Rude Boss

“Don’t tell me it’s a high school crush that’s taking my boy off the market.”

“She took me off the market a long time ago.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about her?”

I pick up my glass, swirl the drink around in it and toss the rest of it back. Then I say, “I don’t talk about my personal life all that much.”

“But you’re talking about it now, which means something’s up. What’s eating at you? Get it off your chest, playboy.”

And this is what I don’t like about this guy. He can’t be serious about anything. I don’t know how he managed to work his way up to chief financial officer. I would rather let a five-year-old handle my finances before Brock. If his life isn’t in order, then nothing else is, including his job. It amazes me how clueless he is to this fact.

“There’s nothing I need to get off my chest.” I sigh and glance at my watch. I should’ve left when he started the nonsense about the ratio of women to men. A man – a real one – can only have one queen. That’s what I’ve learned from my experience out here in these streets, and most likely, that man already knows who the queen is. He’s already envisioned his life with her, like I’ve done with Quintessa too many times to count.

“Ay, is that an Audemars?” he asks, looking at my watch.

“It is.”

“See, you are the man. That’s how bosses roll! Do you think I can afford an Audemars? Not in this lifetime. Humor me…how much was that one?”

“It doesn’t matter, man.”

“Come on, DePaul. Tell me. Put me out of my misery.”

“It was twenty-five thousand.”

What he doesn’t realize is I don’t buy these things for status. This is just the way I dress. When you make millions of dollars, it’s nothing to drop twenty-five thousand on a watch or a quarter mil on a car.

I stand up and say, “It was good seeing you, Brock, but have to be heading out. I have another engagement.”

“I bet you do, player!” I slap hands with him and head for the door.

On the way there, a woman grabs my forearm. She’s pretty – has lust in her eyes that tells me, if I wanted her to go home with me tonight, she’s game – down for whatever.

She says, “Hey, handsome. My name is Enya. What’s yours?”

Women are bold these days. While I’m all for people going after what they want, as a man, I don’t want a woman chasing me. I’m the pursuer – not vice versa.

I say, “Hi. There are plenty of men up in here who are looking for women like you. I’m not one of them.”

She frowns and rolls her eyes. “What you mean, women like me?”

“You know who you are.” I shake my head and continue out the door.

I get in the car and call my mother. She’s been sick for a while, but every time I call to check on her, she goes on and on about how I’ve changed. How she wants her son back like I’m not her son. The last time we talked – last Saturday – she told me I was hardheaded and would die alone if I didn’t change my ways.

Why would I change my ways? I like my ways. I don’t see a need to change a thing.

“Hello? Can you hear me, son?”

“Yes, Mother. I can hear you.” I start the car. “How are you?”

“I’m doing just fine. How are you on a Saturday night, or shall I ask, what are you doing?”

“I was just out for a drink.”

“Oh,” she says perkily. I can hear the excitement in her voice. “Were you on a date?”

“Mother, don’t start that again.”