CARLI
Handling Chris is easy. Dealing with his boy toy having a hissy fit this morning, that was not what I had in mind when I woke up.
What did I want? I wanted a double espresso, one pump of sugar free vanilla and a touch of steamed lactose free milk. What do I get, though?
“You don’t appreciate me!”
“Of course I do…”
“Kyle! My name is Kyle!”
And that’s when I woke up. I dressed quicker than a runway model, tossed on mascara, pulled back my hair into a messy ponytail, then stomped out to the kitchen to Chris and his teenager in the midst of a mood swing.
“You know I’m bad with names. That’s why I’m in politics. I don’t have to remember names.”
“That’s my job, Kurt,” I say. Yeah, I changed his name. Fuck him for waking me up after my jet lag.
“Kyle!” he snaps back.
Waving off his request to call him by his right name, the espresso bliss maker calls my name louder than his attitude.
“She doesn’t care about you, Kurt. And honestly, all I cared about was the sex. Your name didn’t matter.” And that’s when Ken punches Chris in the jaw.
I set the machine to brew before having to deal with this shit. Big Dick Rick walks to the door with his jacket and shoes in hand. Ignoring the outburst, and most definitely ignoring my boss, I concentrate on the consistent drip of my much-needed liquid. With the slam of the door, Chris’s toy leaves in a huff.
Hearing Chris walking toward me, I speak without turning. “Don’t talk to me yet, manwhore. I’m not ready for your shit yet.”
“I didn’t speak,” he says, almost cynically.
“Yeah?” Turning, I finally look at him. He’s wearing that smirk that makes me want to hit him, again. “Asshole, you spoke. I heard it.”
I laugh inside, because he’s afraid to laugh at me out loud. “What did I say then?”
“You said this, in a whiny tone I might add. “Carli, what did I do wrong? I sucked his cock, he beat my ass for hours and I gave him my soul. Why didn’t he love me?’” Laughing, I shake my head at his silly neediness. Chris wants love. He wants a man that can accept his whoring ways, and he wants his political status to stay perfectly intact. He wants to announce he’s a goalie net, not the stick delivering the pucks. He wants this with acceptance, without suicide by media after he dumps his wife on the street corner, penniless. She’s been a great beard, but I feel bad she doesn’t even have a man on the side to fulfill her needs. How she’s lived without sex for twelve years is beyond me. I wouldn’t have lasted twelve days. Money aside, his political stature might take him further than Governor of Indiana, but with the shit I cover there’s no way he’s hitting the Oval Office.
Would I gloat that I could take a closeted gay whore to the highest position in the free world? Fuck yeah, I would. But there’s no fucking hope of that ever happening. There’s a better chance of Aussie rule football becoming the American national sport.
Reaching into the freezer, I pull out an ice pack—because we keep them in stock—and hand it to the idiot holding his jaw. “Here. Don’t be such a fuck up. At least write their name on your wrist or something.” He’ll never do it, so I’ll just keep ice readily available.
Taking the offered pack, I hear Chris snapping it open.
“You want a coffee?” I ask, feeling slightly sorry for him.
“Yeah, you do those so well, Car. Thanks.” Pulling my drink off the machine, I set up one for Chris.
“What’s the plan today?” he asks absently.
“We have shaking babies and kissing monkeys at the zoo. Mark will pick us up in forty.”
Huffing, he pulls at the tie and loosens his buttons. “Couldn’t think to tell me to wear a cheap shirt beforehand?”
Turning with his drink, I scowl. “Why? You didn’t worry about waking the woman in charge of your affairs with moaning gorillas at three-thirty this morning, or with diva hissy fits—”
“Yeah, got it. We were loud.”
“No,” I mock. “You were so quiet that Mrs. Mackle in penthouse five should be outside the door with a waving finger as we exit.”
“Got it, Carli. So, next time—”
“Muzzle the bitch.” Sipping my caffeine, I smirk into my cup.
With me back and forth to see Circe, this is the usual banter between us in the wee hours after his sexual escapades. He doesn’t ask about mine because I won’t fucking tell him. You won’t find us sitting around, braiding each other’s pubes and talking about cock sizes. We have a clean, simple, and easy boss / employee relationship. I just happen to know more about his life than I feel I ever should, and that’s exactly why he pays me an exorbitant amount of money. Not to ignore that the governor pays for my flights back and forth to Cali, my apartment there, and my cars that are there and here...oh, and my clothing expenditures.
Yeah, I’m spoiled.
Kato was wrong. I haven’t touched family money in close to five years. It’s still dropped into an account every month, but I will never touch a penny of that blood money. And he wants to threaten me with the lives of my sisters? It’s true, I haven’t seen them in years, but they don’t want or deserve the position thrust upon them any more than I want it. Will I accept it to save them? Sacrificing everything I’ve built to care for them? That’s the real question, I guess.
“You ready to go, Car?” Chris asks, yanking me from musings about family.
“Yeah, I’m good. What do you say we go get monkey shit and baby throw up on us?”
“Sounds pleasant,” he quips.
I give him a tight smile. “That’s my real charm, finding the direct happiness in disgusting endeavors.”