by Sienna Blake
I took another angry swig. Who did she even think I was thinking of? Abbi? I scoffed. Hell no. Fuck no. She hadn't even crossed my mind. Not that afternoon, not that morning, not the whole goddamn night before. She was the farthest thing from my mind. The farthest.
I drank and drank and kept drinking. I didn't want to see Abbi. I didn't. I—
With a shout of frustration, I wrenched the telecom system from the centre of the conference table and dialled HR.
"This is Patty."
"Becky, bring back the old chick."
"Ms Miller?"
"I don't know what her name is," I lied. "Bring her back. I don't have time to waste finding someone else."
"Yes, sir."
I glared at the black telecom system. "That's the only reason, Becky," I said, slurring slightly. "The only reason I'm letting her back is because I'm not going to waste more time finding someone else."
"Yes, sir. I'll make the call, Mr O'Sullivan."
I hung up and spent the rest of the afternoon sulking and muttering under my breath in my office. I didn't understand how easily Abbi got under my skin. Fuck, she irritated me. I hated most of all that I lost all self-control when she was in my mind. I missed calls, ducked out on meetings, avoided emails, all because she wouldn't leave me alone.
I slammed my office door shut so I could leave hours earlier than usual. I was storming down the hallway toward the lobby when Harry called me from his office.
"On my way out," I shouted back at him.
"Michael, about the personal assistant," he said.
I waved my hand back at him. "All solved," I said. "The old girl's coming back."
Harry stuck his head out of his office. "Michael, that's the thing."
This made me pause. I looked at Harry over my shoulder. "What's the thing?"
"Well, she said, 'No.'"
I whirled on Harry, who retreated back to the protection of his desk as I barrelled into his office. "She said what?"
"I'm sorry, Michael. Ms Miller won't be coming back. She said, 'No.'"
"She said no?" I asked, incredulous.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting pens and legal pads and picture frames on his desk in an attempt to hide his discomfort.
"Harry?" I pressed.
"Well, those weren't her exact words, apparently," he said, still not meeting my eyes.
I crossed my arms over my chest, fingers tapping impatiently and irritably against my sleeve.
"And her exact words were what, exactly?" I asked.
Harry cleared his throat and mumbled something incomprehensible as his cheeks flared bright red. I leaned forward slightly.
"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."
Harry adjusted the frames of his glasses and reached for a glass of water as his blush deepened. After a sip, he looked up at me. I threw my hands up in frustration.
"What?"
"She said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.'"
A devilish grin tugged at the corners of my lips. "Did she now?"
Abbi
Mr Pinkman was a disgusting man.
Shaking his hand felt like slipping your fingers between two McDonald’s burger patties that had been left on a park bench for a sunny afternoon. His breath smelled a mound of garbage, made only slightly better by the Tic Tacs he consumed like candy, which smelled like those cheap car air fresheners shaped like trees. His shirt bulged and puckered from the protrusion of his stomach, leaving a fun little peek-a-boo hole of pasty white skin that draped over his belt buckle.
But hey, looks aren't everything, right? Maybe Mr Pinkman donated a large share of his income to deserving charities. Or maybe he tutored underprivileged children in after-school literacy programs. Or maybe he volunteered at local nursing homes, kindly giving his time to men and women who longed for just an hour or two of nice company.
Or maybe he was a sleazy life insurance salesman who overcharged and never paid out despite the dozens of lawsuits against him.
Like I said, Mr Pinkman was a disgusting man. And I'd just agreed to be his personal assistant.
I hesitated at the door to his office, which was a small rental in a strip mall between a Vietnamese Pho place and a cash advance place. I tugged up the top of my shirt, even though it was a thick turtleneck and physically couldn't get much higher unless I wanted to cover my face. I grimaced as I saw Mr Pinkman coming toward me, his hulking frame lumbering from side to side. I kind of wanted to cover my face.
The door swung open and Mr Pinkman gestured me inside, despite leaving only enough space for me to slip past sideways. I supposed it was the modern gentlemanly thing to leave the lady the choice: to rub her ass or to rub her tits. Was that Shakespeare?
"Morning, Mr Pinkman," I said, placing my hand on the door and nodding toward the interior of the office. "Please, after you."
"A gentleman always lets a lady go first," he said, sweat beading across his pink forehead despite the blasting A/C.
"And they say chivalry isn't dead," I mumbled as I went with ass, mostly so that I wouldn't have to see his face as I squished myself through.
The office was old, dated and crammed full of disorganised filing cabinets and shelves, perhaps to make it harder when the IRS came to audit the asshole.
"Is that my desk?" I asked.
There were two desks in the whole place: one made of wood with a panel in the front and one made of glass without a panel in the front. It was really silly of me to even ask; I already knew.
"This is you here, hun," Mr Pinkman said, slapping a hand down on the essentially see-through desk.
I made a mental note to not wear any skirts above the knee. Scratch that, I thought. I wouldn't wear any skirt at all. I'd go out and buy the most unflattering, loose-fitting black slacks I could find. And even then I'd feel exposed.
