To: Dylan Mitchell

From: Gabe Foster

 

I want to kill my boss.

It has become an absolute truth that a small portion of my time every day, is now taken over with creating increasingly inventive ways to murder him slowly. Take today for instance. Today I’m debating whether to hang him out of the tenth-floor window tied to the conference table, or disembowel him with the cake knife from the tea trolley. This is all done while taking diligent notes at the meeting that he’s forced me to sit in. Never let it be said that men can’t multitask.

It’s a grey, overcast afternoon and the wind has picked up, throwing rain and hail against the windows like scattershot. This should, in theory, have made the interior of the small conference room at Harrison, Bernett, Farmer and Foster warm and cosy. However, the atmosphere is currently more akin to Siberia, as Hugh Kendall, one of the junior partners, sweats and mutters excuses, while my boss Gabe stares at him over the top of the tortoise shell, hipster glasses that he wears so well.

In all honesty, Hugh needs to find a decent excuse and quickly, because the mistakes that he has made are elementary ones that most interns would have second guessed. Now, his tardiness in completing the contracts for a takeover of a hotel chain is going to cost our company a fortune.

However, it’s his fondness for Tracy from the Reprographics Department that seems to have overtaken his good sense most lately, and I know that my boss is well aware of it. There really isn’t much that goes on in this firm that Gabe Foster doesn’t spot.

“I’m sorry, Gabe,” Hugh mutters, his forehead glistening with sweat. “I know that we missed the deadline, but there was simply too much work for such a small group to get done in time.” He essays a faux, confident smile, as if he and my boss are brothers. “To be honest, the men I was given weren’t exactly the brains of Britain. I mean, you know Murray Phillips – tell me I’m wrong.” He gives a dismissive snort. “I know I should have alerted you to this, but I’ve just been so swamped with the work myself that I never found the time.”

Gabe smiles. It isn’t a nice smile, and there’s something slightly wolfish about it, making me want to shout abort abort at Hugh. Unfortunately, he misconstrues the smile on my boss’s face and tries a slightly lopsided, cocky grin back at him.

“Listen, Gabe,” he mutters, leaning forward. “Let’s say no more about this. Give me a bigger team and better people, and I’ll get the work done by the end of the week.”

I give a sort of half-strangled groan which Gabe kindly ignores, instead focusing his laser gaze on the poor unfortunate in front of him. Then he nods gracefully, and reaches over to pat Hugh on the shoulder. “I totally understand,” he murmurs. “You need more people, so of course you’ll have them.”

Hugh instantly relaxes, lounging back in his chair and picking up his water to sip, and it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. “Yes,” Gabe continues in a slow drawl. “I think the first person that I’ll put on your team is Tracy from Reprographics.” Hugh immediately spits his water all over the table and Gabe’s suit.

My boss hardly reacts. He just brushes the moisture off, while staring intently at Hugh. It’s the look of a lion toying with its prey. “Yes,” he continues. “I think you really need her and it’s past time that we made her position more formalized. My only query is which position?” He shoots a quick glance at my pen scribbling over the paper taking notes, before continuing. “Should we say missionary, or reverse cow girl?”

My pen scratches across the page tearing a big hole, and Hugh opens his mouth to say I don’t know what. However, Gabe is now speaking in a faux, concerned voice. “Really Hugh, at first when I saw the two of you heading upstairs together at the Dorchester, I briefly considered that we had a problem with our photocopier and you were using theirs. However, the third time that it happened, I managed to dismiss the worry that had kept me up all night. Luckily the problem wasn’t our machine, it was … you.”

Hugh is now so white that he seems to be in danger of fading back into the paintwork, but Gabe continues remorselessly. “Our problem was trusting a man who couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers for long enough to finish a project. A man who decided to foist all the blame onto the rest of his team, who as far as I’m aware weren’t indulging in quickies in Room 204 of the Dorchester with Tracy from Reprographics.”

I decide to err on the side of caution and stop writing. Unfortunately, this means that I now have to sit as a hideously embarrassed bystander for the next twenty minutes, as my boss fires Hugh as cleanly and coldly as if he was a surgeon cutting through scar tissue.

When Hugh leaves, sheet white and shaking, silence falls over the room. Finally, Gabe stirs and stretches, giving a heavy grunt which makes my dick twitch, despite the loathing I feel for its incomprehensible attraction to the man at that moment. Then he stands up, pushing his chair away.

“Did you get all of that?” he murmurs, giving me a keen glance from under his slanting, black eyebrows.

“Most of it,” I return, standing up and gathering my stuff together. “Although I’m not totally sure where you want the bit about Tracy from Reprographics performing reverse cowgirl on Hugh.”

