Demanding Boss

by Celia Crown

  Whether it’s due to being surrounded by beautiful women or receiving privileged treatment, I don’t know.

  This nightclub isn’t short on beautiful women or gorgeous men. They all talk and strut their stuff with great confidence. I feel so out of place every time I serve drinks to them.

  Diana slips into the room on her left while I turn to the door on the right. I knock politely and wait until I receive permission to go in. I crack the door open and smile at the guests who are making a mess of the room.

  Cash litters the floor, loud music shakes the room, and dancers enchant the guests with their fluid movements.

  Why do I envision snake charmers?

  I can’t decide if the VIP guests are snake charmers, but the dancers are indeed turning into snakes with their boneless moves.

  It’s unnerving.

  Maybe I don’t see the appeal of lap dances, or any sensual dances.

  Many see it as seduction. I, on the other hand, am just worried about their health and safety.

  That reminds me, I ponder with a blink. I should do more stretches in the morning.

  My limbs are too stiff to attempt doing the splits. I would pull a muscle before I could even stretch my legs.

  Pushing back my thoughts, I set the drinks on the messy table and collect the empty glasses. None of them address me or even notice I’m in the room with all the scantily-dressed women around.

  I prefer it when they ignore my existence after being groped many times while working for the previous owner.

  I never thought I’d work in a club, but I had heard the money was excellent. I regretted it the minute they hired me, but I powered through the first several months while looking for other jobs.

  I finally found the perfect job for me, but then Mr. Vasari bought the club and turned it into a more pleasant work environment.

  How could I leave when this job pays three times more than the average salary in the city?

  Mr. Vasari is too generous. I guess that makes up for his unapproachable attitude.

  Honestly, I like that rugged and aggressive streak in him.

  It’s almost as if I want to be dominated by him.

  Choking on the thought as I rush to clear the dirty glasses, I realize I’ve always felt attracted to him. But I also know where we stand.

  He doesn’t see me as anything more than an employee.

  There are a lot of things against me. Not only am I inexperienced, but I’m also self-conscious. I’m not conventionally beautiful, like the stunning women in the club. And I don’t have the status to warrant his professional attention.

  Nothing about me should interest him, but I do have his attention.

  My self-deprecating side believes that Mr. Vasari pities me and thinks I can’t defend myself, especially walking home at night.

  I scowl, thinking I’m putting myself down for no reason. Everyone has preferences, and I just don’t meet his criteria.

  He’s definitely my type, though. Big, handsome, and so strong. Ink is a plus in my eyes, and I want to run my hands over the patterns while feeling his muscles ripple.

  “Shake your ass for me, baby!” one of the men shouts as he whistles.

  My eyes dart to the woman in question just in time to see her ass jiggle so vigorously that I’m incredibly uncomfortable.

  Oh, no, this scene is not my style.

  I pick up the tray of empty glasses and quickly excuse myself. I close the door mid-whistle, quivering as I exhale.

  “Are you going to throw up?” Diana asks, propping her hand on her hip.

  “No,” I say, bemused. “Do I look pale?”

  “As a ghost.” She cocks her head to gaze at my jaw.

  I’m not someone who bruises easily. The marks made by Mr. Vasari on my chin are gone, and it’s only been a couple of days.

  Discomfort flares at the back of my neck, so I stop to rub the aching muscles.

  Someone is watching me.

  I turn to find Mr. Vasari’s stormy eyes on me as he walks down the hall with a well-groomed man at his side. The man is wearing a suit, so he is either a VIP guest or an investor.

  Moving aside to let them pass, I see Diana’s brows wiggle as she cracks a sly grin.

  Mr. Vasari keeps his eyes on me while the man is singing his praises. He’s probably an investor, but my boss doesn’t seem interested and gazes intently at my forehead instead.

  Why does he always stare at me?

  I feel another nip at the back of my neck.

  That’s strange. Mr. Vasari is lighting a fire on my forehead, yet it’s my neck that’s hurting.

  As I reach to scratch the back of my neck, jagged pain explodes in my hand. Fragments of glass slice into my skin as a mighty wind rushes across my back.

  My knees hit the floor as a thunderous crash strikes fear in my core. Pain sweeps over every inch of my body as hollow ringing hums in my ears.

  A massive hand clutches my arm, dragging me over the serrated glass on the floor before slamming me against a strong body.

  “Emmy,” Mr. Vasari’s deep voice calls as he shakes my shoulders.

  I blink through the haze. “What happened?”

  Glancing at the glass all over the floor, I turn toward the broken window and sputter in shock. A long arrow is ominously sticking out of the wall.

  The arrow must have gone right through my hair. I could’ve been struck by it.

  “Oh, God!” the man beside me screams. “Call the cops!”

  Mr. Vasari cradles my cheek and tilts my head to look up at him. The riveting fury in his eyes circles like a storm as he growls with great hostility.

  Diana yells at someone to call the police. I want to see if she’s alright, but he won’t let me. His hand grips my jaw tightly as he studies my face.

