My Arsehôle Boss

Mila

 

 

 

From— Miss Clinton

 

Subject— My arsehôle boss

 

Date— 22 April 2019, 14:35

 

To— Lexa Clinton

 

Fine. You were right. He is an arsehôle and I do want to quit.

 

Your friend

 

Mila

.

 

 

 

From— Lexa Clinton

 

Subject— Re: My arsehôle boss

 

Date— 22 April 2019, 14:39

 

To— Miss Clinton

 

I won’t say I told you so. But does it stop you from dreaming about kissing him and wanting to rip his clothes to see what’s hiding beneath that suit.

 

P.s. It’s still weird to write to myself.

 

 

Your only friend,

 

Lexa

 

.

 

 

To answer her question, unfortunately no. No matter how each day unravels the new shade of him being a bastard, I couldn’t stop desiring him. His voice and the way he moves, the panther like grace was hypnotizing. Not to mention, every night I go to sleep I dream about him. And the stupidest thing was I hate his behaviour, his personality but my body perks up every time it’s close to him. I had sketched it up to the fact that I hadn’t had any human touch in the last two years since I ran away from home, no hugs from my little brother, no soft caresses and no motherly affection from Meredith. The last time I had called my brother he had sternly told me not to call him and to get rid of the mobile phone I had purchased and it was sixteen months ago.

 

 

Coming back to present, besides this irrational desire, all I wanted to do was to go back there and tell him where he could shove those demands of his. Instead I gritted my teeth, curled my fingers into fists and did all I could to keep the anger and frustration building inside me to myself.

 

It wasn't new, I had spent my whole childhood like that because daddy dearest didn't ever allow an extra word for me to speak and if I somehow said something or did that was out of line I always got punished worse than my actual crime. But with my new boss, it was different, the urge to stand up to him, to speak my own mind was too much. May be it was the last two years that I had spent from one place to another, and I’ve became used to my freedom without being unnecessarily ordered around like I was a property of someone— the way my father used to treat me.

 

 

The rest of the day went with me fuming and calling out every Italian and Russian curse word in the books to that arsehôle. And not to mention the fact that how I managed to not dump the coffees he ordered for me to make for him and bit back every time he poured those bottles filled with clear liquid in his cups. For the fûcks sake, the coffee maker was just five steps away from his desk. I counted. And he makes me get it for him at least thirty times a day.

 

The glass doors opened and my eyes fell on the time at the bottom of the screen, it was quarter to six. He never comes out of his office unless it’s seven or if there’s a meeting he has to attend. Slowly, I lifted my eyes and watched as he stood there at the threshold his attention on his phone as he typed something. And for the sixth time since morning, I took my time to check him out. Even though the god forgot to give him an ability to smile, he surely made him as appealing as one could be to eyes.

 

“You can leave.”

 

Startled, I looked up to meet grey eyes. He was standing close now. I wanted to tug my glasses down to see clearly. To see how they looked up close, but I managed to open my mouth and said, “huh..”

 

“You are not getting paid to day dream, Miss Clinton.” His harsh words echoed around me, snapping me back to the fact that he was an arsehole, beautiful one but arsehole nonetheless. “I said, you can leave.”

 

“But, it’s not six yet.” The last time I had gone five minutes early, he had sent me another lengthy email about time. And kept me late for half an hour the next day.

 

“Didn't you hear me?"

 

“Okay.” I quickly logged out of my desktop. Shoved all the notes I had made for the upcoming presentation on the red wine the company was going to launch in the near future and put the files back in the drawer.

 

Picking up my purse, I came out from behind my desk. My attention was on the purse as I tried to pull the zipper and as a result I collided into a warm but hard wall. “Ow…” I gasped, the side of my cheek itching where it scratched on the button of his shirt.

 

“I see those glasses aren't working properly.” The cold, disrespectful voice said in that deep tenor.

 

I gritted my teeth but the words escaped. “They work just fine, but your legs on the other hand seems to not. Why are you still standing here?”

 

The air seemed to still around me as his eyes zeroed on me. It felt like it has been hours for me to stand under his scrutiny but I knew it was mere seconds, but in those seconds I saw more than felt how dangerous he was. And then his next words proved it. “Careful, Miss Clinton. This is my office and if you're not aware enough, then let me tell you, this is my city. And I can stand wherever the fuck I want. Chisto?” His cold gaze raked over me from head to toe and then he muttered, “Now get out, before I decide that you’ll make a good picture tied down in my basement.”

 

I gulped. My stomach hollowing out at that. He said it so calmly, without a mere twitch of muscle in his face or body, I knew he meant it. I think I might quit after all. Fuck.