He smirks and strolls out of the conference room. “Maybe leave that for the severance card.”

I follow him. “Wait. There’s a severance card? How is it that I’ve worked for you for two years and never even got a Christmas card, yet you’re handing cards out willy nilly to anyone that you sack?”

He gives a rough chuckle that still manages to catch me low in the stomach, even after two years of basically hating him. “Willy nilly?” he questions, as we stroll down the corridor to the elevators, both of us steadfastly ignoring the two secretaries who had been standing talking, but have now hurled themselves into the stationery cupboard to get out of his way.

I wonder whether this happens so much to him that he simply doesn’t notice it anymore. An image pops up in my head of cab drivers hurling themselves from still moving vehicles, and chefs throwing pans out of the window to tuck and dive away from him, but then I dismiss it. The man misses nothing. He’s like a bloody machine.

The elevator arrives and we enter, but not before he stands back to let me through first. I’d hated this politeness from him at first. It had made me feel a bit girly, like I was going to let my hair down in the lift and he’d do a double take and say, ‘Why Dylan, you’re beautiful’. Then I’d realised that it was just the way that he was made.

He’s an extremely well-mannered man even to those that he’s sacking. After all, he had just said thank you to Hugh, and stood up when the man stumbled out of the room, not to mention asked after his wife’s health. I snort at the thought, and he looks at me with one supercilious eyebrow raised. I sigh inwardly because anyone else would find that gesture charming and sexy. Instead, it just makes me want to poke a pen in his eye.

“Something funny?” he mutters, one long finger pressing the button for our floor.

“Just thinking what’s next in your diary today. I can’t work out whether you’ve got kicking abandoned puppies, or the appointment to send small, orphaned children up the chimneys.”

“Very funny,” he drawls, unable to help the quick quirk of his lips. He lifts his hand to run it through the dark waves of his hair and inadvertently gifts me with a blast of his spicy orange cologne. I subtly inhale, while pretending to myself that I’m just sniffing. “What is next?” he asks, returning to seriousness immediately.

I sigh and look down at my tablet. Clicking through a few screens, I draw up his diary. “You’ve got the two o’clock meeting with Mr Pullman, and of course you’ve got the four o’clock appointment to explain to Hamiltons why their contracts aren’t ready to exchange.”

He sighs heavily, and when I look up, he’s taken off his glasses and is rubbing his eyes wearily. When he lowers his hand, he blinks at me owlishly. “I’ll look forward to that,” he mutters.

For a second I forget myself and feel a pang of sympathy. “Well look on the bright side, at least it’s not a root canal.”

He stares at me, his glance seeming to get snagged on my smile, and then he looks away. “Anything else, or have you got your afternoon shift at the comedy club to get to?”

My second of sympathy is extinguished. It was nice while it lasted.

“No sir,” I say facetiously. “That’s tomorrow. Today I’m going to just settle for taking the minutes while you eviscerate a few more members of staff.”

He straightens up as the elevator pings, and the door opens. “You can’t be sympathetic to Hugh. The man is an incompetent idiot. Show some discretion.”

“I wasn’t talking about him,” I mutter to his back, as he steps out, and immediately staff scatter left and right.

Ignoring it blithely, he saunters to his office. “What else?” he throws over his shoulder.

“You’ve got the black-tie function with Fletcher,” I throw back to him, adding in a lower voice, “I’ll look forward to his visit to the office.”

He turns sharply. “What?”

“I said that I’ll look forward to his visit to the office. I absolutely live to see his smile.”

For a second I’m sure that he smiles, but then he grunts, “Bullshitter!”

I move around my desk which guards the entrance to his office, subsiding into my comfortable, leather chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “I don’t think I quite caught that, Sir.”

He pauses at the door, looking at me intently. “Yes, you did. Nothing gets past you. You’re the most astute man that I’ve ever met.”

He vanishes into his office, leaving me in silence for a second, as I try to process the thought that Gabe has just paid me a compliment.

“Where the hell is my spare suit?” comes the roar from the office, and I make sure that he hears me sighing heavily.

“It’s in the cupboard where it normally is.” I come to a stuttering stop at the sight that greets me. His wet jacket is gone and he’s shirtless, with the wide, hairy expanse of his chest visible. I swallow hard, trying not to look at the tanned skin stretched tight over his hard, abdominal muscles, the visible v of his pelvis, and the way that his trousers hang from the swell of his backside as he turns around.

“Earth to Dylan,” he gripes, snapping his fingers at me. “Where’s my suit? It’s not in the bloody cupboard where it should be.”

