An Affair With My Boss

by Verville, Brendan

  An Affair With My Boss

  by

  Brendan Verville

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Talent Writers ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. Only reviewers are allowed to quote brief passages from this publication.

  1

  I only met my boyfriend Tom so that I could someday meet John Krasner, the “suave tourist” as some liked to call him. The first night I met John, I was drinking at a torn and sundered bar at The Salvador Casino in the hills near the state line, gracing my stool as a washed out figure in the overhead lighting. This was the bar I found myself frequenting more often during my evenings after work, just so Tom could get his two hours in at the poker table. Far away from the action on the floor, I dreamed in the smoky haze of nearby cigarette coals, and listened to the incessant clink and chatter of a living breathing carnival at my back.

  I had a good twenty minutes to waste before I could safely bug Tom again, so I held up a finger for another shot, wincing as if slapped. My bartender saw my sign from the corner of his eye and nodded his bald head, dropping his task of organizing the counter to select a fresh glass.

  None of the regulars were in tonight, leaving only a few lone stragglers to fill the tables in the far-off corners of the room, like anchors for the walls. I recognized one of the young men at the bar, sitting at his usual stool at the far end, his arms folded over the bar and his hands in his armpits. He looked ruffled, but dressed nicely in a collared shirt, a dark sweater vest and slacks, his tie undone. Though I had never struck up a conversation with him, I knew he worked at the casino because he talked to all the help by their first names, and they referred to him as “Sir.”

  He was always nicely dressed, usually in a crisp V-neck sweater vest and corduroy, dark and spidery hair slicked back with his fingers. Though the light reflected off his face with a clear accentuation of sweat, and his clothes were deliberately worn askew at the end of his day, I couldn’t help but run my eyes up and down the lines of his straight sideburns, the cut of his jaw, straggled with stubble, and his far off gaze directed at the blinking television screen mounted to the ceiling. Around his neck hung a simple gold chain with a crucifix on it, proudly displayed above his V-neck. I hardly ever heard him say a word, unless it was a kind salutation to the barman or a short quip to a passing waitress.

  There was a deliberate charm to the way he leaned over the bar, head turned slightly to the side with his cool gaze as though he knew that I was watching him, his pose just for me. He had looked my way a couple times, but I never held his eyes, swapping them for the bottom of my shot glass. When I looked back he had returned to the television screen.

  Even with my eyes closed I could see his inverted image, with his shirt tucked in and his gold chain necklace flashing in the dim light. Even in the dim lighting he gleamed. Thin, crisp, and clean.

  I was jostled out of my meditation with a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, but knew it was Tom, breathing hard at my side, and his sleeves rolled down, wrinkled and soiled with his own sweat. I knew this was a sign of a poor night. Tom usually knew when he was defeated sometime within the first two hours, although I had sometimes stayed late with him on his good nights, all the way to the closing of the doors.

  I looked up into Tom’s shallow face, and all he could do was sigh, his own eyes staring off at the TV screen.

  “Let’s go,” Tom said under his breath.

  “I still have a shot,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed how the man at the end of the bar turned his head slightly, as if to listen to our conversation.

  “Well, let’s make it two,” he said, plopping down next to me on the stool. His scent breezed over me, all cigarettes and peppermint gum. He shook his wallet out of the breast pocket of his uniform shirt and he put down his cash for the barman to see. “They might as well take the rest of my money.”

  “We might have to lower your allowance again,” I replied, all the cheer gone from my tone. I hated to hear him sigh and shake his head, his sarcasm adding extra weight to the tacit rolling of his eyes. I was tired of him losing money, and then bitching about it later.

  “Fuck this canned sideshow,” he growled. He downed his shot and sputtered into his hands.

  I tried not to look at the man at the end of the bar, who I was sure was looking at us. Instead, I turned on Tom.

  “Then maybe we can stop coming here every payday,” I said.

  He scowled at me. “I swear this place is robbing me blind. Me in particular. They’ve singled me out. Put a target on my back. They think I don’t see it?” His eyes flashed red and watery in the mood light, and I had to look away.

  “I have to be to work early tomorrow.” I stood up, gathering my purse with a slow mechanical certainty. For the first time I could feel the man’s full undivided attention on me, casing my skin to prickle and my hair to stand on end. I regretted meeting Tom in the casino right after work instead of going home to change. My black waitress uniform hung loosely from my body with a streak of bleach on the hem of my shirt, and I hoped the poor lighting didn’t show off the quarter-sized hole on my hip.

  Tom patted the bar with the newly empty glass, indicating another. He did not notice when I turned and smiled at the man in the nice collared shirt and slacks, and only I saw him smile back with a flash of white teeth. His lips parted coyly, and his tongue danced behind his teeth as though mouthing some kind of message to me.

  “Fucking clap trap sting operation,” Tom growled. I could tell by his hot breath that he had already started drinking, probably for hours. “Odds are stacked against you, especially with all the dealers out to rob you. It’s a shakedown of the highest players, those they can break and leave with nothing.”

