Hard For My Boss

Brady fills the silence with his own sexy threats. “I don’t know your game, Trevor, but I want you to know I see it. And I will not tolerate it. I don’t give two shits about any of these other guys, least of all you. But once I see through your scheme, I’m going to blow it up, and I’m going to get the recognition I deserve.”

“I’m not d-doing anything,” I state suddenly, gathering my courage at last. Despite my stuttering voice, I push the words out and straighten my spine in the face of heterosexual gorgeousness. “I don’t have any game. I just clock in, do what I’m asked, and clock out. I don’t know about the first d-damned thing your sexy ass is saying to me.”

I blink, stunned. Sexy ass? Seriously?

“You’re a schemer,” Brady states, either ignoring me or not having heard my words at all. He shakes his head disapprovingly. “I knew it the second I met you in the copy room that first day and you played dumb, acting like you didn’t know how to change the toner. Everyone knows how to change the toner.”

“I … I didn’t know,” I start, trying to defend myself to this guy with demigod eyes and a face cut from stone. Seriously, it’s not easy. It’s like trying to argue with Michelangelo’s statue of David.

“And maybe Rebekah and Mr. Gage are buying your innocent-eyed play-dumb thing, but I don’t buy it for a second. And unlike them, I can’t be flirted with. I see right through you.”

“Oh, can’t be flirted with, huh?” I counter. “So that makes it totally alright for you to … to play your sexy little game and flash your pretty eyes and cock-tease the boss with your tight gym body and … and … and your perfectly styled hair?”

I’m not very good right now at insulting him, apparently.

Brady ignores my tirade. His hard, unbending eyes bore down onto me as he whispers, “No matter what you do, just remember this: in the end, I’m the one who wins this game. Not you.”

His eyes are so bright and fierce, each time he blinks, it’s like two shutters eclipsing the glorious sun.

“Well, I hope you like playing with yourself,” I state, lifting my chin smugly, “because … because you’re the only one playing any game, apparently. I don’t play dumb, I don’t charm supers, and I definitely don’t flirt my way to the top.”

Nor do I hook up with my boss at a club.

Or go back to his place and nearly have sex. Twice. Sorta.

And let’s not forget our adorable bathroom tête-à-tête.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Brady,” I continue on, addressing the tall slender block of perfection that is my rival, “I was in the middle of getting some envelopes.”

With that, I turn my back on the office bully and resume my little stretching exercise, humiliating myself as I grunt and reach for the top shelf. I pretend he totally isn’t glaring at me with those smoldering, sexy eyes. Shut up, Trevor’s dick.

After a beat, Brady steps beside me and, with ease, grabs the box of envelopes off the top shelf, then tosses them at my chest. I catch them, then watch as Brady saunters off without so much as a glance back my way. I stare after him awhile, feeling more and more unsettled by the second as his words sink in.

All humor aside, I realize the severity of his threats. It isn’t something I should take as lightly as this box of envelopes in my sweaty grip. Brady is certain that something’s going on with me, something strange, something of a game. That leads me to wonder if the other interns suspect anything, too.

And what about Elijah? Is that why we’re hitting the pizzeria later after work? He chats with all of the others. Surely he gets all the juice from the grapevine.

What if I’m the latest grape?

27

Trevor enjoys a polite scolding.

“One small pep,” Elijah instructs the guy at the counter, “and a three-top medium with onions, mushrooms, and bacon.”

“We’re out of bacon,” the guy replies.

“Sausage, then.”

“We’re out of sausage.”

“Jesus, just put some meat on the dang pizza,” Elijah exclaims, exasperated. “Ham, turkey, cat, your manager’s dick, something. You got two starved, cranky guys to serve here!”

“I’m not cranky,” I interject.

Elijah glares at me and says, “You’re about to be,” to which I just roll my eyes and drop back into my seat by the window.

After paying, he plops down in the chair across from me. “The tables here are tiny,” I complain. “We taking the pizzas back to the apartment? Or—?”

“The booths are all taken. We’ll deal.” Elijah glances at a girl strolling by outside the big window, distracted for a second, then cracks his knuckles and faces me. “You and I got some unfinished business to discuss.”