and snap a picture?

  “No worries. I simply have a boss who believes his money and his good looks entitle him to certain privileges like unchallengeable obedience.” I shrug my shoulders and slide into my chair. Carol's green eyes are rife with questions, but June simply sighs and pulls the wine bottle away from me.

  “Are you referring to something of a sexual nature?” she asks, exchanging a look with her partner of thirty years. They have a silent way of communicating that makes me nervous. I can't help but imagine what those raised brows and crooked lips are saying about me. “Did he come at you? Did he touch you inappropriately?” I try not to roll my eyes because really, what else are they supposed to think when I come home raving about the opposite sex?

  “We got into a small disagreement about his poor behavior, and now he's asked me to dinner to discuss some side project he's working on. He's threatening to fire me if I don't show.”

  “Well for God's sake, show. If that's all you have to do.” I open my mouth to protest, to remind her that she climbed to the top of the county library once to prove a point – topless. But June stops with me with a raised finger and another sip of her wine. “If you're going to play the game, you follow the rules. Sometimes, letting go of the smaller battles helps you win the larger ones. Just, put your shit in the right pot, okay?” I wrinkle my nose, but I don't question her metaphor. She'll simply remind me that she's a writer and language is her canvas. June even makes up her own words. Carbo-licious. I don't suppose I should expect anything different from someone who writes a column about sustainable and organic food sources. Bleh. I reach out tentatively for the wine, prepared to put up a sizable argument about the thirty years under my belt and the legal drinking age.

  Neither mother protests.

  I sigh as liquid calm slides down my throat. 2011 Pinot Noir. Red cherry aroma with a hint of baking spices and toasted hazelnut. I pull the glass from my lips and swirl the liquid around, letting it coat the sides as I squint my eyes and try to impress my mothers. They're winos, so a little knowledge goes a long way for gaining approval. Nice distraction technique, too.

  “Ruby red with violet notes. Has a nice, bright entry. Finishes with delicate length.”

  “What does he want you to do?” Carol asks me, leaning forward, pressing her delicate elbows against the black marble tabletop. Her arms are so thin and fragile, it almost looks like they're going to break. If it wasn't for the quiet strength in her chest and the deep set of her eyes, I'd guess her a good decade or two younger than she really is.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, finishing my glass and pouring another. I pull my phone out and check for a response from Lex. Nothing. And nothing from my brother either. Bastard. If he pulls out of poker night again and leaves me with the moms – who cheat, by the way – I'm going to cut his nuts off with Carol's fancy cheese spreader. I pick up the tiny knife and twirl it around in my opposite hand. The other seems somehow permanently attached to the stem of my wineglass. He hasn't told me yet, but it can't be good. Nobody that smiles like a crocodile can have anything good to say. “He didn't exactly divulge all of the unearthly details. Does it matter?” I stab the cheese knife into a block of untouched Brie. The moms like to make cheese and fruit plates, but they hardly ever eat any of it.

  “There's something about him that I like,” Carol says, leaning back and looking up at the vaulted ceilings. Her eyes pierce the second floor and glint, just so, like she's staring up into the heavens. She does that sometimes. I've never been able to figure out why, but she always looks a little calmer when she drops her chin to her chest and smiles. “Besides, he looks like a walking, talking slice of sex candy.”

  “Mom, I'd thank you not to reduce my egotistical, semi-sadistic but overly attractive boss to a box of dark chocolate. Physically, yes, he's nice to look at.” I finish my glass again and try to figure out how long I have to wait before I p
our another. Fuck it, this is my house. I can drink as much as I want. Still, I can't help but take in June's dark-eyed stare as I finish off the bottle. Or maybe she has that disturbed look on her face because she forgets sometimes that Carol is bisexual. It isn't often that my mom checks out guys. This doesn't bode well for my strangely startling attraction to the young Mr. Lyndon. I shiver. Takes a fight with the guy and a few well placed misogynistic comments, and I'm suddenly drooling over him? Huh. Maybe I need to get my head checked out? “When you get a look at those eyes though, ugh. Gray as a grave. And his lips? They might be nice if he smiled, really smiled, not that smug, arrogant sort of grimace thing.” I wave the cheese knife around and accidentally flick a bit of Brie against the sage colored walls. With a sigh I stand up and use a dark purple napkin to wipe it up. “But I have too much work already at the office. And if he thinks he can fire me over what is essentially a ridiculously overblown misunderstanding, he has another thing coming.” I toss the napkin back down on the table at the same moment the doorbell rings. For a split second there, I think it's Lex Lyndon, and my body starts to tingle. My lips part and my heart races.

  “Oli? Mum?” Mum is my brother's generic term for either of our mothers.

  “It's just Craig,” I say, and I don't miss Carol's delicate smirk.

  “Just Craig?”

  I don't respond to that question.

  Four hours and God only knows how many bottles of cheap wine later (all consumed by yours truly, of course), I'm sitting alone at the table with an empty cheese plate and a stack of cards.

  “Dark red, good density.” I squint at my last sip of wine and watch the world around me blur into faded colors and the sound of muted traffic. Even late at night, the party doesn't stop, not around here anyway. Briefly, I wonder if Lex ever showed up at the Burger King on Van Ness. If he did, maybe he took a bite of that humble pie I left him and got a grip on reality. I could probably even go to his father and let him know the situation. Even if the younger Lyndon doesn't realize my importance in the company, I'm certain his dad does. He's the one that hired me anyway. “Smells like … black olives and blackberry jam. Tastes like an oak tree.” I giggle. Not really my style. I'm not normally a giggler. I put a hand to my mouth and laugh softly, polite but sophisticated. “Yep, that's more me.” I giggle some more and end up spilling the Cabernet all over my work shirt. “Well, crap,” I shout, lifting the glass up angrily and emptying the rest of my drink down my back and onto the ivory cushions of my dining chair. “Damn it!”