I nearly yelped when I tried out the desk chair, only for it to shrink down half a foot. I leaned forward to find the lever and as I did so, I noticed Mr Pinkman's eyes hungrily sneaking a glance at my chest, despite my attempts to hide it beneath my turtleneck.
"Let me take a wild guess," I said, leaning back away from his predatory eyes, "the chair is broken?"
Mr Pinkman laughed, and even his laugh somehow sounded greasy. "Now how'd you know, doll?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Lucky guess."
After that Mr Pinkman gave me the “grand tour”. I made sure to double-check that the lock for the single stall bathroom at the back worked. I was so surprised when it did that I grew suspicious. I paused and searched for any hidden cameras and even squinted at the mirror, wondering how you could tell if it was a two-way mirror.
"So what happened to your last personal assistant?" I asked as we moved on to the kitchen.
Mr Pinkman waved his hand, which looked more like he was selling five very undercooked sausages.
"She just couldn't take a joke," he explained. "You know those sensitive types."
"But she is alive?" I asked.
"What's that?"
"So this is the kitchen then?"
Mr Pinkman explained that his favourite barbeque place was thirty-five minutes across town, and by the time I got back with it each day, it would be a little cold so I'd need to reheat it. It was with a sort of morbid curiosity that I pushed the button to open the microwave. It was a horror show of what looked like rusted blood but was probably just smeared barbeque sauce. Probably…
"I get a full rack each day, which doesn't quite fit," Mr Pinkman explained, "so you just kind of have to shove it in."
I grimaced.
"No problem," I said with a shiver.
There wasn't much more to show me around the office after that. My main responsibilities seemed to consist of feeding Mr Pinkman's appetite, both physically and sexually. It was perhaps the most demeaning, belittling, unstimulating (for me) job I'd ever held. But as I settled into my desk and pulled out the framed picture of Zara, I remembe
red why I was doing this.
Mr Pinkman didn't pay enough to cover all my bills, but with a couple nights at the convenience store and maybe a weekend or two a month, I'd make it. That was all that mattered. I was doing what I had to for my daughter.
As I googled how to fix a broken desk chair, I consoled myself with the fact that at least I wasn't working for Michael Fucking O'Sullivan. I shook my head, remembering the call I received from Patty yesterday.
"He what?" I had said, choking on my coffee.
Patty had laughed. "Just remember I'm just the messenger here, Abbi. But, yeah, he said he wants you back."
I had pounded at my chest till I could breathe again. "Well, you know my answer, don't you?"
I had heard Patty sigh. "I suspect I do."
I had felt bad for Patty, who must have been dealing with Michael all day, but there was no way I was going back.
"Sorry, Patty, but no."
Before Patty could say anything, I spoke again. "No, not 'no'. Fuck no."
"Fuck no?" Patty had asked. "Is that your official response?"
I considered it before shaking my head. "No, no," I said, "tell him I said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.'"
Sure, Mr Pinkman was a pig and a piece of shit all rolled up into one, but at least he left me alone when I ended work at five sharp. He didn't follow me around in my head the rest of the day. He most certainly didn’t chase me into my dreams and awaken me with his name on my lips.
This new job sucked, there was no doubt about it. I'd have to force myself to come into work every day. I'd have to practically glue myself to my chair to keep myself from walking out each and every hour.
But I wouldn't be working for Michael.
In fact, I wouldn't even be seeing him.
He was out of my life. Once and for all.
And I was happy about that.
I was.
Michael would go his way and I would go mine. And that was that.
Except it wasn't.
Because just as I was declaring myself free for good of Michael O'Sullivan, Michael O'Sullivan came crashing through the office door, shoving it open so hard that it rattled on its hinges and the glass quivered. His sharp green eyes found mine, and he grinned so wickedly that I got goosebumps all along my spine.
"Hello there, Abbi," he said. "Maybe you didn't know this about me, but I'm not great with no's."
Abbi
I clutched the edges of my glass desk and glared up at Michael, who loomed above me.
"I think you've been misinformed," I said through gritted teeth. "I didn't say, 'No.' I said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than—"
"Yes, yes," Michael said, dismissing me with an irritated wave of his hand. "'Than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.' Vivid."
"Apparently not vivid enough."
Just then Mr Pinkman came over and extended his greasy sausage fingers toward Michael. "Hello, sir, are you interested in some life insurance?"
Michael warily eyed Mr Pinkman's hand and clearly did not dare to touch it. "No," he said. "But I am very interested in your little personal assistant here."
Michael's eyes slid toward me, the motion as smooth and dangerous as a rattlesnake across hot sands.
"Ms Miller," he said, "I'm going to need you to leave this shitehole—"
"Hey!" Mr Pinkman protested. "Excuse me, sir, but this is a fine establishment and I won't have its name smeared through the mud by no foreigner."
Michael's eyes darted toward Mr Pinkman in disgust. Then he focused back on me, moving closer and leaning over to plant his palms on my desk, sharp green eyes flashing.
"Abbi, I'm going to need you to leave this dirt-infested, grease-stained, lard-reeking, piss-coloured shitehole and come back to work for me."
Michael finished this off, like a cherry atop a cyanide sundae, with a charming, beaming smile.