  His angry eyes move to the broken window and the arrow in the wall before they come back to me. He hauls me up from the ground, the broken glass tinkling as it strikes the ceramic tiles.

  He looks at both of my hands, tiny cuts gushing with blood as his thumb smears it over my knuckles.

  “Where do you feel pain?” he asks, uncannily calm.

  I admit shakily, “I don’t know. I can’t feel anything right now.”

  Running footsteps approach from each end of the hallway as someone mentions that the police are on the way.

  I tremble under his relentless gaze as he searches for the truth about my injuries.

  He lifts my arms to check the curves at my waist and the dip of my spine. Adrenaline spikes as his sturdy hands skim over my hips. He kneels and squeezes his hands around my thighs before moving down to my ankles.

  His hands don’t stray, and he’s not trying to cop a feel. He’s checking for injuries that I might not feel with all the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

  Mr. Vasari orders everyone to step away from the windows. His voice is comforting to my erratically racing heart when a hiccup catches me by surprise.

  “Look at me, Emmy,” he commands harshly. “Focus on me.”

  Blinking rapidly, I find his determined gray eyes. My breathing slows down to match his, and the adrenaline gradually fades away. But panic starts to take its place.

  “I—”

  “Quiet,” he hisses. “Just breathe.”

  I do as he says, grasping his thick arms for support as my knees wobble. The pit in my stomach coils, mocking my inability to stop hyperventilating.

  A blaring siren shakes the remaining shards of glass in the window frame. I stay close to Mr. Vasari as I count every breath, helping me focus on the things I can control.

  When the police barge onto the second floor, the sound of shattered glass under their shoes brings on a swirl of anxiety.

  Mr. Vasari guides me away from the windows with a protective arm around my shoulders. His grasp helps focus my attention as the policemen hound us with questions.

  I can’t find my voice, and I’m thankful that Mr. Vasari is taking over. He recounts the event in great detail and demands
that someone more competent take charge of the case.

  I need to sit. My feet hurt, and the agony in my knees is now moving to other areas of my body.

  His hand pulls me to his side, wrapping his arm around my waist to support me.

  I’m feeling like a rag doll.

  Slowly but surely, I regain some of my strength and gather my thoughts. I catch some of what the detectives are saying, and indignant irritation washes over me.

  “It could be a freak accident.”

  How can they think that an arrow through the window is a freak accident?

  I can’t wrap my head around the idea that someone shot an arrow into a building and could have killed someone.

  That’s a crime; intent to harm at the very least.

  The tight hold Mr. Vasari has on my body is silencing my voice. His cold gray eyes are frightening. His unspoken power is dominating my vehement desire to participate in the discussion.

  “We will investigate, but I don’t expect to find much.” The detective sighs as he parts his hair down the middle.

  Why is the man styling his hair?

  “We’re so busy with the gang war,” he says petulantly. “We will be lucky if we even get a lead to pursue. This case is low priority, so yeah, no need to worry.”

  I want to yell at him. No wonder people have trouble trusting the police, especially in rough neighborhoods.

  “As I said,” he comments with a reckless smile. “Just a freak wanting to play vigilante. I mean, why shoot arrows when you can use bullets?”

  The disrespectful man continues with a belly laugh, “This isn’t the jungle!”

  Mr. Vasari holds me to him, pressing my mouth against his muscular chest so I can’t get the angry words out. His hand against the back of my head holds me still as his fingers gently run through my hair.

  “We have finished interviewing the witnesses,” the detective says as he yawns.

  He adds, “You can file for damages with the city.”

  Walking away across the broken glass, he shouts for the other policemen to leave with him.

  Mr. Vasari barks orders to the employees about cleaning the hall and escorting the guests out since the nightclub won’t be open for the rest of the week.

  “I will handle it, Emmy,” he vows hoarsely. “Someone will pay for hurting you.”

  “How?” I choke pitifully. “Even the police aren’t taking this seriously.”

  “Police are useless around here,” he remains unperturbed. “It is a well-known fact that the police don’t want to cause any trouble for high-rollers. Maintaining the illusion that it’s a safe neighborhood is to everyone’s benefit.”

  “That doesn’t make sense!” I retort as I frown up at him. “That’s not right!”

  “It’s not,” he agrees. “But it’s the status quo here.”

  “But—”

  He yanks my hair when he takes his fingers away from my head and folds his hand over my wrist. “Don’t be naïve, little girl.”

  Wrenching me away from the employees cleaning up the glass, he takes me to his office on the third floor.

  “Mr. Vasari!” I exclaim in fear. “There’s an arrow in the wall. How’re you not worried?”

  “I’m not worried,” he intones. “I’m angry.”

  He shuts the door and abruptly slides his hand into my hair. The commotion outside has subsided, the lights indicating that the club is closed for an emergency.

  “I’m angry that I didn’t install bulletproof windows,” he sneers ferociously. “This shouldn’t have happened; I will never let any harm come to you under my watch.”

  “I didn’t get hurt,” I protest weakly.

  With a heated look, he jerks my wrist up, “What is this, then?”

