Pretty Little Mess

by Rhodes, Carmel

I have a death wish. I must. It’s the only explanation for what I do next. Casting Dexter a sideways glance, I stomp my way into Max’s inner sanctum and slam the door shut behind me. He can’t ignore me all week then pronounce who I can and cannot share a meal with.

  “You can’t fire me for having lunch,” I grit.

  “I can fire you for fucking a peer on the clock.” He spits the words out like bullets, and they find their intended target. I step back, wounded that he’d think so little of me.

  “I know better,” I whisper, walking backward until my ass hits the frosted glass door. Max uncaps a bottle of water and takes a long pull. I try not to notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and I definitely ignore the urge to lick the sweat rolling down his neck. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I would never cross that line.”

  His gaze darkens, rage and something that feels a lot like lust simmers behind his blues, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “Stay away from Wiener.”

  “He’s harmless,” I argue. I don’t understand why this is even an issue. Max shouldn’t care how I spend my lunch hour. Hell, he barely cares about how I spend the eight hours I’m supposed to be working.

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Piss Girl. If you want to have a Saved by the Bell moment, you do it on your own time. Got it.”

  I resist the urge to correct his reference. Screech and Lisa were never a thing, but I somehow doubt it would matter. “Got it,” I say instead and slink back to my desk.

  In the weeks since entering the business world, there are three things I’ve come to realize:

  One:

  Something big happened on the thirtieth floor. I’m talking, a two-hour meeting on workplace relationships and sexual harassment, big. Megan is still tight-lipped about the whole thing, but mostly I think it’s because she doesn’t know the details, only that there was a complaint and that it was handled quietly.

  Two:

  I’m pretty sure Mr. Anderson hates my guts, which is baffling because according to Dexter, I’m doing great, but every morning, like clockwork, the beautiful bastard storms past my desk without so much as a hello. Not that I expect manners from someone like Max. Wealthy men like him and Mr. Thomas have what Erin likes to call big dick energy. They walk around like they own the place because they do own it. The rest of us are left to fall in line or get tossed aside. This world of money and power is a dark one, one I’m not optimistic I’ll survive, but rent is still due on the first, and slinging drinks at Woody’s ain’t cutting it anymore.

  Three:

  Considering items one and two probably qualify me for some sort of intensive mental health examination, I might have a little tiny crush on my boss. I know it sounds crazy, but Preston Maxwell Anderson III does things to an Armani suit that would leave even Giorgio Armani himself panting.

  In a nutshell, I’m doomed. But at least there’s free coffee.

  “Thank you.” I smile at Doris and set my latté, Dexter’s Earl Gray, and Mr. Anderson’s coffee—black with one sugar—into a drink holder.

  A bowl of shiny Red Delicious apples sits on the counter. “You know you want one,” Doris sings. I haven’t decided if Doris loves me or if she loves watching me eat, but either way, I snag two and drop them in my bag. Apples work on teachers, which means they might also work on wealthy jerks with god complexes, right?

  I stare at the elevator, debating on whether or not I want to ride it up the remaining floors. I got stuck on it again Wednesday, and though the second time was a lot less eventful than the first, I still don’t trust the rusty bitch. I’m wearing flats—a new wardrobe staple—so the five flights of stairs wouldn’t be awful, but I’m a klutz. If I spill Mr. Anderson’s coffee, he would probably murder me and I’d bleed all over his fancy suit.

  The doors slide open as I debate the pros and cons. An older man—George Clooney old, not Morgan Freeman old—stands there, smiling at me with a pair of shocking blues and a thick head of gray hair. I return his grin and step inside the otherwise empty car.

  “You’re Max’s new assistant,” he says. His voice is soft, but deceptively so, like the Sea Witch before she got Ariel to sign her life away. Not that I blame her; Ariel was an ungrateful twat and Ursula was a woman with a plan. Hell, a plan is more than I’ve got. Maybe I should be more like Ursula?

