JESSICA
Itell myself karma is a very real thing, and I shouldn't spit in my boss's cappuccino because someone is bound to do it to me in the future. Or maybe they already have. I'm not always the friendliest person.
The thought of accidentally drinking a disgruntled server's saliva turns my stomach, and I nearly barf into a nearby trash can. Well, looks like I'll be preparing my own coffee for the next couple of weeks.
Great.
It’s a good thing I have an extra pair of shoes in my desk drawer at work because I don’t think I could have walked the four blocks to the cafe in the shoes I put on this morning. Just as my asshole boss suggested, I brought an umbrella with me because whaddya know, the second I step out of the building, a deluge like Jesus sobbing over my sorry state of affairs comes down from the sky.
I wasn’t always a bitch to my boss. When I first met him, I thought the sun rose out of his ass every morning. I was sent over to his office by a temp agency to take over a secretary he’d fired in the middle of the day because he found out she’d posted pictures of their date together on Instagram even though he specifically told her not to (I didn’t know this at the time). Mrs. Torres, the floor secretary, led me to his office and said, “Go ahead, dear, he doesn’t bite.” He didn’t even look away from his computer. He just motioned to the seat in front of him and told me to sit.
I wasn’t wearing my glasses because I wanted to make a good impression and didn’t want to look like a nerd, so I didn’t really see how handsome he was until he was about three feet away. As soon as I got a good look at him, my world flipped on its axis. Holy crap, there were people who looked like this in real life? Longish, wavy black hair that touched the collar of his shirt, intense green eyes, a bone structure an artist would kill to sculpt, and a full pink mouth that held a half-smirk when he looked up at me. I actually just gawked at the guy for a couple of minutes until I realized he was talking to me.
That crush only lasted a couple of weeks after discovering what an asshole he was. He never replied to anyone who said hello to him. He walked past people as if they weren’t there. He didn’t know how to say thank you. I was sure I’d be fired after I told him, “Make it yourself, I'm not your mom,” after he asked me to make him a sandwich while we were working at his penthouse, but instead, he just laughed and ordered take-out for the both of us.
Our working relationship changed after that. He discovered I’m not the type of person who gets pushed around, so instead of ignoring me, he switched to occasionally antagonizing me on purpose. It didn’t take me long to realize that he enjoyed our little abrasive interactions. It’s probably because he’s used to people kissing his ass and licking his balls or something, but I wasn’t going to play that game. I’d never been anyone’s bitch, and I wasn’t going to become his.
Six years later, here I am, fetching coffee and donuts for his lordship four blocks away from the office in the pouring rain because I can’t quit this job since I’ve never been paid this much in any of my others. Now I really can’t quit because the frickin’ FBI wants me to spy on his Mafia ass. I’d be the first one to say, “Hey, you can’t say he’s Mafia just because he’s Italian,” and whaddya know, he’s a goddamn Mafia prince: the eldest son of the Don Corleone of Southern California. And I’m supposed to watch over him now because he won’t let anyone else but me get close. For some strange reason, he’s taken a liking to me even though I’ve made it very clear to him several times in the past that I think he’s an arrogant dick.
I make it up to the fiftieth floor, the executive offices, sloshing in my tennis shoes, clutching my boss’s cappuccino in a to-go cup and the brown paper bag that contains his donuts under my coat. I glare at Mrs. Torres, who titters behind her hand. Even though I stuck one of those coffee stoppers in the hole on the lid, I still managed to spill on my blouse, and now there’s a stain the shape of Canada under my boob. I trudge toward my desk, feeling everyone’s eyes on me and hearing whispers. I’m everyone’s liaison to the dragon because they’re all afraid to talk to him. Normally, I would have said they have nothing to be scared of, and the guy’s bark is worse than his bite, but ever since I discovered his criminal background, I’m not so sure any of us are safe.
I knock twice on Vincenzo San Giovanni’s door and don’t wait for him to respond before I open it and walk in, heading straight for his desk. I pull out his coffee and his donuts from my coat and set them down carefully. I see the LA Times article on his monitor about that drug lord's kid who got himself blown up because somebody put a bomb in his daddy's car.
The boss looks at me and surveys me with a half-smile. "You look like a drowned duck, Ms. Lee. It must be cold out there. Why don’t you make yourself warm. If you have any extra clothes, you can use my personal bathroom to change. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir,” I reply, making sure my voice is dripping with sarcasm. If he didn't want me to get sick, he wouldn’t have sent me to get his coffee and pastry. Jerk. I sneeze and intentionally cover my mouth and nose too late. “Don’t put yourself out on my account. Enjoy your hot, fresh beverage and sweet, fried lard.” I turn away to leave.
The bastard’s amused chuckles send my temper sky-rocketing, but I manage to control it by sucking in deep breaths and thinking of pink, fluffy things. I am a good person. I will not snap, jump on his desk, and scream in his face.
“Ms. Lee, you really ought to get out of those wet clothes. I have something you can temporarily change into while you dry your clothes in the executive washroom dryer.”
I’m now convinced he’s deliberately pissing me off because he's never been considerate toward me in the six years we’ve known each other. Not once. “I’m fine, sir. I hear pneumonia is character-building. If you’ll excuse me.” I don’t even look back at him. I just walk out of his office.
“Ms. Lee–”
As soon as I get back to my desk, I shed my coat and hang it up on the rack behind me. I grab the extra clothes I keep in my bottom drawer– a failsafe for my clumsy spilling habits– and finagle the key to the executive washroom from Mrs. Torres, who doesn’t even argue like she usually does. When I get there, I shed my sodden clothes, take a warm shower, and change into my dry clothes, consisting of a plain white cotton blouse and a pair of black tailored trousers. I had to put on my shoes from this morning because mine were now soaked. I toss my wet clothes into the dryer and sneak out of the washroom back to my cubicle.
Once I get back there, I remember the tasks Boss Man gave me this morning: make restaurant reservations for him and some ho.
Oh, and send her some flowers.
Ugh.
I take the lazy way out and make reservations at a restaurant located in a hotel he owns. It's a Michelin-starred French restaurant, so it's not like he'll look bad.
The next thing I have to do is get flowers delivered to this lady.
Rebecca Kane.
Yeah, whatever, Becky. I look at my email for the delivery address and see that she lives in Silver Lake. A Silver Lake ho. Can the boss get any more basic?
I order the flowers and tell them to remove the thorns. I may be salty, but I'm not a monster. The florist asks if I want to add a message. "Yeah," I say with a snort. "'See you tonight - VSG.'" Am I a romantic or what?
Because my bones are still freezing, I go to the mini-kitchen to make myself some jasmine green tea before returning to my desk. I've been compiling leasing documents that the boss needs to sign. The company owns commercial buildings in Century City that rent out office space to various businesses. Boss has to sign off on all the lease renewals and requested amendments to CC&Rs.
Since we have thirty tenants in Century City alone, it took me a few hours to compile all the documents, which I inadvertently rendered useless when I spilled my tea all over them.
No big deal, but I'd have to reprint the docs, send them to the tenants, and have them resign. FML. Somebody up there hates me.