by Whitney G.
“You know what I’m not going to miss about us living in this apartment?” Ava sat up from her air mattress in the corner.
“What?”
“The fact that I can hear your every move, even when I’m sleeping.” She laughed. “Why do you insist on getting up so early every day? You don’t have to be at work until eight o’clock.”
“Because, Miss Lauren,” I said, mocking Preston’s voice, “the people who I’m not directly depending on don’t have to be at work until eight. My right-hand needs to be up as early as I am, and she always needs to beat me there to set an example. Or else.”
“Has he ever explained the ‘or else’ part?” she asked. “Because if it’s hot punishment sex, I think you should consider being late every day.”
I laughed. “I hope to never find out. I’ve officially decided that I’m only working for him for six months so I can have enough in the bank to stay steady until I find something less hectic.”
“You sure about that?”
“One hundred percent.” I grabbed my briefcase and hit the lights before walking out of our door.
When I made it outside, a town car was waiting for me as usual, and a driver was holding the back door open.
“Good morning, Taylor,” he said.
“It’s Tara. Like, I’ve told you and everyone in this company my name, and you all are still calling me Taylor. Is it that much harder to say or something?”
He didn’t answer me. He just held the door open and smiled.
I slid onto the backseat, answering five emails before we made it to the end of the block.
“Can you verbally confirm all the stops for this morning, Taylor?” the driver asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t bother correcting him this time. “We need to stop at Aldman’s for a pickup, Tom Ford for his suits, the pier to ensure his newest yacht was repositioned properly, Dean & DeLuca for his breakfast, and we’ll grab his coffee last.”
He nodded and passed me a small basket of chocolate before turning up his music and heading toward Aldman’s.
When we were halfway there, Preston’s name—My Asshole Boss, flashed across my screen. I debated whether I should answer it, whether I should figure out the “or else” part after all.
I gave in before it could go to voicemail.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker,” I answered, fake cheer in my voice. “How may I help you?”
“I’m calling to make sure that you’ll be arriving to work on time this morning since you were six minutes late yesterday.”
“I was only two minutes late.”
“You were still late,” he said, his voice deep. “Late enough that I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Seeing as though you’re my top aide, I can’t afford to have anyone thinking that you’re getting special privileges from me—that you’re getting on top of me, when it’s clear that your position is under me. I also don’t want you thinking that you’ll ever be able to come as you please without my permission, especially whenever the two of us begin to work on the Von Strum deal behind closed doors. Clear?”
I said nothing. I wasn’t sure why this man’s voice was capable of making me wet in a matter of seconds, why even in his moments of pure assholery, his words were constructed in a way that always made me think of sex.
“Are you there, Miss Lauren?” he asked. “Am I talking to myself?”
“No, Mr. Parker. I heard you loud and clear.”
“Good. Now, besides the fact that you’ll need to come on my time and not yours from now on, I’d like to make a change to my coffee order for today.”
“Are you planning to finally get it yourself?”
“Excuse me?” His voice was terse. “What did you just say?”
I coughed. “Nothing. There was something in my throat.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “I would prefer caramel cream from the Sweet Seasons Cafe today. And make sure my coffee is exactly one hundred and fifty-five degrees.”
Seriously? I rolled my eyes. “Noted. Is there anything else, sir?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” He hung up in my face.
“Ughhhhh!”
“Something wrong, Taylor?” The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Do I need to pull over?”
“No, keep dragging me toward hell, please.” I brushed off Preston’s rudeness and made it through my first few errands.
“I know why you’re calling, Mrs. Vaughn and I’m sorry,” I answered my phone the second it buzzed. “I’m not sure why his stylist is having problems dropping his suits off on time these days, but I’ll look into it as soon as I can.” I waited for her to say a few words and then I answered the incoming call from his personal trainer. Then his lawyer. Then his pilot. Then his goddamn yacht cleaner. (Why this man needed eight yachts, I’d never know.)
“It’s seven thirty-five, Miss Lauren,” the driver said. “Are we still stopping at the Sweet Seasons Café?”
“No. We’re stopping at McDonald’s.”
He nodded and pulled over at the McDonald’s right up the street.
I opened my purse and pulled out an empty cup I’d stolen from Sweet Seasons Café. I’d made this a part of my routine for the past week and a half since that shop was five blocks out of the way and completely ridiculous.
For fifteen dollars an ounce, the baristas brewed Colombian specialty beans, and they made each cup one by one. They refused to take online orders, and even though Preston had been a loyal customer for years, they refused to have his coffee waiting and ready in advance. They claimed that the “experience” of getting the coffee made fresh was what justified their price, and they didn’t want to dilute their brand.
They also asked their customers what temperature they wanted their coffee served—as if someone could honestly tell the difference between one hundred forty and one hundred fifty degrees.
It all tastes the same ...
“I’ll have a large regular coffee, please,” I said, taking my place at the McDonald’s counter. “Can I have that with caramel, and can I have it in this cup?”
“Of course.”
