Fuck It (Yama Yama)

Gutted with a butter knife seems like a painful way to kill someone.

My speaker starts playing a song, and I glare at it, knowing it’s not from my phone.

“Big Girls Don’t Cry” taunts me from my little speaker.

I decide to Google the little parasite that swims up your pee stream and into your pee hole. They take up residence inside your urethra and wreak havoc from the inside.

I plan to put a little army of those suckers in Anderson’s office toilet.

The girl who walked in earlier walks in again as Anderson leaves. Her entire face is scarlet-letter-red, and I glare at her. It’s pointless to defend myself. No one would ever believe the truth because it’s not as juicy—or believable—as the rumors that are no doubt spreading like fire already.

And when you defend yourself, you make it a scandal instead of an incident.

“Knock before you enter my damn office from now on,” I snap, not even feeling the slightest bit guilty when she squeaks and nods like she’s terrified.

I flip the speaker off, cutting off that mocking song.

She drops some files on my desk then runs back out, shutting the door behind her, and I blow out a breath as I curse the day from hell that started off so good.

Before Anderson freaking Harper.

The day whittles on, and I ignore the hushed whispers every time I step outside my office to grab more coffee or food from the Wheel of Death—otherwise known as the sandwich machine.

Rule Number Three: Don’t fuck your boss. If people in the office think you’re screwing your way to the top, they won’t ever respect you.

Rule Number Four: Don’t be pretty. Doesn’t matter if you’re a virgin with a chastity belt, you’re still a whore who is fucking her way to the top. So it makes Rule #3 a little pointless by default.

The snickers will disappear eventually. I’ve already been accused of screwing two other guys, and I wasn’t caught with my clothes off or on my knees in front of them.

Office people suck, most days. And a woman in a position like mine who is about my age will always deal with the rumors, regardless of how innocent or professional she normally tries to be.

Finally, somewhere close to five, I have my first drafts ready, even though they’re still not as nice as they could be if I had several days to work on them. It’s just a quick pitch to show my direction, and to let Anderson have a say on which one he feels would work best.

I’ve never done a quick pitch before. At my last job, I did a couple of mock ups, presented them to my boss, and he picked the one he liked at the end of the presentation. Then took all the credit.

If Anderson takes all the credit for this, those fantasies of killing him and hiding the body will no longer be just fantasies.

I should have tried to sleep for at least a couple of hours at some point. You know what alcohol really is? It’s bottled sleep deprivation.

You do all the same stupid things, so if you want to save some money, just go without sleep to get drunk.

Staggering just a little, I walk into Anderson’s office without knocking, and the little shit from this morning is in here with him. The girl’s doe eyes are round as she dreamily soaks in the sight of the man who is leaned over his desk, sketching something out.

I roll my eyes.

She hasn’t even noticed me because she’s probably envisioning herself in a more scandalous position than she exposed me in this morning.

Anderson runs a hand through his dark hair, his intense focus still on the work in front of him. I let my gaze drop to the artwork, and my breath catches.

He’s free-handing that?!

I always thought nepotism had gotten him this far in life, but now I realize he has genuine talent. I might not ever admit it aloud, but I realize he was right about the first campaign.

It sucked.

Still hate him for pointing that out.

He bites down on his bottom lip in concentration, and I find myself—and Doe Eyes—mimicking the motion. Damn those lips of his. Why are they so perfect?

I need to go have bad sex with someone so I can get this sudden and weird fixation out of my head. I cannot sleep with Anderson Harper.

Because I hate him.

And he’s a serial cheater.

And a liar.

And a man whore.

And…am I really so shallow as to be pressing my thighs together when he makes a graceful, long sweep of the pencil across the paper and—

My eyes widen, and all the confusing arousal runs for its life as that anger he incites so well suddenly returns. “Are you seriously sketching out my idea?!” I demand. So what if he’s gone and made it much better. Free-hand style! How can anyone free hand that well?