Mr Pinkman sputtered and stomped his foot, sending ripples through his pork belly. "She's…but she's…" Mr Pinkman tripped over his words.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I glared up at Michael. "She is not going anywhere."
I turned in my chair to face my computer and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Firstly, to indicate to Michael that this discussion was over and secondly, because I thought it might help to steady the tremors that shot through them. I tried to focus on something—anything—on the screen, but Michael was a constant distraction—his cologne, his long fingers spread across the desk, the presence of his eyes like the flash of a wolf’s on a dark mountain path.
"Ms Miller, I'd very much like you to reconsider," Michael said, leaning even closer as I forced my fingers to type something. Anything.
I resisted the magnetic pull of his eyes and kept my eyes glued to the screen.
"And I'd very much like you to leave," I replied. "I have work to do."
"You don't want to do this kind of work. I know you."
A flare of anger burst through my self-control and I turned to face Michael.
"You do not know me," I hissed. Then after a moment, looking him up and down, I added, "And I most certainly do not know you."
I was surprised that this almost seemed to sting Michael, as if I'd let loose an errant arrow and somehow found the one weak spot in the belly of the dragon.
Michael quickly gathered himself together, stood to his full height, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat as he adjusted the knot of his silk tie. I returned to my work but couldn't stop myself from glancing at what he was doing out of the corner of my eye.
I scoffed when he pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
"Really?" I laughed. "You're really going to try to buy me off?"
Michael remained silent as he slowly and methodically pulled hundred after hundred out of the billfold of his wallet. Mr Pinkman watched with growing curiosity, licking his lips like the crisp bills were crisp slices of bacon. I rolled my eyes as the hundreds kept coming, one after the other.
"There is no amount that you could pay me that would make me come back and work for you," I said. "You're wasting your time."
Michael hesitated, glanced at the small stack in his hands, and then licked his thumb before pulling out even more. It had to be several thousand. And Michael just kept going.
"I'm not taking that," I said as Michael finally finished and still without a word, tucked his wallet back into the pocket of his expensive slacks. "Michael, I am not taking that."
"I'm not giving it to you," he said, not even bothering to look in my direction.
I had just enough time to frown at him in confusion before Michael turned to face Mr Pinkman, spread out the bills alluringly, and waved them in front of his face as if ringing a dinner bell.
"Fire her," he said, as if commanding a dog to sit in order to receive his treat.
"Excuse me?" I blurted out, absolutely incredulous of Michael's nerve. "Mr Pinkman just hired me, there is no way in hell that he is—"
My sentence cut off abruptly when my boss suddenly reached out and snatched the money from Michael's hand. He turned to me and said, "You're fired," before scurrying off to his desk like a rat racing toward his dark, dank hole in the wall.
My chair fell behind me as I shoved myself to my feet and slammed my hands on the desk.
"You can't do that," I protested. "That's illegal."
Michael slipped his hands nonchalantly into his pockets as he turned toward me.
"That's illegal," I repeated, seeing red around the edges of my vision as my fingers tightened into fists.
"Oh, very," Michael said, nodding casually, his voice lacking any trace of emotion. "It's practically the definition of illegal."
I opened my mouth to argue before his words sank in along with the surprising realisation that he was agreeing with me. Michael sat calmly on the edge of my desk and crossed his leg, speaking as he inspected his cuticles.
"You could definitely go
hire a lawyer, pay the retainer, pay the fees, spend your time and effort. You most certainly have a very strong case," he said, frowning at a hangnail before continuing as I stood in stunned silence. "But the thing is you don't get to be perhaps the best corporate attorney in the world without learning how crippling a pile of paperwork can be."
I started to sink slowly back into my desk chair.
"I, and the multi-national, multi-billion-dollar law firm behind me, will file so much paperwork to delay your case that you'll blow through your life savings in a week."
My shoulders slumped as I realised he had me beat. This Michael really was different; he was ruthless, he was uncaring, he was wicked. Michael glanced back at me over his shoulder.
"So you could go down that path of crippling debt and creditors chasing after you all hours of the day, or you could come back and work for me," he said as if we were in a boardroom and we were negotiating. "Come back and work for me for double whatever your salary was."
I wished my eyes hadn't widened in surprise the way they did when Michael added this last little juicy caveat. But I wished most of all that he hadn't seen it. I didn't want him to know that I was strapped for cash. I didn't want him to know that he had that power over me. I didn't want him to know that I was the mouse in the cat's flashing claws and there was no escape now.
I looked across the messy office toward Mr Pinkman, who was counting his newly acquired cash, spreading it across his desk, bill by bill, as if he planned on stripping naked and rolling around in it. As far as he was concerned, I no longer existed; he'd find the next mildly attractive, financially struggling woman to prey on without much trouble. There was no job here. If I refused Michael's offer it was back to the laggy old computer, the dozens of unanswered job applications, the growing stack of overdue bills.
I was being asked to make a deal with the devil.
Everyone knew that it was never worth it. It was always a trap. I should have run from those crossroads and taken my own luck with finding a new job within the next week or so before the eviction notices started coming. It wasn't going to end up well, shaking hands with Michael O'Sullivan.