  “Let’s leave.” I broke my eye contact with the man to take Tom under the arm. He shrugged away from me, banging on the bar again, loud this time. Glasses clattered on the shelf behind the barman and every head turned in their direction.

  My already flush face seemed as though it was ready to break open under the stress of all those eyes, my skin prickling. I didn’t want to look over at the man, but he was already walking toward us, calmly buttoning his sleeves as he closed the distance.

  “God damn racket!” Tom cried to no one in particular.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the man said, walking up behind Tom.

  Tom had to physically turn around in his seat, his eyes running up and down the man’s length and then snapping away.

  “Not interested, pal,” Tom said. He continued to ignore everyone in the bar.

  “Is there something unsatisfactory about your visit here?” the man asked. He looked at me and gave me a wink. I dropped my eyes, clutching desperately at the coat and purse in my hands.

  “Yeah, I’ve been robbed stone cold. What’s it to you?” Tom threw over his shoulder.

  “You know, I see you in here a lot,” the man said. “You come and sit at my card tables and then at my bar and challenge my employees of cheating you. How’s that exactly?”

  Tom turned back around with his eyes narrowed. “Your place? Fine establishment, I have to say.”

  “Thank you,” the man replied, linking his wrists in front of him.

  “But I’m paying your way, Mr. Casino,” Tom said. He picked up the shot glass and held it up in the man’s face. “I paid for this glass. And for that gold chain around your neck. Without me, you’d be nothing. How does it feel to succeed at the expense of my broken back?” Tom rolled up his soiled sleeves, still stained with oil from his job at the car dealership.

  “I would appreciate it if you kept your voice down,” the man said calmly. “It’s been a long day for me as we
ll, and this isn’t how I wanted to end my night.”

  “How? By losing your best fucking customer? That’s too damn bad.”

  Tom wound back his hand and thrust the shot glass against the stiff carpet at their feet. I felt the rain of glass on my pant legs.

  “Tom!” I exclaimed, grabbing his arm, but it was the man who grabbed my arm. Once he did, I felt myself go limp as he pulled me back, tucking me safely behind him in a slow motion maneuver.

  He did not break his stolid focus or even move to react. He only stared back at Tom, challenging him from his barstool, looking much smaller than he probably intended. I watched serious concern wash over Tom’s face as he realized what he’d done, and his sneer was long gone. He looked like he was about ready to apologize to this large man, whose presence was suddenly enough to fill the room, enough to command it to attention and cut it down with a chop of his hand.

  “I’m John Krasner,” the man said, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m the owner of The Salvador, as well as the other four casinos in this area, what the locals call the “Blind Alley.” The title caught on, though I never paid it much mind. I see it as only a joke, you know, as if people are being robbed blind. I can laugh at it, just like I can laugh at your jokes tonight. They’re all in good fun, as we both know. Right?”

  Tom could only nod his head stupidly. He shot me a doubtful look as though I could help him, but there was no way I was going to interrupt what happened next.

  “I’m so glad we can laugh about my multi-billion dollar industry,” John said with a chuckle. He shook his head to himself. “And we can laugh about you as well. Where can we start? I don’t know. How about your face?”

  Tom seemed to go rigid. He twisted around even farther in his seat until he was in profile with John. “What’d you just say?” Something was wrong now. The air was growing thick.

  “I said it has something to do with your face. It looks as if it’s about to break open,” John said through his smile.

  Tom obviously didn’t know what to do with this. He shook his head slowly from side to side. There was a quiet cautiousness about him now. His feet were firmly planted on the floor, in case he needed to get up quick.

  Tom scoffed. “Are you fucking threatening me?”

  John sighed and turned toward the bartender, standing in anticipation. John signaled that Tom was ready to pay.

  “Hey man, what the fuck is your problem?” Tom spat.

  “What do you do for a living?” John asked without looking at him.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Tom was about to ask the question a second time, when a large man approached the bar, and we all looked at him. He settled on top of Tom’s barstool, with his trench coat tails grazing the floor and his lengthy hair pulled back into a ponytail. He pushed away Tom’s money from the bar, before waving the bartender closer. He noticed that Tom was watching him and he turned a cold shoulder in his direction.

  “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here before I grind your face into that glass in the carpet,” the large man said. His eyes flickered briefly upward to cut through Tom, who had no choice but to look away.

  “This is Paul,” John said, patting the large man’s shoulder. “We’re friends, him and I. He understands a good joke, but he’s not laughing.”

  “I’m not laughing,” Paul repeated. He gulped heavily from the glass of beer set down in front of him.

  “Why don’t you kick me out yourself?” Tom said to John. “You have your cameras in the ceiling watching me, and how many more of your goons are just waiting to break my nose? Just be a man and tell me to fuck off.”

  “Alright,” John said, bending down to breathe in his face. “Get out of my casino.”

  I wasn't sure how it started, but before I could gather what was happening, the nearest glass had shattered over Tom’s head and beer streaked the carpet. Paul had wrenched Tom’s arm behind his back and slammed his head into the bar, causing some women in the corner to shriek with surprise. Tom screamed and John was upon him as well, helping Paul to gather my boyfriend up by his grease-stained collar. A door opened behind the bar and Tom was thrust into the cold night, leaving me to stand stunned by the empty barstool.

