Olivia P.O.V
“Miss Miller, I wanted those papers on my desk yesterday!”
Mr. Black stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. The hinges rattled almost as loudly as his fury.
“Asshole.” I muttered under my breath, grabbing the papers he’d only asked for five minutes ago.
Realistic expectations for hard-working employees who practically lived at their jobs? Nonexistent. Unfortunately, inhumane speed wasn’t a specialty of mine, so I was deeply sorry that I’d been busy getting his dry cleaning re-cleaned – because the first attempt hadn’t met his standards. The woman on the phone thought I was a juvenile delinquent playing pranks on minimum wage workers. It took five precious minutes just to explain that this wasn’t a joke, and that my boss was simply a dick.
After mentally cursing Mr. Black’s entire existence – picturing his slow, painful demise in meticulous detail – I grabbed his precious papers and hurried to his office. As usual, I knocked twice, stepping back until my rigid form was dismissed by his permission to enter.
Two minutes passed agonizingly slow until his husky voice beckoned me inside.
Mr. Black sat at his desk, staring intently at his computer screen. “Sir? I have the papers you wanted.” He didn’t look up, merely gestured for me to place them on his overly organized desk with a flick of his Cartier-adorned wrist.
I stepped back, waiting to be dismissed. “Miss Miller, why can’t I access my emails?” It sounded less like a question and more like an accusation.
“They’ve updated the system, sir. If you reload the page and click the grey square in the upper right corner, you’ll find everything you need.”
I watched as he tapped away at his screen. “It’s not working, Miss Miller.” I mentally berated myself for not sending IT up here instead of trying to be a good assistant and solve his problem myself.
I rounded his desk. He eyed me cautiously, as if I were about to pull a revolver from between my breasts and demand his money.
Ignoring his gaze, I leaned down and did exactly as I’d told him to do three minutes ago. “There.” I stood back. “Your emails.”
He didn’t so much as say “thank you.” Just a curt nod and a “Get me a cup of coffee. Make sure it’s not that Starbucks shit. I swear to god they burn it on purpose… those motherfuckers.”
“Of course, sir.” I’d gotten him Starbucks once. A “peace offering,” as I’d put it. He hadn’t asked for it, but he’d taken one sip and thrown it in the trash, accusing me of trying to poison him.
I wished I had.
I exited his office and sat back down at my desk, dialing my private driver, Stanley. A perk of the job I’d definitely earned after the constant midnight runs to get Mr. Black a single printed file he could easily view on his computer. I’d let him know this countless times, but he insisted on the physical copy.
I begged Stanley to drive across New York City to get a cup of coffee from Mr. Black’s favorite shop, Bluestone Lane. I told him to pay for everyone’s orders, taking it a step beyond the “pay for the person behind you” trend. “Are you sure that’s wise, Miss?” Stanley asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
My so-called boss put me through hell every day and night of my life, so of course I was going to abuse his credit card. “Yes, Stanley. Don’t worry. He’s so rich, he probably won’t notice. If he does, you’ll have nothing to do with it.”
He chuckled, finally giving in. “You two are a match made in hell.” I shrugged, knowing he couldn’t see me. “Thank you, Stanley.” I used a sickly sweet voice, which made him chuckle again.
My boss may be hot, but he’s the boss from hell. If I could go back to my younger self when I was considering applying here, I’d hold a gun to her head and make her swear she’d never apply. This is proof that personality trumps looks. I wouldn’t go on a date with that man if my life depended on it. Sure, he looks like one of those Calvin Klein models, but once you know the man… no. I’d rather have someone pull my teeth out one by one.