“Do you want me to find it, or do a flamenco dance?” I ask sharply. “Because I’m sure that’s the only possible reason that you could have for snapping your fingers at me.”

“Or maybe I just want you to come to heel,” he says wickedly, looking at me closely with his eyes full of malicious amusement.

“It’ll take more than a couple of fingers to do that,” I counter under my breath, turning to rifle through the cupboard where he keeps his spare clothes. The man is such a workaholic that he had once slept at the office for a whole week when there was an important deal going on, hence the need for spare clothes. “Here it is,” I exclaim triumphantly, as I pull out his navy blue, Hugo Boss suit. “It was behind your coat, which you never noticed, as you tend to look for things at a distance of three feet away from anything with your eyes closed.” I turn to find him watching me closely, his eyes seeming darker. “What?” I ask.

He shakes his head impatiently, as if dismissing what he had been thinking. “You’re very pert all of a sudden.”

I stare at him for a second. “Well, it’s not every day I get a compliment like you just paid me.” I pause. “Actually, it’s not every year either.”

“I compliment you,” he says crossly, shrugging into his shirt and covering that chest to my secret dismay.

“’Why the hell does it take four hours to get my coffee? Are you actually grinding the beans with your feet?’ and ‘Did Dopey the third dwarf type up this contract?’ are not compliments,” I say patiently, standing with his jacket held out so that he can slip into it.

He snorts. “The thought of your face when I said that still has the power to make me laugh.” I shake my head at him and he grins, his teeth white in his tanned, angular face. “No really, I was at a business luncheon with one of the senior partners the other day, and it made me laugh out loud.”

“What did he say?” The senior partners are not known for possessing any sort of sense of humour.

“I had to pretend that someone had fallen and broken their leg.”

I throw my head back laughing, but when I recover and turn back to him, he’s staring at me intently again. “What?”

“I know I don’t give you a lot of compliments,” he begins slowly.

I lean forward eagerly. “Yes?”

“But I just want to say -”

“Are you ready, Mr Foster?” comes a nervous voice from the door. It’s James, the new intern, or victim, depending on what you want to call the young men who enter Gabe’s office arrogantly and then shortly afterwards race back to university with their tails between their legs. “You said to meet you here, and that you’d walk down to the meeting with me?”

I put up a hand. “No, he isn’t ready yet, James. He was just about to give me a compliment, and as I’m sure that Margaret Thatcher was the Prime Minister the last time that happened, the meeting can wait.”

Gabe laughs and bats my hand down almost playfully, making James and I look at him like he’s grown two heads. “Sorry,” he says, moving towards James, who promptly straightens as if he’s standing in front of the firing squad. “Senior partners wait for no man’s compliments. Grab the forms from Dylan, James, and I’ll meet you at the elevators.” Buttoning his jacket, he saunters off, amusement written all over him.

Silence falls, and I look up to see James staring at me in what looks like awe. “What?” I ask, gathering the folder with the papers that Gabe needs from my desk, and holding them out to him.

“You?” he whispers, coming to get them from me. “I can’t believe how you talk to him, Dylan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last week I heard you tell him that never mind getting another degree, he ought to go back to primary school and learn how to write properly.”

I laugh. “Well, he should. His notes look like a five-year-old did them.”

He shakes his head. “Why aren’t you scared of him like everyone else? He can be so utterly vile.”

I sober instantly. “No, he isn’t,” I say sharply. “He’s one of the fairest men that I’ve ever met. All he expects is for people to put one hundred percent into their work, the way that he does. He didn’t make the youngest partner in the firm’s history without being driven. He gives everything to the company, and all that he expects back is hard work and diligence. If you give him that, he’ll respect you.”

I can’t let his criticism go. Gabe might be a complete bastard, but I sort of think of him as my bastard, and I don’t like other people criticising him.

My message might have gone in more if Gabe’s voice hadn’t snapped behind him at this point. “Are you ready, James, or would you like me to make you and Dylan a cup of tea so that you can continue your cosy chat? Maybe you could plait each other’s hair, and do your nails while you’re at it.”

James jumps about a foot in the air, before muttering apologies and rushing past Gabe. I shake my head disapprovingly, but Gabe just stands there for a second, staring at me with an inscrutable look on his face. Finally, he speaks. “You forgot to mention loyalty.” I raise my eyebrows questioningly. “What I value most amongst employees, what stops my wrath, is loyalty.”

Not saying another word, he turns and silently vanishes down the corridor, leaving me staring after him.

Finally, becoming aware that I could potentially catch flies with my open mouth, I slide down into my chair and switch my computer on. However, instead of doing the work that is piled up on my desk, I find myself remembering my interview for this job two years ago.

