How to Deal

by Shey Stahl

  This is where my nicely shaded creamy complexion turns a color similar to puce. A color that clashes with every item of clothing I’m wearing. It’s like a neon sign pointing in my direction letting everyone know, “Hey, I just made a complete ass of myself and am secretly crushing on my boss!”

  “I hate you,” I whisper to Zane when I immediately sit back down, trying to calm every nerve in my body down after meeting Mr. Hottie McHot Madsen.

  That certainly didn’t go anything like I planned, or hoped.

  As Zane walks away, the worst part of my job peeks his head from behind his computer.

  Mr. Madsen might have had the makings to be a great boss, but when he departs behind the closed door of his office, I’m reminded of who shares that man’s DNA.

  “Are you blushing?”

  I refuse to make eye contact and refuse to answer Tathan, Paul’s son. And here I thought making coffee for the office was the most annoying part of my job. Wrong. Tathan is.

  “Hmmm,” he says as though he’s considering something. I can see the grin even though my vision is intently focused on my computer screen.

  It’s the very reason why I despise my job lately, the part that makes me sure I just might end up in the insane asylum.

  Tathan McSlut Madsen. McSlut is clearly not his middle name, but it should be.

  I’ll save you the trouble of getting to know him. Just listen. He’s the biggest motherfucking slut alive, and he sits right in front of me. My computer faces Tathan’s.

  It sucks. No really, it’s absolutely awful. There’s nothing worse than having to stare at the person you despise for eight hours a day. It’s the worst kind of punishment.

  Moments after our small interaction where he teases me, and I ignore him, he’s back to sweet talking the receptionist. I’ve named this one Sweet Cheeks because she’s obsessively sucking on a lollipop, which I’m sure is causing Tathan to squirm.

  I name all the girls pining after him with names indicative of their behaviors and looks because I apparently have nothing better to do with my time. Sure, he’s hot—that’s a lie—he’s fucking delicious. But I’m not going there. I refuse to go there.

  I’m at a self-induced standstill with my love life, and because of that, I won’t allow myself to contemplate a relationship with Tathan or anyone, because I have more dignity than these girls who basically throw themselves at him.

  My focus turns back to Tathan when I hear his laughter. It draws me in every damn time. As much as I don’t like him, everything he does and says lures me in.

  At the fading sound of his laughter floating through the office, Sweet Cheeks staggers off with weak knees to the rest of his Crush Brigade to discuss in-depth how good he is in bed. I listen to every word, who wouldn’t? I’m bizarrely drawn to this because really, I sit in a goddamn cubicle all day and have no life outside of this office, so this is my entertainment.

  Silently, I live vicariously through Sweet Cheeks, but I know I’ll never be that type of girl—life or no life. I’d rather be alone than be the next step in the revolving door that’s Tathan Madsen.

  Trying to ignore him, I’m working—that’s a lie—I’m looking on Urban Dictionary for new slang terms to call Tathan. No new words have posted since yesterday, so I stick with manwhore; it’s original and suits him just fine.

  Paul emerges from his office an hour later and hands me a set of floor plans that need to be delivered to the fourth floor. Why he can’t take them and his Armani suit up there himself is beyond me, but I do it anyway because he smiles at me and, well, it’s actually my job to do these things.

  It’s sad. I feel like a slave who will never be free from the ties that bind me to this place and this job. And when I think about it, everyone usually has someone they answer to, even when you own the company, you answer to your clients. We’re all slaves in some way or another.

  Swinging around in my chair, I stand and reach for the plans tucking them under my arm. On my way out the door, I accidentally drop them near Tathan’s desk. It seems as though he has some kind of magnetic pull on me. He manipulates the laws of gravity and I drop shit when I’m near him.

  Refusing to look at him, I attempt to bend over without showing any cleavage but in a pencil skirt, it’s nearly impossible to bend and pick something off the floor. With great effort, I succeed only to have Tathan clear his throat.

  My eyes snap to his like a laser beam.

