Rude Boss

“And you shouldn’t drink in the middle of the day,” he tells me. “You’ll mess around and screw up somebody’s taxes.”

“I’m not doing taxes yet, remember? You just tore me a new one about it in the conference room earlier.”

“Right.” He smiles.

It’s beautiful.

Devious and beautiful.

His smile changes everything about his aura. It makes you think he’s a good human. I’m sure that’s why he doesn’t do it often. The only times I’ve seen him smile are before or after he’s done something evil.

“Just so you’re not bringing it up later to make me look bad, it’s a virgin margarita.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. What reason do I have to lie?”

“Easy. Your boss caught you drinking on the job.”

“I’m not on the job. I’m out to lunch.”

He shakes his head. “After five o’clock, you do what you want. Between the hours of eight to five, you’re mine.”

I dart my head back. I know what he means, but he put a little too much emphasis on the you’re mine part of his explanation.

“And what grown woman orders a virgin margarita?”

“One who’s not a drinker like that and don’t mind it.”

He reaches across the table, picks up my glass and takes a sip.

I’m too appalled to react right away. The nerve of this guy. Did he really just…?

“Um, excuse me! How are you just going to put your mouth on my drink?”

“I had to see if you were telling me the truth.”

“You should’ve just believed me.”

“Should have, huh?” He picks up my glass a second time and goes in for another sip – a longer one this time. “Ahh,” he says, his thirst quenched by way of my drink. Meanwhile, his water is sitting there untouched.

Eyes narrowed, I say, “You have a lot of nerve.”

He pulls his glasses from his face and sets them on the table. “I know. By the way, that ain’t bad. Are you going to drink the rest of it?”

“Are you seriously trying to hijack my drink?”

“I mean, you’re just sitting there nursing the thing. If you’re going to drink it, drink it.”

“I can tell you the same thing about that water. All the ice done melted and you’re worrying about my drink.”

He smirks again. “You know what I like about you, Tessie.”

“Stop calling me that like we’re friends. We’re not friends, Mr. DePaul.”

As if he didn’t hear a word I just said, he repeats, “You know what I like about you, Tessie?”

This time when he says Tessie, it takes me back to a boy in high school who had a crush on me. I liked him too, but I felt like he needed more of a friend than a girlfriend back then. He was troubled. Kids used to pick on him all the time. He was the only one in my circle who called me Tessie.