Demanding Boss

by Celia Crown

  Demanding Boss

  Celia Crown

  Copyright © 2020 by Celia Crown

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are from the author's imagination or folklore, legends, and general myths.

  The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, and locales, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

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  Contents

  Demanding Boss

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s other works!

  Follow the Author

  WARNING: This contains sensitive material that will be triggering to some, reader discretion is advised. Emotional Manipulation and Graphic Violence.

  Demanding Boss

  by Celia Crown

  “Don’t make me regret playing nice.”

  He waited, and Vasari wonders if it’s the best decision he’s made.

  It’s not.

  He can easily snatch her into his possession, force her to understand the length he’d go to keep her, and poison her heart with his questionable love.

  He doesn’t.

  He has mercy, as much as his perversion can allow.

  When he looks at her, he’s not the intimidatingly unattainable Vasari. He’s the incarnation of minacious evil—a volatile presence of calamity.

  He has a murderous heart.

  Chapter One

  Emmy

  “Was it worth it?”

  Iciness spreads across one eye as the stinging sensation worsens. Placing the medicine in my other eye causes the same reaction. The exhaustion reflected in my eyes disappears as the drug slowly takes effect.

  “So worth it,” I say as I close the bottle.

  “Let me see,” Diana demands with a playful scowl.

  I hold up the phone, and she snatches it out of my hand. Her eyes scan the photos as her finger moves quickly through the screens. Her scowl deepens as she pinches her lips.

  Her bold red lipstick smears as she puckers her lips. “I don’t know why you’re still working here when you could be getting paid to do what you love.”

  Photography is a hobby for me; I don’t love it enough to turn it into a career. I only take pictures of nature; people are never in any of my photos.

  “Mr. Vasari pays well,” I reckon with a roll of my eyes. “You, of all people, should know how expensive it is to live in a studio apartment.”

  “Half of my paycheck goes for rent,” Diana gripes as she thrusts the phone back into my hand.

  “I know,” I mumble behind my hand as I stifle a laugh. “I hear about it every month.”

  “Friends complain to each other about greedy landlords,” she snarks.

  I had upgraded to a comfortable condominium for the extra security because of all the expensive photography equipment I bought with a ridiculous bonus. It is my only extravagance, and the hobby relaxes me.

  I still don’t know how I feel about the change in my lifestyle.

  Every month I get a bonus check for double my usual salary. When it first happened, I asked Mr. Vasari about the mistake on my paycheck. But he made it clear that it was not an error.

  He is an intimidating man who doesn’t make mistakes, so I didn’t bring the subject up again.

  Mr. Vasari is a force to be reckoned with, an enigma wrapped in sinful black ribbon and silk aggression. He strives for dominance and speaks with crushing confidence.

  The word on the street is that anyone Mr. Vasari refuses to do business with is also not welcomed by any other nightclub.

  He owns the most expensive nightclub in the state. Everyone who parties here has status and money, but it’s the VIP guests who scare me. Politicians and A-list celebrities are frequent guests at the club.

  It’s like walking on eggshells when I’m at work.

  I prefer working on the first floor, where everyone’s more relaxed. The guests have less status and influence, so Mr. Vasari doesn’t punish me for making a small mistake.

  No one can make Mr. Vasari do anything.

  The thought of him weighing the pros and cons of keeping me or keeping a big spender is scary.

  “Emmy!” a voice barks from the doorway.

  My chair screeches against the floor as I jump up in shock, my heart racing.

  “Here!” I shout automatically.

  The sound of thumping music reaches the break room, dulled by the thick walls.

  I swallow dryly as the head bouncer studies my attire. There is a strictly enforced dress code.

  I must look like a mess.

  No one has been able to take a break. We have all been too busy tending to the big-shot celebrity celebrating his thirtieth birthday.

  He wants things a certain way in his VIP room, special girls to serve him, and a specific type of music.

  I don’t know if Mr. Vasari hates me or is just messing with me, but he usually assigns me to the VIP floor.

  All the VIP guests act entitled, so I despise working that section. But I guess it is better than being groped by sweaty hands on the dance floor.

  Diana tells me about all her horrible experiences working amidst the grinding bodies. Then she swoons while telling me how her bouncer-boyfriend swooped in to rescue her.

  It usually ends up with the two of them having sex against the bathroom wall.

  It’s awkward listening to her stories. I don’t know anything about sex, despite having walked in on people having sex in just about every corner of the club.

  One of the most haunting sights was when I accidentally witnessed an orgy.

  It was traumatic, and I lost my appetite for a week.

  “Did you hear what I said?” the bouncer asks with a frown.

  I clear my throat as I pocket the eye drops for future use. Slipping the phone into my backpack, I throw it in my locker.

  “Sorry,” I sheepishly mumble. “Irish whiskey for Mr. Vasari.”