  I shuffle the drink tray to my left hand and extend my right to Graham Sullivan, Winston’s dad and acting CEO of Anderson Capital. “Yes, sir, Ellie Chase.” Although Max treats me like I’m invisible, I hear stuff. He wants a promotion, his father apparently won’t give him one, but this man may have some influence on that.

  “Ellie. A lovely name for a lovely girl.” His eyes slide down my body, not in a salacious way, more calculating, like he’s trying to decide if I’d be useful to him. I’ve learned since joining the Anderson Capital family that the higher the elevator climbs, the more manipulative the people get. They’re all predators and to everyone else, I am the prey. The obvious fish out of water, with my big eyes and toothy grin. They underestimate me. I’ve spent the last four years trying to break into the fashion industry. You haven’t seen cutthroat until you do a three-month UNPAID internship for one of the oldest fashion houses in the States.

  “Graham Sullivan. I work upstairs.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.”

  He drops my hand. “The pleasure is all mine, and please, call me Graham.” The elevator continues its ascent and I try to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. Lucky for me, Graham fills it for both of us.

  “I hope Max isn’t giving you too much of a hard time.” He adjusts his cuff links as he says it, a practiced move, though I’m not sure what it means.

  I frown, then mentally kick myself for the slip. “He’s great,” I lie.

  “He’s an ass.” My jaw drops and I’m unsure how to proceed. Graham chuckles and dips his hands into his pockets. “It’s okay, it will be our little secret. Max is one of the smartest people I know. He and Jalen are destined for greatness, but their arrogance…” He shakes his head and it’s his turn to frown.

  I don’t know why I feel so comfortable around Graham, maybe because—despite my asshole boss’s warning—Winston and I have had lunch together every day. He can’t fire me for eating at the same table as my co-worker. Hell, it’s in the damn handbook.

  Employees are encouraged to socialize and develop professional relationships in the workplace, provided that these relationships do not interfere with the work performance of either individual or with the effective functioning of the workplace.

  “Asses for sure.” I nod.

  We both dissolve into a fit of laughter as the doors slide open. “If you need anything, or if he gives you a hard time, I’m right upstairs,” he says pointing toward the sky.

  “Yes, sir.” I flash him a genuine smile as I exit the elevator and walk right into the massive wall that is Mr. Anderson. Hellfire shoots from his pupils and for a change, it isn’t directed at me.

  “Piss Girl,” he barks and I jump three inches high. Dexter’s tea spills out of the little sippy hole and burns the shit out of my hands, but I don’t dare drop it. “My office. NOW.” His jaw is covered with the slightest hint of a five-o’clock shadow and his eyes are red-rimmed. Telltale signs of a late night or an early morning or maybe both.

  I’m frozen, partly pissed off, and partly terrified. Weeks of radio silence and now this? The part of me who grew up on a military base in Oakland, California, wants to tell him to kiss every inch of my ass, but the part of me that likes to eat and pay bills screams for that bitch to shut the fuck up and sprint down the hall to his office.

  “Give the girl a break, Maxwell. You’ve got more important things to do than berate your PA. Isn’t your meeting with Vann Attar this morning?” Graham asks, standing between the elevator doors.

  My ears perk up, my terror temporarily forgotten. Vann Attar is the biggest name in fashion right now. I had been trying to get a meet
ing with him for the better part of last year. Before I can shove the words back down my throat, I turn to Max, eyes wide. “You’re meeting Vann Attar?”

  His nostrils flare. “NOW, Miss Chase.”

  Right! I’m in trouble, for…something. “Yes, sir,” I yelp and run to do as I’m told. Bitch Lynn, the blonde receptionist, who rumor has it used to blow Max in the copy room, sneers as I pass. I want to flip her off but am comforted in the knowledge that they’re relationship is now officially against company policy.

  I drop Dexter’s tea off at his desk and shake off his questioning glance as I make my way inside Max’s office to wait. The view is beautiful this time of morning, but I don’t have a chance to appreciate it because the door slams behind me and Max thunders in my direction. I stand with my back against the window and hold his coffee in front of me. He snatches it and sets it down on the desk, then looms over me like a giant. His hands find his waist, and he just…stares. Our bodies are so close, I can feel the heat radiating off him. So close I can smell his cologne, a woodsy musk that makes my mouth water.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin, though I’m not quite sure what I’m apologizing for.