  Go ahead, say something, asshole.

  “Hey, Amalie, while you’re down there can—” Tathan begins but is cut off when I take the plans and knock him upside the head with them, quickly shutting him down.

  “Fuck off!” I whisper, straightening my posture and smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse.

  This is our relationship. He provokes me. I react. Usually with violence.

  On my way to the elevators, I pass by Tathan’s harem of women. I hear fragments of their encounters with him, and I’m curious. Not because they now all have Chlamydia, but because I haven’t been laid in a really long time and the juicy details they give about said manwhore are pretty hot.

  To be exact, I haven’t had any in six months, and for good sex, it’s longer than that. Sex-deprived, I live for these details. The last time I had good sex was about eight months ago, and the details are fading fast. Sadly. One Halloween party, a bottle of gin, and a cat woman costume will do that to you.

  On another note, going without sex for this long can do some alarming things to you. For me, I say some fairly inappropriate things at times and confuse words. When they say her mind’s always in the gutter, it’s a true statement for me.

  Take yesterday for example. I asked Tathan for a box of paperclips, but instead, I asked him for a box of paper cocks.

  Tathan’s immediate mouth drop, then grin had me fumbling to correct my obvious faux pas.

  Not exactly my finest moment there.

  Much to my surprise, he laughed at me and began unbuttoning his pants, prepared to give me a full-blown cock, not the paper kind apparently.

  I’m losing my mind. Honest to God, losing my fucking mind with Tathan around me.

  Every time I look at him, I picture him naked and more importantly, me naked with him. I can’t stop either, and I want to because he’s a manwhore and has Chlamydia.

  Of course, I don’t know this for sure, but I’m pretty sure. Like 96.9 percent positive.

  At least I hope he does because it’s my reasoning for staying away from him. I’m clinging to the fact that he has Chlamydia. I need him to have Chlamydia.

  “Chlamydia. He has Chlamydia,” I tell myself, chanting it as I walk the plans to the fourth floor. I decide to take the stairs as opposed to the elevator. Maybe exerting some physical energy will exhaust me and I’ll have no strength to think of Tathan naked.

  It helps some, but when I return to my desk, I’m more annoyed than when I left because he’s smirking.

  “What?” I ask callously as I sit back down.

  His head pops out from behind his screen, his beautiful golden eyes sparkling with amusement as he watches me. “Come to lunch with me.”

  I’m not sure why, but Tathan tries this every day and my answer remains the same. At some point you’d think he’d give up from a wounded ego, but no, the persistent shit never does.

  “Nope.” My answer remains the same every day. “I have no desire to join your Crush Brigade,” I tell him, checking my e-mail and avoiding eye contact. Avoiding his eyes is very important. If you do happen to make eye contact with Tathan, you’re shit out of luck. The Force is strong with this one.

  “What’s a Crush Brigade?” He stares at me with amusement, sweet caramel orbs wandering over my body as he runs his hand down the side of his face and his beard, and damn it, I desperately want to be the one rubbing the side of his face. Or other parts of him.

  He has my attention, as does the grin he’s drawing me in with. It widens when I say, “Harem.”

  My computer dings, my eyes
shift away, and when I do, it’s like clouds blocking the sun and I’m suddenly chilled.

  On my screen, there’s an e-mail from Casey telling me to be strong and to fix my bra. It’s peeking out. Thankfully, I can always count on her to look out for me.

  As discreetly as I can, I glance down, and sure enough, my bra is showing where my mustard colored blouse has fallen down past my cleavage and revealed the girls hanging out of my obnoxiously bright purple bra.

  I like bold and bright colors. Lights up my dull, lackluster life.

  Staring at my tits on display, I smile. That certainly explains the amusement on Tathan’s face, doesn’t it?

  “Amalie, you’ll give in,” Tathan whispers, and glances back at his computer screen, as if he’s actually working.

  “Stop asking me out. It’s annoying, and you sound desperate.” I turn in my chair and chant to myself again that he has Chlamydia.

