The Billionaire Boss Next Door
Shit.
It’s not like they’re miles away, but this place is still a maze of dark construction hallways and unexplained rooms. They could have gone any of several directions from here, and I haven’t the faintest clue which one.
Donut in hand, I jog from one end of the half-constructed lobby to the other, listening for the sound of Trent riding someone’s ass.
The silence is deafening.
Jesus. Of all the times for him to talk at a normal decibel, he had to pick this one.
Tucking the donut back into my bag, I take off in the other direction at a jog. Two turns in and down a long hallway, with my hearing dialed up to dog-whistle, I finally think I hear the faintest hint of human voices.
My heels clack as I run across the unfinished floors and skid around the corner and into another unknown room—and right into a sawhorse table holding an open can of bright-red paint.
Everything around me turns to slow motion, and it’s like I’m watching my very own car crash.
The table jolts.
The can of paint jumps into the air.
And pow! A paint explosion splats onto my khaki pencil skirt. I look down with wide eyes to find the entire crotch region—son of a sugartit!—of my garment is covered in red. Stephen King’s The Shining, Redrum kind of red.
Well, fuck. Fucking fuck me with a super-flow, extra plug-power tampon.
And seriously? Where in the hell did this godawful paint come from? Thirsty vampires?
All it takes is a single moment—a tiny little blip in time—to completely refocus your goals and priorities.
Suddenly, I must avoid finding the group at any cost.
I drop my bag to the ground and immediately start rifling through it again. I know I don’t have a change of clothes—stupid, stupid, stupid—but surely, there’s something in here I can use.
After a minute and a half of digging, the best thing I can come up with is my phone.
I take it out and dial the only woman in New Orleans who has the free time to take my frantic call.
My moneybags bestie.
“Hello?” Emory answers on the second ring, and I don’t waste any time with pleasantries.
“I need assistance, and I need it now. Alert the media, send out one of those broadcast warnings, and change the road signs.”
“Oh, good,” she sighs. “I see the first week on the job is going well.”
“This isn’t the time for your jokes, Emory!” I whisper-yell into the receiver. “I’ve got a red stain on my crotch the size of a basketball.”
“Wow. This escalated quickly.”
“It’s a long story!” I shout. “I don’t have time to tell you it. Just know that I got separated from the group, bumped into some paint, and now I look like a shark just took a bite out of shark week!”
“Just relax,” Emory commands. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It is. It is that bad, Emory, I promise you. I look like a menstrual volcano!”
“Well, it’s not actual blood. Just explain that it’s paint, and I’m sure everyone will laugh it off.”
“Laugh it off? You’re kidding, right? I look like I don’t know how to use modern sanitary products on the first official week of work, and you think my coworkers are just going to laugh it off? I work with mostly men, Em! If anything, they’ll all start passing the fuck out from the mere idea of periods and feminine hygiene products!”
“Technically, you’re only a contracted employee. They’re not really coworkers in the traditional sense—”
“Can we please stay on topic here?” I cut her off. “For the love of God, get on your computer and find out how to get paint out of a skirt with basically nothing. Tell Google to MacGyver that shit.”
“I’m not at my computer—”
“Emory Marie!” I screech. “Focus. I look like my vagina is a blood geyser. Any minute now, the dragons from Game of Thrones are going to show up and burn this place to the ground.”
“Fine. But you’ll have to hold on for a second because I have to look it up on my phone.”
After a quick grumble and grunt of agreement, I start humming the music from Jeopardy to put subtle pressure on her.
She doesn’t appreciate it.
“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to quit my search, get in my car, drive to the hotel, and murder you so violently, no one will be able to see the paint for all the blood.”
“Geez. I think you might be harboring some questionable tendencies, E. Answer me this—have you ever experimented with hurting animals?”
As expected, Emory ignores me. But it’s not like serial killers usually admit to being serial killers. I’ll have to keep a vigilant eye, just in case.
“Google says there’s no way to get the paint stain out without supplies. All you can do is keep it wet until you get home and then use rubbing alcohol and a toothbrush.”