  “I told you to stay away from Sullivan—”

  “You said Winston.”

  “All Sullivans,” he snaps. “I don’t trust him or his son and I don’t want you talking to them.”

  I look up at him puzzled and make a mental note to Super Panda this conversation with Erin later. “He introduced himself. We were just making elevator small talk.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He welcomed me to the staff.” Which is more than I can say for you.

  “What else?” he grits leaning further into my personal space. “Why were you laughing?”

  “He told a joke then said if I needed anything don’t hesitate. I’m sure he gives all the new hires the same pep talk.”

  His blue eyes turn black, and his voice turns cold. “If you need anything You. Ask. Me.”

  “You barely even acknowledge my presence. How am I supposed to ask for anything?” I say, then involuntarily lift my chin. This backbone of mine will get me fired one day.

  “You belong to me.”

  I swallow at the possessiveness of his tone. This is the most he’s spoken to me since the day in the elevator. “I’m sorry,” I say again. My fingers itch to touch him. The anger radiating from him is palpable. But I resist. Touching is inappropriate, especially touching someone you have a crush on. Especially if that someone is your boss. “Anything else, sir?”

  His eyes drop to my lips, which are trembling in fear. The tension is too much. The anger, the possession, all of it makes my thighs shake and my panties damp. I definitely need a mental evaluation. “No. I have a meeting, which I’m this close to running late for thanks to you.” He holds his thumb and index finger an inch away from my lips.

  “You didn’t have to come back and yell at me for riding in an elevator with your boss,” I say, then press my lips closed.

  Max’s eyes narrow into teeny tiny little slits. “Watch yourself.”

  “Sorry,” I chirp for what feels like the millionth time. He lingers for a moment but doesn’t say anything else. He just stares at my feet. Sensible flats. Kill me. “Are you really meeting Vann Attar?” I say to fill the silence and satiate my curiosity.

  “Yes.”

  I temporarily forget that my boss is the biggest douche on the East Coast and shoot my shot. “Can I come?”

  He doesn’t even think twice before he shoots me down. “No.”

  “Please. Pretty, pretty please? I love him!” I squeal, unable to contain my excitement. I know I’m supposed to be in trouble for consorting with the enemy, but it’s Vann freaking Attar. My fingers find the lapels of his suit jacket and I pull him down and shake. Not my smartest move, BUT IT’S VANN FREAKING ATTAR. “I am in love with him,” I repeat for emphasis. “He’s like my fashion fairy godfather. Can I meet him? I can go with you and take notes. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  The corner of Max’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile but thinks better of it. Prying my hands from what is likely a very expensive jacket, he straightens and leans in, our foreheads kiss for the briefest of moments and I swear I’m looking into the eyes of the devil himself. “No,” he says slowly then turns and walks out the door.

  I’m ashamed to admit that I stare at his ass as he leaves.

  Graham Sullivan is the decaf coffee of people. A useless pretender who serves no purpose other than pissing me the fuck off. He welcomed me to the staff, yeah right. He doesn’t welcome newbies into the Anderson Capital fold. He’s a predator, not unlike my philandering father. The only difference is while my dad’s main sustenance is pussy, Graham craves information.

  I could see it in the way he looked at her, like she was his pawn in a war, one my father was too stupid to realize is being waged. I couldn’t trust her, and I damn sure didn’t trust myself around her. If power is king, then knowledge is God. Too bad there’s only room for one deity in my company.

  A black town car idles out front. I unbutton my Tom Ford suit jacket and slide onto the plush leather, slamming the door behind me.

  “What took you so long?” Jalen asks as the driver pulls into traffic.

  “I had to take care of something,” I grit. I can feel the motherfucker’s eyes on me, but I stare straight ahead. The car moves at a crawling pace, but at least we’re moving. I need to put as much space between me and Piss Girl as possible. My jaw ticks as I remember the way her goddamn lip quivered and her hazelnut cheeks flushed a cute shade of peach. The way she smelled of coconuts. The way I could see down her blouse, down to her lace bra and the soft swell of her breasts. The way her body sung for me, like me yelling at her was the biggest fucking turn-on of the century.