I’d heard about the job through an old boyfriend of mine, who had warned me that the man was an absolute slave driver, and went through staff like water. However, as my job as an administrative assistant at a theatre had come to a close, I’d ignored the warning and sallied blithely off to my interview.

Two hours of searing questions and cheesy role play situations with Verma, the dragon from HR, and my patience had finally run out. I’d attempted to answer everything that she’d thrown at me with good grace, but it had been hard to concentrate with my awareness of Gabe, or the Adonis as I had thought of him then. He’d been sitting back against the wall with his legs crossed, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, and his hands steepled.

He’d said nothing, but Verma and I had still heroically persevered in including him in everything that we’d said. I’d thought that the interview was going well, until unfortunately Verma had enquired about my ability with languages. Two hours of torture had made me want this job more than I probably would have done normally, so I’d lied.

“Oh yes, I can speak French and Spanish,” I’d said firmly. In reality, I could order a pizza and breakfast in French, and ask where the toilets were. I spoke no Spanish at all.

Unfortunately, that was the point at which Gabe chose to join in with the interview. He said something quickly in a beautiful, fluid accent. My brain told me that it must be Spanish and that he looked gorgeous speaking it, but unfortunately it couldn’t come up with anything else that was useful.

“Erm,” I’d said, and the silence grew as Gabe calmly uncapped a bottle of water and took a drink. Very aware of the glee filling Gabe’s face I’d wracked my brain again, and a long-forgotten memory of a phrase surfaced. “Donde esta el hombre con fuego en la sangre?” I rattled off happily.

Silence fell again before Verma stirred, looking impressed. “Well, Mr Mitchell, that sounds very -”

I never found out what it sounded like, because Gabe interrupted. “That’s the opening verse from ‘Mi Chico Latino’ by Geri Halliwell,” he said, his voice choked with laughter.

I’d looked at him and considered many answers, but finally settled for shrugging. “Everyone’s a critic. If only more people listened to Geri, the world would be a much better place, and we’d have more Latin men around.”

Verma had been stunned into silence, but it had been broken by a strange noise which turned out to be Gabe choking on his water, before letting out a great guffaw of laughter. I’d stared at him, mesmerised by the beauty of his face when it relaxed into laughter. I’d been so taken aback at the notion of working with such a good-looking man, that I’d failed to realise that it would be the last time that I’d see him laugh. Verma had worked there for fifteen years, and I’d be prepared to bet that it was the first time that his face had ever cracked a smile in front of her.

I’d spent my first week in a horny daze, drifting around and staring at him whenever I thought I could get away with it, which, looking back, probably meant never. Luckily, after I’d sat through him firing three people, delivered a new Fleshlight to his boyfriend of the time, and picked up the special lube that he bought at a specialist shop in Soho, my crush had vanished.

I’d been amazed to find that I didn’t follow it out the door, but instead I had stayed, because I found that the work stimulated and stretched me, as did Gabe. His humour was subtle at first, hidden under several very deep layers of bad temper and grouchiness. However, the longer that I stayed, the more I started to respect his mile a minute brain and canny scepticism. The more I proved myself, the more he appreciated it, until gradually we’d started to become a partnership.

He felt free to criticise and grumble, and I felt equally free to snark back, offering a sunny disposition. When that failed, I would use sarcastic comments, and even on occasion direct disagreement with him. He’d seemed surprised at first, but then he seemed to settle. Now he actually appears to enjoy working with me. He definitely trusts me, which puts me in a very small minority of people.

I’d managed to push my attraction to him away into a little box, but occasionally it still surfaces, and I have to acknowledge how very gorgeous he is. He’s tall - six foot three to my six foot, with dark, wavy hair, gorgeous silver-grey eyes, and a perfect level of stubble which makes his high cheekbones look even sharper.

However, when that heat hits me deep in the belly, I take great care to remind myself of his boyfriend for the last year. As if on cue I hear a melodious voice. “Ah, it’s David, isn’t it? Is Gabe around?”

“It’s Dylan,” I say patiently, for what must be the hundredth time. “No, he isn’t here. He’s still in a meeting. Is he expecting you?”

“No,” Fletcher says carelessly, slumping down onto one of the leather sofas in the waiting area in front of my desk. Even slumped he manages to look gorgeous, which shouldn’t be surprising as he’s a very sought-after model. He’s slender and toned, with shoulder-length, blonde hair, full, pouting lips, and a pair of cheekbones that you could slice bread with. However, to my mind he’s nowhere near as gorgeous as my best friend and flatmate Jude, who is also a model. Jude lacks Fletcher’s perfection but makes up for it with a quirky beauty, and a lively, interesting face.

