Fuck It (Yama Yama)

Fuck it.

The damage is done.

I’ve barely been here for any time at all, and I’m officially an office slut. A slut who isn’t even getting laid because I’m terrible at sex. Can’t wait to hear what Roman has to say about this. Bright side? He may kill Anderson for shredding my reputation.

Anderson finally stops laughing, but I can tell he’s struggling to hold it all back.

“Why did you even come in here?” I ask bitterly, tugging the pencils out of my hair in front of my small mirror, and finger-combing my blonde locks into place. “And who the hell was that girl?”

I’m pretty sure my reflection has never been so red before. Flushed and frustrated, I turn to glare at him. He’s still battling that obnoxious grin of his.

“That girl is my new intern. And I came to see if you needed any help. This is a team-player sort of establishment. I don’t expect you to tackle this entire project by yourself. We always team up, but you seem to struggle to play nice with others.”

No one in the world can infuriate me more than him with just a few sentences. “Because you think I’m not a team player, that gives you the right to walk into my office whenever you want without knocking?” I ask flatly.

His hate-inspiring grin only grows. “We rarely knock around here. If someone doesn’t want to be disturbed, they lock the door. Then again, if we’re mostly naked, we usually lock the door as well.” The bastard lifts an eyebrow at me, as if challenging me to open my mouth again, before adding, “Surely that last one is common knowledge, but as far as the first part goes, you should have figured that out by now, given how long you’ve been here.”

Since my creativity is on a boost, I start coming up with some pretty unique ways to kill him. One of which involves embalming him while he’s still alive and thrashing on the mortician’s table. Another involves some rope, an eighteen-wheeler, and a long stretch of highway covered in hot tar.

“Are you done making my morning hell? Or do you need to continue?”

His grin remains, which has me continuing to conjure up inventive and gruesome ways to end his life. When his gaze flicks beyond me to my terrible scribbles on my poster boards, his eyebrows go up.

“Are you doing a high school project?”

“Is it in your blood to be an asshole, or do you force yourself to be this terrible?”

He looks back at me, completely unruffled, grin still strong. “It’s a gift. But I’m being serious. Why the poster boards?” He crosses the room to investigate them better.

“It’s my process. You’re not supposed to see my process—hey! Don’t touch them!” I gripe at him when the prick actually picks up idea number eight.

“This has some good bones, but there are several factors that are—”

“So help me, if you say unoriginal, I will break my coffee cup over your head and cut your heart out with one of the broken shards.”

Okay…that was supposed to be said in my head, not aloud. Sleep deprivation is obstructing the brain-to-mouth filter.

He ignores the very detailed death threat. “I was going to say a little…scattered. But it’s a good start if you can find a way to trim some of this out and offer more finesse so that it’s not so in-your-face with the message.”

My nails cut into my palms, and I work really hard to contain the next outburst. And the angry tears…damn them for trying to sneak up on me. Never have I had this much anger when working. Not even my parents can create an ire this consistent and intense.

“It’s literally something I came up with overnight. It’s not ready to be torn apart, Mr. Harper. Could you please get out of my office now so I can work on getting it up to your ever-so-magnificent standards?”

His grin turns into a smirk as he keeps his eyes on the poster board, but he finally puts it down. The second his gaze swings toward me, it sweeps down my body, lingering on my exposed knees for a second while humor lights his eyes.

“You’ve been on your knees in front of me, mostly naked, and bent over a desk for me first thing this morning—”

“That was not for you,” I interrupt, flustered.

“—my hands were definitely on your breasts—”

“Not by choice!” I interrupt again.

“—and the entire office now thinks you and I are doing more than simply working together,” he goes on, acting as though I didn’t interrupt him. Twice. “Pretty sure you can call me Anderson instead of Mr. Harper.”

I open my mouth to speak, then close it again. He winks at me then turns to leave, his attention on his phone as he does something.

“Oh, and put something on those knees. I’d hate to see them scarred,” he adds with his back turned, his focus still on his phone.