  “Don’t make him wait,” he warns.

  The head bouncer turns and walks off without another word as I shudder anxiously.

  I’m not good with people; maybe that’s why I find photography so appealing.

  “Doesn’t he have a supply in his office?” Diana voices, confused.

  It’s a known fact that Mr. Vasari always gets a drink from the bar. Everyone talks about it, but no one wants to ask about this peculiar habit.

  “Emmy,” she drawls with a sly smile. “Is there an affair going on with Mr. Boss?”

  Diana is an expert at spreading gossip. She speaks her mind, has no tact, and doesn’t care about the consequences if someone overhears her.

  “There’s no affair,” I grumble. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” she counters sarcastically. “Maybe because you are the only one he wants to serve his drinks.”

  She snaps her manicured fingers. “Do you go on your knees—”

  “I fear for my life every time I serve him a drink,” I object bluntly. “You have no idea how many years of my life feel lost by the time I come out of his office.”

  “You get special treatment,” she points out with her fing
ers wiggling suggestively.

  I shoot her a weak glare. “Mr. Vasari always looks as if he wants to bite my head off.”

  “He looks at you like he wants to eat you, virgin girl,” she corrects with a teasing smile.

  I sniff and lightly smack her arm as I walk towards the door. She likes to make fun of me for being a virgin at twenty-four.

  In her eyes, anyone who is a virgin after turning eighteen is a prude. Diana isn’t mean; it’s just her way of teasing me.

  I don’t mind; she’s not hurting my feelings.

  I make my way back to the first floor while dodging the bodies swaying to the music.

  The bartender has the Irish whiskey waiting for me. I put the drink on a tray and manage to avoid everyone making it their mission to knock it out of my hand.

  The bouncer at the bottom of the stairs steps aside so I can get to the second floor. I smile at the couple leaning over the railing to watch the mass of bodies grinding against each other.

  I manage to reach the third floor without incident, and the music turns into white background noise.

  The ice rattles against the glass as I knock on the massive door.

  His deep voice answers apathetically. I wish there were a choice, but I go through this routine every time I work. This time is no less intimidating than the first.

  I shakily breathe in a lungful of air to banish the apprehension.

  The door opens silently, and his ruggedly handsome face is glaring at me. An apology lodges in my dry throat as I awkwardly step into his massive office.

  The one-way glass behind him fails to distract me.

  Did I take too long?

  He’s going to yell at me. I can almost feel the words that are coming in the depths of my quivering bones.

  “Close the door,” he says, gut-wrenchingly intense.

  My hand stiffly shuts the door behind me as I start to feel dizzy.

  I convince myself that the faster I give him the drink, the sooner I can get back to work.

  Flustered and turning red in the face, I concentrate on finding my footing. One wrong move could end my employment.

  That is if he doesn’t end my life first.

  I set his drink down, and the tawny swirl catches my eye. Getting a death grip on the round tray, I rigidly nod at him to excuse myself.

  “Sit,” he commands dully.

  I applaud myself for not choking on my saliva. Sometimes I wonder if he has a problem with me. No one goes into his office as often as I do, and it’s not as glamorous as others make it out to be.

  No scandalous affair is happening behind closed doors. I’m just trying not to get fired and lose the amazing benefits of working here.

  The fat bonus checks are my primary motivation for keeping this job.

  “You were late coming to work,” he comments blankly.

  I fidget on the cushioned seat and stare at the chair behind his back. I’m afraid to look directly at his unfairly attractive face.

  I admit I find him appealing.

  He’s filthy rich, influential, and unusually handsome. He has all the desirable qualities of a man I could take home to meet my parents.

  As if someone like him would want a girl like me who barely has her life together.

  “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” I squeak out pitifully.

  He’s silent as his hot gaze moves down to my tight neck. My throat seizes painfully as my lungs scream for mercy, but his compelling glare is relentless.

  “There won’t be a second time,” he retorts distantly.

  Nodding as I hold my breath, I expect to be reprimanded for my irresponsible actions.

  Even though I was only late by a couple of minutes, he still found out. I slept through two alarms today and felt my soul die a little when I saw the time.

  “No excuse?” he asks. I’m positive he is taunting me.

  He is hard to read because his default expression is always a glare. He could be the reincarnation of Ares, the god of war, with his destructive aura.

  Despite everything, I’m ashamed to admit I imagine his arms holding me at times.

  “No,” I blurt out in distress. “No excuses.”

  I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs as the clammy fingers curl stiffly to ease the trembling.

  I refuse to tell him why I was late for work. What would he think if he knew I stayed up late looking at the stars?

  Given what I know of his no-nonsense demeanor, I wouldn’t put it past him to call me an idiot.

  “What do you have in your pocket?” he inquires, noticing the bulge from my eye drops.

