Back in Black by Kriss Julie

Author:Kriss, Julie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Five Doors Creative
Published: 2017-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Ben

Here’s what the following week was like:

Hell.

Absolute fucking hell.

Sitting in that office every day, with Charlotte sitting at the desk at the other side of the room. I got her her own laptop, of course. I paid the bills she told me to pay and I sat down with the landlord—who was inexplicably impressed with me, just like Charlotte said—and signed the agreement to pay more rent than the strip mall. I did not leave my gym bag lying around—because she’d fucking thrown it out—and I didn’t hang the calendar with the nice ass on the wall—because she’d fucking thrown that out too.

And I didn’t try and get Charlotte naked, even when she sat at her desk with her nice legs showing beneath her skirt and her soft, tousled hair around her shoulders, because I’d promised not to. Because apparently I would do anything this woman fucking asked.

Ninety-three days, then ninety-four. Ninety-five.

“Seventy-five dollars,” she said to me when I walked in one morning. I tried to stay home and come in as late as possible, but apparently the prospect of being around my assistant actually brought me in to the office every day. I’d never come to my own office this much in my entire career.

“What?” I said.

She was sitting at her desk, prim as can be, wearing a dark skirt and a cream blouse. Her legs were crossed, and I could see the perfect curve of one knee. She pointed to the floor. “You just dropped your shirt,” she said.

It was true. I’d worn a hoodie over my T-shirt, but it was warm in here, so I took it off. It was on the floor. “So?” I said.

She gave me a laser look. “So, that’s seventy-five dollars. Because I’m not leaving that there, but I’m not picking up after you. So I’ll call the janitor to come pick it up. And as per the rental agreement, every time we call the janitor in for a special cleanup, it’s seventy-five dollars.”

I scowled at her. “That’s fucking outrageous.”

“I pay the bills,” she said.

Fuck. I scowled some more, but I reluctantly picked up the shirt. “You’re busting my balls,” I told her darkly.

“Someone has to,” she shot back. “Why do you use this place as a change room, anyway? Don’t you have a home?”

“I have to dress differently for different things,” I said. “And I’ve never had a woman sitting here busting my balls over it before.”

She pointed wordlessly to the coat rack in the corner, and as I hung the hoodie up she said, “Most people get dressed first, and then come to work.” But the sharp edge had gone from her voice, and she sounded almost curious.

“Most people have bosses,” I said, touching the button on my MacBook to power it up. I was wearing a dark green shirt with the Harley Davidson logo on it and one of my oldest pairs of jeans. “I don’t. I work for me. If I’m going to court, I wear one thing. If I’m talking to biker clients, or Devon, I wear something else.

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