Fuck It (Yama Yama)

He looks up and arches an eyebrow at me before he picks up an ink pen and starts writing on my sketch—my sketch!

“Don’t take it personally, Sicily. Your work is good. Great even. But this piece isn’t up to par.”

Don’t stab him in the eye with the ink pen!

“What exactly do you feel I should change, sir?” I ask, spitting the last word out like it’s acid.

I swear he smirks, but it’s gone before I can be completely sure.

He shrugs out of his blazer, and I try—I really try—to not notice the way that shirt fits his perfect chest. Just like I try to not notice the way that Mr. McFuckface’s arms are solid and built, visibly outlined through the tailored button-up.

I try to not notice the way his inky black hair is just long enough to brush his forehead before he pushes it back with a hand. I try to not notice how those silky strands slide through his fingers with an effortless ease.

But I’m still female. I’m still human. I’m still a freaking woman with a sex drive.

Sue me.

But, no worries; I still have no desire to climb over his desk and let him fuck me. All it does is make me focus harder on not killing the sexy prick.

“All of it,” he finally says, looking up at me and loosening his tie a notch.

Don’t strangle him to death with his tie!

“All of it,” I echo hollowly, letting those words slowly sink in. When they do sink in, my eyes widen, my stomach tenses, and my back stiffens as fury sweeps through me. “All of it?!” I demand, glaring at him.

Relaxed and completely cool, he leans back, appraising me with an unreadable expression. “All of it,” he says again.

My eyes flick to the scissors at the edge of his desk, and his gaze follows mine. This time, I know he smirks, even though it’s a brief reaction that he wipes away quickly.

Don’t cut his dick off with the scissors!

I bet that thought would kill his damn smirk.

“I worked on that for months. The Bradshaw representatives are coming in less than three weeks. How am I supposed to have something completely new prepared before they get here?”

“I guess you’ll just have to up your turnover rate,” he says with a careless shrug and…that damn smirk.

This time, the smirk doesn’t disappear. He wears it proudly. Like any good asshole would.

“Why would we not at least show them the campaign before you discard it?” I ask through clenched teeth, losing more and more of my professional composure by the second.

“Because this is my department. People come to us because we’re the best. Not because they want something they can get from…Holland’s Region.”

Holland’s Region was my previous employer, and it’s a total jab. Yeah, they’re known for being past their peak. Also for being…unoriginal.

I swallow angrily, my eyes narrowing more. “Are you trying to say I’m not cut out for your department or this company, Mr. Harper?”

Oh, those twitching lips of his are infuriating. I don’t care how plump and kissable they are. I really don’t. I want to pluck them off his face because he doesn’t deserve them. I’ll give them to a lipless guy who would appreciate them.

“I’m saying you need to redo all of it,” he finally says with a straight face while shrugging and pushing aside my unoriginal and uninspired work.

“All of it,” I say one final time before standing up, schooling my emotions while I hold his gaze. I don’t look away or lose my temper when his lips curve in an outright mocking grin.

There are several important rules every woman should know about working in corporate America.

Rule Number One: You have to work twice as hard for half the recognition.

Rule Number Two: You can never show emotion. One sliver of anger, and you’re a raging bitch on your period. When that label cloaks you, nothing you say from that moment on is heard or thought about seriously because you’re always on your period.

Oh, that’s just Sicily. She’s always a bitch. Yep. Heard that at the last place. Must be that time of the month… What woman hasn’t heard that little jab?

Rule Number Two-and-a-half: Well, it’s really just a follow-up to number two about emotions. And that rule is to never, ever let them see you cry. One hint of glistening eyes, and you’re suddenly such a ‘woman’ in their minds. And that word—a word that I personally think should be worshipped and reserved for the best of humanity—is suddenly used in a derogatory manner fit for the damned. You become irrelevant and completely unimportant.

And I happen to be one of those freaking angry criers. I have no control over it when it happens. It’s the hardest thing in the world to reel in most days when someone like Anderson Harper pisses me off as thoroughly as he has today.