 

I skirted around him and almost ran toward the elevator. All the while praying to whoever would listen that he wouldn't step in with me. But my prayers were in vain as he stepped in, crowding the lift. His mere presence seems to suck in all the oxygen. I bit down on my tongue as I lifted my hand to press the button, but gasped as his fingers circled around my wrist. My eyes flung to his but he wasn’t looking at me, he dropped my hand like he didn’t want to extend the touch more than necessary and then pushed the button for 0 level.

 

My eyes widened and a shot of panic ran through my system. I backed away to the corner of the elevator and looked at him, but he didn't grace me with even a glance as he stood there facing the elevator doors. Is he really going to take me to the basement? What will he do? Kill me? Or may be something else… The elevator gave a bump and then stopped. I didn't care that I was running, the moment the doors opened I dashed out and stopped short when I heard him.

 

“Oh, that's the other basement I was talking about.” His cold voice caressed me like a cool velvet. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I felt him walking closer to me. “Here, I only keep my cars. Not my captives.”

 

I bit down on the inside of my cheek and swàllowed the outburst as I started walking. But for the second time his words stopped me as he said, “Let me drop you to your place, Miss Clinton.”

 

That’s it. I whirled around and sucked in a breath as I realised how close he was standing to me, but the tingles erupting from the contact of my breasts to his chest didn't stop me from snapping at him. “Are you for real?!” I pointed a finger at him. Somewhere induced my brain a voice screamed to stop as I was giving too much away but I ignored it. “You just threatened me not three minutes ago, and now you're offering to drop me at home. Are you insane? In what world would I want to sit in a car beside a man who just threatened to lock me in a basement!!?”

 

He stepped closer, his eyes taking me in and I barely stopped myself from taking a step back as his right brow twitched as if looking for something. Then his next words registered, “In my world, Miss Clinton.”

 

I could feel my nostrils flaring. Dio. I wanted to punch him in his beautiful face. Instead, I turned around and marched away from him, looking for a way out of this place that looked more like a car showroom than an underground parking. 

 

 

 

 

Jonathan

 

 

 

I watched as she walked away from me, her every step filled with purpose as if she was searching for some unsuspecting being to lash out at. Interesting. The little mouse was turning out not so meek after all. And her voice… The sharp tone of her voice with underlying husky tone reminded me of something or someone. Hell, even though she’s not much to look at I liked how much she was trying to reign in her temper but still some of that fire slipped past her tight control. And that fire, somehow managed to keep my mind off the family dinner I was going to attend. 

 

The twenty five minute drive to the mansion was spent with me thinking about the little mouse, for some reason she was heavy on my mind since this afternoon. May be it was the fact that today was the first time I noticed her and realised that she wasn’t as she seemed, like there was something she was hiding. My lips twitched as I remembered how pale her face had gone when I had pushed the button for basement. I almost felt light after the interaction with the little mouse but as the distance to my destination diminished my mood soured. 

 

I slowed the car as the huge iron gates came into view. The guards stood on either side of the gate stepped back, pressing the lever to let me in. The mansion, my childhood home stretched across the wide area, elegant in its standing with huge towers on either side. But it doesn’t matter how beautiful the architecture was, there was no hiding the fact that it was a desolate place to be with all the windows dark and that feeling of death still clinging to it. The dark shadows told me that like always my father had shrouded the whole house in the dark. 

 

It had been like that since my mother died or more accurately was killed. And every time I try to forget it, something happens to bring it back and just like that, the son my mother loved so much takes a backseat while the monster that came to life remains here searching for victims to sacrifice at his mother’s altar. 

 

I drove down the cobbled driveway, noticing the gardens my mother used to keep alive with wild varieties of flowers was now barren and dead. By the time I climbed the three stairs to the wooden doors my mood was more bitter than before. The doors were pulled open before I could knock and instead of Mrs Gracia, a man was standing there.

 

“Who the hell are you?” I said, pushing past him not waiting for his answer.

 

But the answer came from my left. “Oh, meet, Marcel, our new butler slash bodyguard or whatever you want him to be.”

 

“Olezka.” I said turning to face my younger brother. Saint, the meaning of his name and he was anything but that.

 

“Its Lez, big brother.” His lips twisted as he came forward. “The one who used to call me that died a long time ago.”

 

“Boys.” 

 

I closed my eyes searching for a shred of patience or calm or any fûcking thing except this urge to kill my remaining family, as I turned to face my father. 

 

 

 

 

To Be Continued...

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