With ten minutes to spare, I made it to his office and set up his desk the way he liked it.
Coffee on the right, folder full of printed articles and reports on the left, current hardback book in the center.
I made sure his “short-list”—a comprehensive summary of every email he needed to address and his current schedule for the day, was written neatly. I even added a few notes and suggestions of my own.
“The boss has entered the building, people!” Someone in the hallway shouted. “He’s in the lobby!”
I knocked his folder onto the floor.
Shit.
Quickly picking everything up, I tried my best to place the files as they were. As I was slipping the financial reports back into place, I noticed an old picture of Preston standing with another Preston in a black cap and gown.
Behind that picture was another one with a double dose of Preston. This time they were wearing blue jeans and standing in front of a billboard in Times Square. Everything about the men was identical, down to their stunning green eyes with flecks of grey.
He has a twin?
“The boss is now on the elevator!” Someone else shouted.
With seconds to spare, I made it to my office and slipped into a pair of flats under my desk.
Moments later, Preston stepped off the elevator wearing a dark grey Tom Ford suit that put every man who’d ever worn a suit to shame. His silver cufflinks shone against the bright hallway lights, and his receptionist’s cheeks turned bright pink at the very sight of him.
He walked by my open door, said “Miss Lauren,” and nothing more.
He shut his door, and I waited for his usual email to make sure I was in the clear.
My email pinged minutes later.
SUBJECT: MY SHORT LIST.
Miss Lauren,
I’ve read this morning’s edition, but it took me longer than necessary because yo
u misspelled “variety,” “residuals,” and “inconsequential.” You also wrote your own notes (which I didn’t ask for) and gave me your opinion on certain meetings—which I don’t need.
I thought your profile said that you have a minor in English?
I’m tempted to call and ask Princeton if they have a return policy.
Preston Parker
CEO Parker International
BITING MY TONGUE, I pulled up my file titled “New Jobs to Apply to” and filled out two applications for nearby law firms before tackling more messages in my inbox. As I was declining an interview for Mister New York, Preston stepped into my office.
“Miss Lauren,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Can I speak to you in my office for a minute?”
“You’re actually asking and not demanding?” The words rushed out of my mouth before I could think them through.
“Now, Miss Lauren.” He motioned for me to get up.
I followed him into his office, and he shut the door behind us. He waited for me to take a seat in front of his desk, and then he leaned back in his chair.
He stared at me for several seconds, looking as intense as he did in my fantasies last night, and then he began to speak.
“I used to pride myself on hiring good people, Miss Lauren,” he said. “People I could trust not to steal or betray me. Now, given how our relationship started, I can’t honestly say that I thought you’d never steal from me again, but I was hoping that I’d never face your betrayal.”
WHAT? “Mr. Parker, I can assure you that I haven’t betrayed you in any way. I’m very open and honest about every meeting I’ve taken, and I’ve been nothing but honest since day one.”
He held up his hand, silencing me. Then, as if he hadn’t heard a word I said, he continued. “Given the fact that you’ve lasted longer than my last ten assistants—”
“Twenty.” I corrected him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve lasted longer than your last twenty assistants.”
A slow smile spread across his face and he picked up his coffee, taking a long sip.
“Okay,” he said. “My last twenty assistants. Given the fact that you’ve lasted longer than those, I thought that maybe we could begin a solid foundation of trust, that maybe this was a sign that you were ready to start working with me on more serious matters. However, for the past week and a half, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been betraying me every single morning.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t appreciate traitors in my company, Miss Lauren, and I tend to fire them on the spot within seconds of me finding out about their betrayal—no matter how trivial the offense is.”
Silence.
My face paled. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and terrible boss or not, I couldn’t afford to lose this job right now.
“I told you that I wanted Colombian Coffee from the Sweet Seasons Café on Park Avenue,” he said, finally. “Is that not what I asked you for?”
What the fuck? “Yes.”
“Interesting. Well, what’s unique about Sweet Seasons Café is that they place a solid chocolate drop at the bottom of every cup.” He picked up his cup of coffee and poured it into an empty glass. “And it always sticks to the bottom when you’re finished drinking it.” He turned the empty cup toward me, and I swallowed.
“No other coffee shop in this city does that, Miss Lauren. It’s kind of a trademark, a subtle wink to their loyal customers who are willing to spend fifteen dollars per ounce. It’s how I know when I’m drinking their blend or when my new assistant is filling up one of their cups with bullshit.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“As you can see,” he said, not letting me finish my sentence, “Miss Lauren, if I can’t trust you to get me the right cup of coffee, I’m going to have a hard time trusting you with much else.” He set the cup down, and a smirk crossed his lips. “Nonetheless, I’m a man of second chances, so I will give you exactly thirty minutes to get the correct coffee that I asked you for.”
“Okay.” I stood up, but he held up his hand—motioning for me to stay put.