  Dried blood is all over the back of my hand, and shallow cuts are scattered here and there. But it’s nothing that disinfectant and band-aids won’t fix.

  “You’re not going home tonight,” he utters, suppressing my protest with a paralyzing glare.

  “I can take care of myself.” I still try to convince him even though he has no right to stop me from going home if I so choose.

  “You can come home with me, or you can fend for yourself,” he offers coldly.

  I swallow hesitantly because his offer is tempting. I instinctively want to accept the offer and find safety in his arms.

  But my logical side still wins.

  I mumble unconvincingly, “As the detective said, it was probably a freak accident.”

  I don’t believe it was a weird occurrence or a prank gone wrong.

  Maybe there will be a video online tomorrow with the pranksters explaining that they did it for shock value.

  “Is that a stupid risk you want to take?”

  He was never going to let me win the argument. Not when he has valid points to override my naïve point of view.

  I shake my head in defeat. “Please take care of me, sir.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

  Chapter Four

  Vasari

  “This is your room.”

  Emmy gurgles unintelligibly. “That’s your room.”

  “It’s yours for now,” I insist as I hold the door open for her.

  I didn’t plan on having her in my home this soon. I expected it to take several months to crush her independence.

  But something I never expected has now pushed her into my arms. I would be an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity.

  “Are you sure?” she whispers as her unblinking eyes scan the room.

  The décor is simple, with minimal clutter.

  I like to read when I’m not working, and the comfortable table and chair in the corner give me peace of mind. It is very soothing after being surrounded by blasting music and obnoxious guests every day.

  I believe books will be on the back burner while I help my Emmy overcome her hesitation about being here. She can treat this home as if it’s her own, even rearranging the furniture if it suits her.

  “You’re the safest in here,” I reckon as I lightly place a hand on the small of her back.

  She steps into the bedroom with awe flickering across her pretty face. Her eyes shine when she stares at the massive windows.

  “It’s reinforced glass,” I mention as she peers down at the backyard.

  I may own a popular club and interact with many people daily, but that doesn’t mean I like having my privacy invaded by nosy neighbors.

  The silence of my house allows me to unwind; that’s how I avoid burnout.

  “I shouldn’t take this room,” Emmy shyly says as she turns to me. “It’s your home, and it’s your bed.”

  “Do I have to tie you to the bed?” I quip.

  The benefits of tying a rope around her little wrists would be significant. She might be traumatized, but I would overcome that feeling with my tongue.

  Emmy whines low in her throat. “No, but where will you sleep?”

  “I have several guest rooms and a couch.”

  This place is enormous and has many beautifully furnished rooms. Sometimes I wonder why I bought it since I live alone.

  As the owner of several nightclubs, nothing turns me off more than sex.

  I started in the nightlife business when I was young. I didn’t have an aversion to one-night stands, but I never sought them out either.

  I became repulsed by sex after buying my first nightclub. The unsanitary conditions for having sex there were ridiculous, and the bathroom floor was not exempt either.

  I hold myself to strict standards of hygiene. Seeing people jump on each other is disgusting to me.

  Now that I have laid eyes on Emmy, though, I feel compelled to fuck her.

  She brings out the dormant monster in me and will come to regret smiling so sweetly.

  Emmy knows that I’m not a good person, and I don’t go out of my way to behave morally.

  That will make it easier for her to accept me when I unleash the desire to
make her mine.

  “Maybe you should take the bed,” Emmy says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

  “Don’t fight me on this again, little girl,” I warn as her lashes flutter uncertainly.

  There is a flash of bravery in her eyes before it washes away. I’m not disappointed that she stopped arguing about the room. She’s testing her boundaries to see what will get her in trouble with me.

  I have already crossed many emotional boundaries with her, and I will do the same with the physical ones soon.

  “I’ll make dinner for us,” I offer. “Come with me.”

  I’m proud to admit that I have been using my free time to learn things I didn’t care about before.

  I have found detailed cookbooks and professional chefs to learn how to make a healthy meal. I installed new security measures for my home. And I stocked the storage room with different kinds of bedding.

  Now that I think about it, it sounds like I’m planning to hold her hostage.

  On the other hand, I haven’t done anything illegal yet. I’m merely welcoming Emmy to my home. She will inevitably live with me; I will make it happen one way or another.

  If it comes to force, I will buy her entire housing complex and evict all the tenants. If necessary, it wouldn’t hurt to demolish the building and destroy her hopes of living there.

  The ends justify the means.

  “What do you make at home?” I ask as I start preparing dinner.

  Emmy leans across the countertop to watch as I wash the ingredients. I will be utilizing a knife and will not let her near me for her safety.

  “Frozen meals,” she quips excitedly. “Microwave it for five minutes, and there’s no cleanup needed.”

  I don’t mean to be blunt, but I need to know. “Do you want to die young?”

  She purses her lips unhappily. “Frozen meals won’t kill me faster than what happened tonight.”

  I must find a way to wean her off processed frozen foods that are just convenient. Now that I am in her life, she doesn’t have to worry about having a decent meal.

  We can’t change the past, but her future will be different now.