  I remove the small bottle from my pocket and show it to him with tense fingers. There’s no reason to act guilty for having it.

  That’s Mr. Vasari’s charm—making people sweat out of guilt.

  He picks up his drink and stares me down. Fear crawls into my heart, and trepidation runs through my pulsing veins. His throat bobs as he sets the Irish whiskey down.

  “Emmy,” he says, my name rolling lethargically off his tongue.

  He stands, his massive frame dwarfing my quivering form. I feel edgy as my unblinking eyes follow his imposing steps towards me.

  Breathing is forgotten when he grasps my chin roughly with his big hand. His fingers scorch my delicate skin as he tilts my head further back. He is threatening to brand me with bruises, and my body is willing to give him that power.

  I feel compelled to get back in his good graces before he unhinges my jaw. “It won’t affect my work.”

  “I hate liars,” he retorts with a cold glare. “I especially hate it from you.”

  As his employee, I must please him so I can protect my paycheck. The more pressing issue is that I feel a need to be good in his eyes.

  It’s strange, but I’m actively trying to avoid disappointing him.

  He squeezes my jaw harder as I wince. “This is the only warning you will get.”

  Mr. Vasari digs his fingers into my skin, determined to bruise me while getting his point across.

  “Do you understand, little girl?”

  I manage to nod despite his unyielding grip. “Yes, Mr. Vasari.”

  His volatile gray eyes darken when he releases me, but the throbbing pain lingers.

  I lean back as he puts one knee on the floor. His glare sharpens when he presses a thumb under my eye.

  Self-consciousness flushes my cheeks as his stubborn gaze scrutinizes the curves of my face.

  I’m sure the eye drops had disguised my exhaustion. However, he notices everything, and his gray eyes flicker with irritation.

  Did my uneven breathing offend him?

  “Did you sleep last night?” he asks.

  Part of me thinks it’s wildly inappropriate for him to ask about my personal life. But the logical side doesn’t think it’s a big deal for him to be concerned about an employee.

  “I did,” I answer diligently. “I slept.”

  Technically, I did sleep.

  It was only a couple of hours, though, not enough to replenish me.

  His warning ricochets in my ears as he tightens his grip on my face.

  I clarify hastily, “A couple of hours. I’m fine. It won’t affect—”

  He clicks his tongue, and the rich aroma of his Irish whiskey trickles into my nostrils. He smells fantastic, and the scent excites me.

  My first thought is to refrain from pressing my nose against his strong neck, a dangerous sign that I need to get more sleep.

  Fraternization with the boss would only come back to bite me on the ass. He would come away unscathed, but I would take the brunt of the gossip.

  My parents would faint if they saw me labeled as a gold digger in the tabloids.

  He is older, absurdly wealthy, and owns multiple high-class nightclubs.

  “It won’t happen again.” I swallow earnestly.

  He gets back up and turns away from me. The expanse of his broad shoulders and obscenely tight black shirt force my tongue to thicken.

 
Tattoos are a fashion statement these days, but the ones on his body enhance his terrifying presence. Precise lines run down his burly arms, and a patch of black ink dominates his muscular neck.

  It’s not appropriate, but I wonder what it would be like to see the full extent of his ink.

  That would mean taking off his shirt.

  What in the world is wrong with me today?

  “Take the rest of the night off,” he utters, indifferent as he picks up the phone.

  “Wait—” My teeth slide painfully over my tongue. “Mr. Vasari, I can still work!”

  His gray eyes flash dangerously in my direction. Sealed lips mute my protest as he speaks to someone on the phone. Slamming it down, he continues to glower at me.

  I subtly raise my shoulders to my neck in response to his aggressive stance.

  Dropping my bottle of eye drops into the trash, he growls, “I don’t want to see you with this again.”

  “Go home and get to sleep early,” he says. “That’s an order.”

  My head bobs up and down as my voice fails me. His office door opens, and a woman in tight-fitting clothes greets him with a vacant look on her face.

  I recognize her as one of the bouncers.

  “Take her home,” Mr. Vasari sternly instructs the bouncer.

  The woman nods and turns to me with a piercing look in her eyes. “This way.”

  I stand awkwardly, inhale deeply, and tip my head slightly toward him in gratitude.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Vasari.”

  He growls gruffly. “Goodnight.”

  Chapter Two

  Vasari

  She’s one of the hardest-working employees I have.

  I think it stems from her inability to turn anyone down. Her kindness frequently gets taken advantage of, but she doesn’t notice.

  This place is my gift to her.

  I saw her working under the previous owner, and it makes my blood boil remembering those days.

  Emmy wasn’t working in a safe environment, surrounded by low-life cretins putting their unworthy hands on her. She couldn’t voice her grievances because her sleazy boss had equally grabby hands.