Fletcher interrupts my thoughts by snapping his fingers under my nose. “Earth to Dylan,” he sneers. “Does Gabe know how much time you spend daydreaming?”

“I’m not daydreaming. I’m just thinking about Gabe’s timetable for today,” I say tightly, resisting the urge to grab his fingers and break them. It doesn’t escape me that his boyfriend had done something similar to me a few hours ago, and lived. However, when Gabe did it, it didn’t have the mean, derogatory edge that Fletcher gives his.

I don’t feel like playing into Fletcher’s hands and losing my temper. Fletcher has always hated me, and would love to cause a problem for me. He’s one of those people who are deeply suspicious of anyone who orbits their partner, imagining themselves so fabulous that everyone is looking for a piece of their life.

I also personally think that those people who are so possessive of their partners are quite often up to something themselves. Either that, or Gabe has strayed before. Neither of them seem to have that happily settled air about them. However, I wouldn’t like to test that if Fletcher ever demands my sacking. I would imagine that empty balls top diligent workers every time.

“You call him by his first name. I’ve always meant to mention it. That’s unusual for a boss and his employee, isn’t it?” he sneers slightly.

“I’ve worked for him for two years,” I say quietly. “He told me to.”

He shrugs petulantly. “Oh, who cares, Dylan? When is he coming back?”

I check my tablet. “In about half an hour if the meeting ends on time.”

“Boring,” he sniffs, picking up a snow globe from my desk with a little, jolly Santa on it, and shaking it. “How twee.” I smile calmly and watch his face as the snow stops falling to reveal the Santa baring his buttocks. It had been a gag gift from Jude from the airport when he was travelling back from one of his jobs. Fletcher shakes his head dismissively, tosses it back onto a stack of papers on my desk, and then gets to his feet. “I’ll wait in his office.”

I stand up. “I’m sorry, Mr Newton, but I can’t let you do that. Gabe’s instructions are very clear that no one goes in if he’s not there.”

“I’m not anyone,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m his boyfriend.”

“I know,” I say faux apologetically. “But there are confidential documents lying about.”

“I’m not interested in shit like that.” His voice is rising, and I sigh. He bores the crap out of me, and I really, really want to tell him that I know there’s no risk of him reading any of the papers, as none of them have pictures.

However, I manfully keep my mouth shut and settle for shrugging insolently. His clenched teeth show that I haven’t calmed him. Either that, or he’s noticed the smirk that I can’t quite hold back.

“Now listen to me, you little shit,” he says, coming towards me. Yes, it’s the smirk. I draw myself up to my full height, which as it’s a full couple of inches above him, makes him stop.

“Yes sir,” I say helpfully, knowing and relishing the fact that this politeness is really winding him up.

“You are nothing, do you hear me? You can’t tell me what to do. Now, I’m going to go and sit in his office and wait for Gabe, and do you know what?” He leans forward and smiles. “I might wait for him naked and lubed up. What do you think about that?”

“As long as you’re not getting the documents sticky, I’m fine with it.”

“Like I believe that,” he jeers. “You hate the idea that he’s with someone. You’d like him all to yourself.”

I tense slightly, because he’s hitting close to the bone with this. The truth is that yes, a bit of me does hate the fact that Fletcher is with him. It bothers me more than I like that Fletcher sleeps naked next to him, and is fucked by him, because I’d bet my rent check that Gabe is a top. However, I won’t admit that fully to myself, let alone to a dipshit.

I open my mouth to say who knows what, but we’re interrupted by a deep voice at the door.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Gabe looks at me, his eyes seeming almost concerned for a second. Then without looking away, he says sharply, “Fletcher, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Fletcher says smoothly. “I was just debating clothed or not.” He shrugs, pouting prettily. “I’ll leave that to your decision.”

Gabe’s eyes instantly darken, and I can almost hear the snap as his attention is broken from me. He strides past me, unconsciously adjusting the bulge in his suit trousers. “Get inside,” he says to Fletcher, in a dark voice that makes me swallow. “Hold my calls,” he orders me dismissively, barely glancing at me now.

“Yes, Dylan, hold his calls. I’ll hold something else,” Fletcher calls, laughing triumphantly.

The door slams behind them, and I can’t help flushing at the sound of a body hitting the door. The door is thick, but it isn’t quite thick enough, so I make sure to shut the outer door to my office. I finish my work to the faint soundtrack of grunts and deep groans filtering through, as I remind myself once again that the rare, nice moments don’t compensate for the dismissive way that he usually treats me.

I hate him I tell myself repeatedly. I fucking hate his dismissive, perfect arse.