Rude Boss
“He’s not. We work at his properties – mainly the estate. Listen, ma’am, we’re a small business just out here trying to make it, so please, just let us leave the furniture. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I need my job.”
I can sympathize with him on that. I kinda feel sorry for him. He’s practically begging me to let him leave this furniture for fear he’d lose his contract with Essex. I know the struggle, but I don’t like the way Essex wields his power over people like they’re not human. Why take the time to do a good deed by buying me furniture, but then threaten people to get it delivered? He’s so twisted. One minute he’s playing nice, the next he’s extremely off-putting. I do not want to be tangled in any parts of his confusing webs. But I’m supposed to be helping him…
How do you help someone become a better person when they do not have an empathetic bone in their body?
I say, “Okay, just bring it all in.”
“Gracias, gracias,” he says, placing his hands together and bows to me.
I call Essex. He picks up on the first ring and says, “If you’d answered your phone earlier, you would’ve known they were coming with the furniture.”
“And what makes you think I need you to buy me furniture?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Well, I don’t need it, and I’m not keeping it.”
“You are keeping it,” he asserts, but those words didn’t come through the receiver. Essex is standing in my doorway, sliding his cell phone into his pocket. “Hi.”
A frown instinctively comes to my face like it always does when I see him because I never know what to expect. Still, I can’t help but notice how handsome he is. He really is the kind of man who can take a woman’s breath away with his mere presence. And why does he have to dress so good? Dang! I can’t help but look at him from head to toe. The black jeans he’s wearing are everything. His whole outfit is a vibe – the kind of swagger he doesn’t exude at work. Like maybe on the weekends, he can be normal, but when he’s at work, he’s the boss bully. Always on his Ps and Qs. Everything has to be orderly and flawless – like he is – in the looks department, that is…
He has on a white T-shirt with some kind of weird logo on it, so I know it’s probably designer. On his feet are some black shoes that look like boots with studs poking out of them. And did he get his beard lined up again?
Mercy…
I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I figured I’d stop by to make sure everything I ordered was delivered.”
“Well, since you’re here, you can tell them to take that stuff back to the warehouse or wherever it came from. How are you just gon’ buy me furniture like I’m your lil’ charity case? I can buy my own furniture. I just need to save some money first.”
“Well, now you don’t have to worry about it. And I’ve never considered you a charity case, so you can get that idea out of your head.”
“Whatever the case, you don’t know what kind of furniture I like. You don’t even know my color scheme.”
He glances around the room, his eyes landing on the wall where I’d started painting and says, “From the looks of it, you don’t know your color scheme.” He points to the wall and says, “Who did that?”
“I did,” I reply, amused. “And?”
“It looks like a two-year-old ran up in here with a box of markers and went nuts.” He grins.
“You just crack yourself up, hunh? I was trying out different colors.”
“Oh, that’s what you call it.”
“Okay, that’s it. Leave.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I’m not kidding, Essex. Leave.”
“Who’s going to make me leave?” he asks, stepping up to me with a gleam in his eyes. “You?”
“No. The cops.”
“You’re going to call the cops on your boss?” he asks. He’s so close to me, I can smell his fruity breath. Was he eating candy? He doesn’t strike me as the type of man who indulges in sweets.
The men move a couch inside. It’s a gray sofa, still wrapped in plastic. Essex tells them, “Keep the sofas away from this wall. We still have to finish painting over here.”