  Tathan doesn’t say anything in response, but I catch sight of his face, the expression, the moment I know there’s certainly more to him than being the office dog. He looks almost offended I keep turning him down. No, offended isn’t the right word here. It’s more like disappointed.

  I’m sure deep down Tathan could be a nice guy, but there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way. Probably because I’m sure he’s slept with most of the women in this office—aside from me and Casey—and had he swung that way, I’m sure he would have hooked up with Zane by now. That’s what turns me off about him.

  Some of my hostility toward Tathan comes from being cheated on. Why can’t men be happy with one woman? Where’s the appeal in having a different girl every night?

  Between phone calls and meetings, I eat my lunch at my desk. Alone. And it’s a lot like my dinners at home. Alone. I think that’s why I ended up getting Oliver.

  As for the office version of The Bachelorette, Tathan takes Lizard Lips to lunch today. I’m not positive, but I think her name is Regina. Whatever her name is, she’ll be gone tomorrow, and Lizard Lips sounds better to me. It’s better that I don’t think of these women as having names because then I’d wonder how they can possibly let themselves fall into his trap.

  Watching Lizard Lips prance around Tathan’s desk like a female cat in heat, I want to vomit.

  Deliberately leading her on for his own amusement, Tathan smirks. “I’m sure that can be arranged,” he tells her, winking.

  What the fuck are they talking about?

  I don’t know why she’s getting excited by the lazy lift of his beautiful pouty lips. Tomorrow it will be a different girl. There’s absolutely nothing special about the way he’s treating her compared to what he says to every other woman in this office.

  When Lizard Lips walks away, it’s everything I can do not to roll my eyes that women keep falling for this shit. It makes us look bad.

  Does she not have any self-respect? Without a doubt, no way.

  Tathan takes note of my obvious derision toward the mindless fuck leaving his domain. He waits for our eyes to make contact before whispering, “What?”

  Disgusted, I make a gagging sound. “You’re sick.”

  “You know. . .” With a twinkle in his eyes, he laughs. “I’ve heard that sound a lot.”

  Being naïve, it takes me a minute to understand the meaning behind the words. You get it, right? Or does it take you a minute too? I’ll save you the trouble. It means choking on a cock.

  Twisting around in my chair, I face my computer. “I bet you have.”

  NEEDING TO RUN some paperwork upstairs to payroll, I gather my folders and the mail to drop it off on my way.

  “It’s my lucky day.”

  Damn it. I really should check who’s in the elevator with me before I push the Close Door button. Anticipation and anxiety knot in my belly the moment I realize who I’m in the elevator with.

  For my own safety, I make an effort never to be alone with Tathan in an elevator, but sometimes it happens.

  “Come to dinner with me.” He breathes out the words, erotic and alluring, and it’s everything I can do not to grab his face and shove it between my legs.

  With steady breaths on the wall, I don’t even look at him. “How do you keep your floozies straight and then have the audacity to ask me to dinner? As if saying no to lunch isn’t enough, you want to be shot down twice in one day?”

  “Floozies?”

  Can you believe he’s laughing? Making fun of me as usual. “You won’t go out with me because you think I have floozies?”

  “No, that’s not why. I just don’t like you.” Blinking slowly, I shake my head and let out a sigh, as though it’s depressing to me he’s asked me out again. I stare at the glowing numbers on the elevator panel. “And I have plans.”

  “Walking your dog and watching reruns of Friends isn’t plans.” Tathan steps closer, his warmth pressing to my side. He knows me pretty well, doesn’t he?

  I shift, my heart racing, my skin prickling with thousands of needles, all telling me to run away from him. I don’t want to. I want his warmth, his presence, his hands on me.

  With the gentle brush of our shoulders, he whispers, “I like it when you play hard to get. Gives me a challenge and I’m definitely up for a challenge.”

  I’m sure you are.

  Shoving him against the wall, I’m so tempted to kiss his beautiful lips and wipe the arrogant smirk off his god-like face. It’d be so easy and more than likely we’d both thoroughly enjoy it.