“There’s one last thing, Miss Lauren,” he said, making me hate the way he said my name. The way he was able to turn me on despite his rudeness. “I’m not sure if you’ve thoroughly read your employee handbook, but tech support is required to flag and report all emails that are sent and received from any domains that belong to my competitors.” He paused. “Well, the domains that belong to people who think they’re my competitors. Are you familiar with the email address [email protected]?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my boyfriend’s email address. He’s an intern at Marriott, and it’s only a temporary job for him. He’s not some type of corporate spy.”
“Hmmm,” he said, looking me up and down. “Well, now that I know he’s not attempting to get any insider secrets from you, I’ll consider having tech support turn off the alert. That said, allow me to give you and your boyfriend some advice.” He picked up a sheet of paper and walked closer to me, making my heart race faster with every step. “I think you should watch what you send on my company server, because certain emails are far from appropriate.”
“I’ve only called you an ‘impossible asshole’ once in my emails.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He glared at me, and then he looked at the paper. “Subject: Let me make it better. (Yes, I’m Talking About Fucking.)”
I gasped, hoping like hell a sinkhole would open up in the floor and swallow me right now.
“Then there’s a huge problem with the message itself,” Preston continued reading, smiling as he did it. “Tara, babe, don’t worry about your terrible-ass boss. I’m more than willing to help you de-stress whenever you get a break. I want to plug your vagina with my cock and lick it all over for as long as it takes to make you forget about your job. Just say the word. Are you feeling kind of—” He paused, raising his eyebrow. “Water emoji. Water emoji. Water emoji.”
My cheeks were on fire.
Preston set the paper down and closed the gap between us—looking directly into my eyes. “Inappropriate work email aside,” he said, “you need to tell your boyfriend to work on his vocabulary. If he’s really so concerned about helping you de-stress whenever you’re free from your terrible-ass boss, then he should just say, I want you to sit on my face so I can eat your pussy until you come in my mouth, until the only thing you’re able to think about is how good my tongue feels when it’s sucking on your dripping wet clit. And the next time you get a break, you should invite me into your office so I can bend you over the desk and let your pussy feel just how hard my cock gets whenever I’m thinking about you.”
He stepped back, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Then maybe, if he said those things, he wouldn’t have to ask if you were wet. He’d know, and perhaps, since he’s clearly corny as fuck, he’d say umbrella emoji, umbrella emoji, umbrella emoji ...”
My panties were wetter than they’d ever been.
“Now,” he said, snapping back into asshole mode. “Go get me the right coffee.”
SIX (B)
Tara
LATER THAT EVENING, at six o’clock to be exact, I paced in front of my office windows, waiting on Preston’s suits to arrive. Today marked the fourth time in a week that they were late, and no matter how nice I tried to say, "Please be on time next week, " his stylist never made it to the office a second before seven.
I pulled my phone from my drawer and sent Michael a text message.
Me: Definite raincheck on Happy Hour since he's making everyone work late and I’m still waiting on suits. Also, I may need a raincheck for apartment hunting, too. (I have to fly to Cali for a meeting with him.) Can you help me next weekend instead?
Michael: Of course, babe.
I started to ask him how his day was, but Cynthia stepped into my office and slammed the door shut.
“May I help you with something, Cynthia?”
“I wan
t you to know that Mr. Parker was going to pick me to be his executive assistant before you.” She crossed her arms. “He said I was more than qualified, and he was looking forward to taking me on all of his business trips.”
“Would you like me to ask him if you can still go on those trips?” I’ll happily let you take my place ...
“No, I would like you to know that I am rooting for you to fail.” She looked dead ass serious. “You’ve lasted two months, which is pretty impressive when it comes to his assistants, but this streak won’t last. It won’t last at all.”
“Do your eyes normally bulge out of your skull like that?” I asked, terrified of the way she looked right now. “You may want to get that checked out.”
“My eyeballs are just fine, and they can see that you’re a three and a half-monther at best, Taylor. I’ve started a new employee pool with a bet on how long you’ll last and no one has you getting past month three.” Her eyes bulged out even further. “We don’t usually invite the Taylors to join us on things like this, but for you, I’m willing to make an exception. You want three, four, five, or six more weeks? Most people are betting on four. And a few risk takers—not me, are putting their money on six.”
Before I could tell her to get the hell out of my office, Preston opened the door and stepped inside.
“Miss Lauren, why aren’t my—” He paused, looking at Cynthia, then at me. “Why aren’t my evening short list and coffee on my desk?”
“I don’t know.” I forced a smile. “I definitely put them there half an hour ago.”
“You couldn’t have,” Cynthia said. “They weren’t on his desk when I delivered his memos minutes ago. Maybe you’re imagining that you did it.”
This bitch. “You’re right, Cynthia. Maybe I’m just imagining that I delivered his short list and coffee.”
“Well, I’m not paying you to play make believe, Miss Lauren,” Preston slowly looked me up and down, turning me on against my will. “I would like the shortlist on my desk within the next half hour, and I would like my suits to stop being late every week. No other assistant has had these delivery issues as much as you.” He left the room.