  “Does all this angst have something to do with the pretty little PA with the banging body?”

  I turn my head in Jay’s direction and the smug bastard grins at me. My fist clenches. Breaking my best friend’s nose before we walk into potentially the biggest meeting of our career would be an example of poor decision making. It would also prove my father right, so I’ll let the fucker keep his perfectly straight nose—for now.

  “I’ll tell Dexter you think so. I’m sure he’d be flattered,” I say coolly. Jalen is quiet for a minute. His eyes, the same shade of brown as his skin, bore into mine. I wait for sarcasm, but he surprises me by throwing his head back and barking out a belly laugh. “What?”

  “You like her.”

  “How long have you known me?” I ask.

  A cyclist zips between our car and a string of yellow cabs and the NASDAQ drops a half a point before he’s composed enough to answer. “Thirty years.”

  “And in that time, have I ever liked anyone, ever?”

  “Aside from Ms. Park in sixth grade?”

  “Aside from Ms. Park.” My voice is as dry as the Sahara as I pick an imaginary piece of lint from my knee.

  “No.”

  “Then why the fuck would I break a thirty-year streak for Piss Girl?” I scratch my brow and slip my phone out of my pocket to check some emails. End of conversation.

  “You are so screwed.” He laughs again.

  “Just drop it.” Screwed wasn’t the word for what I was. I was capital F-Fucked. I didn’t know if I wanted her more because it was forbidden or if it was because both Asshole Junior and Senior seem to have taken an interest in my new assistant. Either way, I need to rid myself of my Ellie problem before I do something stupid, like fuck her over my desk, effectively handing the keys to my kingdom over to Graham for good.

  “At first, I thought you were hiding from her like a little bitch because of the new rule, which is bullshit by the way, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, she is gorgeous, and that ass…” Jalen rubs his chin, apparently not getting the memo that we are done talking about the pair of potentially career ruining tits attached to Ellie Chase’s little body.

  My dick
twitches and I stare into my lap, No, not gonna happen. Get over it.

  “Not sure about what?” I ask, returning my attention to Jalen.

  “I think you’re being extra dickish because she makes your cold, dead heart go pitter patter.”

  I lift my middle finger. Quite the contrary, my heart isn’t cold, or dead—it’s focused. “She’s a new shiny toy and I want to play with her, but I can’t because my father played too roughly with one of his toys and now we’re all in time-out.”

  “One.” Jay lifts his middle finger in return. “That’s a fucking weird analogy, and two”—he adds his other middle finger—“allegedly.”

  “The allegation is enough to force him out of his own company.” Do I think my father raped a girl in his office? No. Am I pissed he cheated on my mother…again? Abso-fucking-lutely. He can burn in hell for all I care. If he wants to trust Graham over his own son, that’s fine, but the thing that keeps me up at night is not my father’s indiscretion, it’s the fact that I can’t help the feeling that I’m next.

  All the more reason why I can’t allow myself to be distracted by Piss Girl. The problem is, I can’t exactly fire her. Dexter is leaving in less than a week for an entire month, and if this Attar thing goes according to plan, I won’t have time to hire and train another new assistant. Plus, despite her boobs, fashion degree, and the fact that all the blood in my body rushes straight to my dick whenever we’re in the same room, she’s actually a good assistant. Not that I would ever tell her that.

  “He’s not being forced out. He’s still majority stockholder. He just isn’t making the day-to-day decisions anymore, which considering your mom…” Jalen clears the emotion from his throat. We grew up together. If we weren’t harassing his parents, we were harassing mine. His mother is my mother and vice versa. Her condition is just as hard for him as it is for me. “It’s probably for the best. Let this blow over, then he can come back and do whatever it is that he does up on thirty.”

  “There is no coming back, which is fine by me, but the bastard left Graham in charge, and after our little chat in his office, I doubt I’ll be moving up anytime this millennium.”