“Hey.” I try to stop him. He swipes my hands away. “What’s the problem? I don’t hear the boss man coming.”
“Boss man’s right here. And that’s the problem.” Trevor eyes me with severity. “This may be some big joke to you, but this is my career you’re toying around with, and—”
“I’m not toying with anything,” I insist innocently. “You were the one toying with my cock, to be fair.”
He rolls his eyes and pushes out of the stall door, unimpressed with my humor.
Of course that only eggs me on worse. “You have a great grip, by the way.”
“Wasn’t much to grip,” he shoots back.
I grin. Now he’s really egging me on. “Maybe you need another grip to remind yourself, intern. I doubt you can wrap your whole hand around it.”
He ignores my taunt. “I’m going to go out there and … and just do my job,” he states calmly. “What happened between us after the nightclub was just a passing, nothing … thing. We’re in a new setting here—”
“Never done it in a restroom,” I confess with a light nod.
“Do you take anything seriously??” he half-growls. “I meant in the new setting of the office, and therefore, we have rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yes. And you laid them out already.” He points at me. “Boss.” He points at himself. “Intern. That’s the beginning and the end of this. I don’t want any special treatment. And I don’t want any … not special treatment, either. Or whatever.” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, his face flushing. “I just … just want to be another one of your employees. Nothing more, nothing less.” He flaps his eyes open and stares somewhere in the vicinity of my knees.
“No special treatment, then.”
“I’m going back to work now,” he announces to the floor.
“You’re doing an objectively really great, unbiased, totally impartial job, by the way. Top marks.”
His eyes seethe when they meet mine. I’d like to think they’re seething with lust, but he’s a touch too pissed off to tell. The sight gives me more pleasure than I ought to admit.
I smile innocently, then add, “I’ll be sure to put a note in your monthly eval.”
To that, Trevor puts on a super serious, totally professional, impressively straight-lipped business face. “Goodbye, boss.”
“See you around, intern.”
And then he gives me the gift of his tight tush as he spins around and marches out the door. I tilt my head and watch, a crooked smile spilling across my face.
13
Trevor needs to let off some steam.
The rest of the day is a big horny haze.
I should jot that down in my journal.
Today: a big horny haze.
When I leave the office, all I want to do is go home and bury my face in a pile of pillows and a bowl of hot fudge-glazed cookie dough ice cream.
Instead, I’m roped against my will into Elijah’s plan of hanging out with some of the interns. “I’m tired,” I lie.
“You’re not wigglin’ out of this, bud.” Elijah hisses all of this into my ear as he walks right by my side like a bride down the damned aisle. He wears a weirdly smug smirk too, like he’s super proud to be my best friend suddenly and wants the other interns—none of whom are looking our way at all—to see that.
Plus, he gave me so much shit when I refused to name which “intern” I was getting busy with in the bathroom. I still haven’t even confirmed it was me, but Elijah knows better, and I can’t hide a damned thing from my face when he’s pressing me the way he does—aggressively and without relent.
He did insist that he won’t press me in front of the other interns, since he doesn’t know who it is and doesn’t want to embarrass me, but he expects me to cave one of these days.
If only he knew.
Hopefully he never does.
It turns out to be some nauseating hipster coffee hangout that the interns were so dying to go to. Color me a tart shade of yippy when we stroll through its doors. Triple espresso macchiato is just my favorite. And the ratio of guys wearing fake designer glasses they don’t need is ten to one. And the amount of man buns, suspenders, and skinny jeans is enough to put every thrift store from here to Canada out of business.
And they’re playing fucking Lana Del Rey.
“Really, though,” starts Elijah when we and the three other interns plop down at a booth. “Spill the deets. Did boss man make anyone feel two inches tall? I heard he’s really good at that.”
Not sure about two inches tall, but he made me six inches hard. “Not really, Elijah.”
He furrows his brow at me. “Don’t say my name like that. It’s like you’re annoyed that I wanna ask you questions. Like … Elijah,” he sings, mocking my tone. “Like—Not really, Eliiiijah. C’mon. I’m your bud. Throw me a bone.”