  Luckily for me, I have willpower, unlike the women in this office. “I will never go out with you. Stop asking.”

  That’s partially a lie because the idea of going out with him isn’t as awful as I make it out to be in my head. It’s actually dream-worthy, but I’m not about to tell him.

  Catching himself against the wall, he laughs. “I like it rough,” he tells me, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me hard against his chest, his lips about an inch from mine. “I bet you do, too, don’t you, Amalie?”

  I know exactly what he’s trying to do when his hands go lower, just above my ass. Not gonna lie, it feels nice to have his hands on me.

  There’s something, a small part of this or his embrace that feels familiar. Strangely. Like I’ve been here before, with him.

  Regardless, this can’t happen no matter how pleasant his touch is.

  Hold your ground, girl. Don’t be like Lizard Lips. You’re better than her.

  In an attempt to keep myself from melting into his arms, I use the only self-defense mechanism I know. I bite him. . . only I bite his lip because that’s what’s in front of me.

  It takes him all of two seconds to pull away, his brow pulled together in confusion.

  “Did you just bite me?” Blinking rapidly as if he can’t believe I did that, his fingertips touch his bottom lip.

  “That’s how rough I like it,” I tell him, smiling. My hands rest on his chest pushing him away from me and into the wall of the elevator.

  Without another glance, I exit the elevator and leave him standing there, alone.

  You’re probably wondering to yourself why I’m playing hard to get with him?

  I’ll tell you why. I’m scared. My heart was torn by my former lover. My skin’s marred, my soul black and defenseless, and if I let someone like Tathan in, there’s no telling what will be left of me. If anything.

  I’m tired on the drive home. It’s late when I finally pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex. Avoiding Tathan is hard work, and I’m exhausted at the mere thought of doing anything else tonight.

  The moment I’m out of my car, I remove my shoes as I walk down the hall toward my apartment. I hate shoes and wear them as little as possible. Being in Arizona, it’s hot as balls most of the time, it’s fairly easy to go without shoes.

  He probably hears my keys when I’m opening the door, but the very second the door’s cracked open, my chocolate shoe-eating lab puppy, Oliver, practically launches himself through the air at me. It’s my standard greeting from
him for the last four weeks since I brought him home. I have to say, it’s nice to have someone that excited about your return. Dogs are good for something.

  Oliver and I go about our nightly routine, me loving on him, and then me cleaning up his messes he’s made throughout the day. He chews everything, but I guess that’s what puppies do. He’s twelve weeks old and a little monster. Our nightly routine consists of him licking me all over, me walking him until he’s almost comatose, and him peeing about a dozen times. Then it’s time for his dinner, which is essentially useless because he just knocks over the bag and gets it himself, so I don’t bother; I only knock it over for him. He eats like a cow, and I have absolutely no idea where he puts it all.

  Zane has Oliver’s sister, and she’s totally calm. She likes to sleep all day and is prissy as hell. I got the hellion of the litter. I think subconsciously the breeder must have known I needed some excitement in my life and gave me Oliver.

  I will say having a puppy is a lot like having a child—so everyone tells me—and I’d have to agree now that I’m the mother of a puppy.

  Having a puppy is nothing like I expected.

  SINCE IT’S A Thursday night, I don’t have a lot going on. These days it’s clear I have no life outside of this dog, planning Casey’s wedding, and my life-affirming job of getting coffee for slackers.

  And that’s depressing too.

  I do, however, look over some wedding magazines Zane gave me and dream that maybe someday I might find a man worthy of getting me in a white dress. That’s the thing about weddings, they always make you think about your wedding day. At least it’s where my mind has been venturing to lately. It’s depressing.

  From the time I was around seven, I’ve dreamed of my wedding in detail. Everything from the dress to the cake and anything in between. Now all I need is the guy.

  The thoughts make me think of Tathan, which annoys me because I don’t ever want to think of that man and me together in that way.