  John returned to me at the bar, and in my shocked state, he managed to convince me to sit next to him, silently ordering another round for us. The bartender shuffled off with a “yes, sir” as if nothing had happened.

  Meticulously, John began to unbutton his sleeves again, allowing them to hang loose as he patted the crucifix on his chest, almost like he was drawing strength from it.

  “I’m sorry if that man was your ride, what, your boyfriend?” He waited for me to nod before continuing. “There’s no need for you to go out into the chill tonight. You can stay in my penthousehouse suite. I tend to live up there more than my wife approves, but it’s like a second home to me.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I finally said, my thoughts catching up with the lag in time.

  “I’m John Krasner,” he said with a smile to snare me once again.

  I shook his hand. “Alice,” I replied.

  “Alice,” he cooed, “How would you like a job?”

  2

  That first night I did not go up to the suite with John. As much as I wanted to help John take off his rumpled clothing and join him for a promised bottle of champagne, I couldn’t help but think of Tom getting his beer-soaked head smashed into the bar, face red and frozen in a horrible scream. It wasn't a familiar attraction that had me thinking of Tom; it was a cold pity I knew was not healthy.

  All the same, John insisted that I start a new job as a waitress tomorrow. I had to laugh at first, but he told me how much I would be making, and I felt like calling my boss right there with a prompt and overdue “fuck you.”

  I went home in a daze with nothing set in stone, John still waiting expectantly in the empty bar of his casino, watching me leave. I didn’t see Tom that night, or for the next few days. Though I tried to call him, he never answered, and I wondered if it was over between us. I could understand if he felt shame for what had happened, but a part of me wanted to make my relationship with Tom work.

  Tom was the first man I’d dated in a long time, after my last stint with Greg, an abusive fuck who found pleasure in keeping me from a second life outside of the home, even from my job. Tom had helped me trust men again. He hadn’t pushed for any of the usual staples of a normal relationship. We were yet to move in together, for what I figured was his own insecurity of living with another person. It wasn't until months later that we finally did have sex. Greg had constantly ridiculed me for my body, insisting that I make love to him with most of my clothing on. In reality, I was an attractive woman, strawberry blonde hair, a round face, sharp nose, and a wide set of hips to accentuate my figure.

  I was almost thirty, and had nothing to show for my strong standing career as a waitress in a local restaurant in town. This was something I quickly realized after meeting John, who held so much esteem, so much prowess over his empire and the people below him. In that respect, it wasn't difficult for me to finally make the decision to quit one day, when a sorry customer spit on my shirtfront when I accidentally stepped on his toe. I upended the bowl of soup in his lap and stormed out the door.

  That day I ended up at the casino, searching the floor for John. In the carnival lights and sounds of the expansive room, my head became light and I rode the wave of my belligerence through the buzzing crowds of people, bumping elbows, and wincing with the close screams of some lucky winner.

  And then a hand materialized out of the crowd and pulled me to an empty corner near the penny slot machines. I was so happy to see John, dressed in his usual suit and tie, sweater vest and minimalist crucifix, I almost forgot to speak.

  He spoke for me, indicating the black fishbowl cameras in the ceiling above our head.

  “I saw you almost instantly from the control room,” John told me. “You will rarely find me on the floor. Next
time you need to find me, just look up at the ceiling and wink.” He broke off to demonstrate it to me, which forced me to smile. “I’ll come running.”

  “Is that job still on the table?” I asked him.

  He beamed, throwing his arm around my shoulder. His sour cologne washed over me, his warmth pressing against the skin beneath my clothing.

  Right away he took me into one of the locker rooms and showed me the uniform I would wear, which dropped my stomach a few floors. I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I’d already noticed the many cocktail waitresses that swarmed the floor, delivering complimentary glasses of beer to the players. The uniform consisted of a black skirt, well above the knees and a low cut top without straps or sleeves. I could wear hose on under my skirt, though it called to mind fishnet stockings from some smutty girl magazine.

  I asked him if the salary was still paying the same amount.

  “I will take care of you,” he said. “As long as you’re working for me, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

  This sent my mind reeling, and I wasn't sure how to process this information. I knew what he wanted, just as much as he knew. The way he leaned his shoulder against the nearest locker, hands folded in front of him, spoke louder than his words. He stared expectantly into my face, bent over slightly to measure at my height. I felt my stomach drop again, and then my head lifted with a surge of endorphins, enough to carry me down the stream of my own ecstasy.

  “How is your friend?” he asked me suddenly, shaking me out of my dream.

  “Tom? I haven’t spoken with him actually.”

  “He never even called you to make sure you were okay?” John frowned and stood upright. “It’s been two days, and he couldn’t even be a man about it. What a shame. But another man’s mistake, is another’s advantage.”

  “I still love him,” I said, but without much conviction. My face went flush when he leaned in to study me carefully. I wasn't sure why I said it, or if it was even true.