Naughty Boss

I checked my email and saw that my bastard boss had emailed me yet again.

Subject: Timing.

I refuse to believe it takes three to four hours to pick up an order of suits and a watch. Even considering getting my car washed, you should be back by now.

Michael Leighton

CEO, Leighton Publishing

I immediately deleted it and noticed that there were several other new emails in my inbox. Emails I actually wanted to see.

Apple, Microsoft, and Amazon all sent positive, personal messages that all read to the likes of, “Congratulations! You’ve made it to the final round of interviews! We simply need to verify your information and references. Afterwards, we’ll make an internal decision behind closed doors.”

I nearly jumped up from my chair, screaming about my pending freedom. I knew there was no way in hell that I wouldn’t receive a formal offer from at least one of those jobs, and since I was still awaiting to hear back from twenty more, I felt more emboldened than ever before. I felt like I could quit Leighton Publishing right now and leave Michael’s Jaguar in the middle of New Jersey for him to find by himself tomorrow.

It took all of one minute for me to realize that I wasn’t that bold. That, and I needed a way to get back to New York City.

Annoyed, I vented all of my frustration in a long ass email to Amy, and per her previous advice, I deleted it the second I hit send.

Subject: My Boss.

Have I already told you that I hate my boss today?

Sexy as hell or not, this pompous, arrogant, ASSHOLE asked me to pick up his dry cleaning the second I walked through the door. Then he told me that I needed to take his Jaguar to a car wash that was ten miles outside of the city, but only after I needed to stand in a never-ending line to buy some type of limited, hundred-dollar watch.

I honestly can’t wait to see the look on his face two months from now when I tell him that I’m quitting his company and that he can kiss my ass. KISS. MY. ASS.

All those former fantasies about him kissing me with his “mouth of perfection” or bending me over my desk and filling me with his cock are long over. OVER.

Your bestie,

Mya

PS—Please tell me your day is going better than mine...

THE EMAILS

Mya

Subject: My email.

Did you get my email from this afternoon?

Your bestie,

Mya

Subject: Re: My email.

No...What email?

Your bestie,

Amy

Subject: Re: Re: Re: My email.

The one about my boss and all the shit he asked me to do today. :-(. I would resend it to you, but I deleted it...

He’s so ridiculous, Amy.

Can I call you in like twenty minutes when I get back to the office?

Your bestie,

Mya

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: My email.

Of course. I’ll be waiting.

Your bestie,

Amy

THE ASSISTANT

Mya

Manhattan, New York

I slumped in my office chair minutes after returning Mr. Leighton’s Jaguar to the garage. I didn’t bother bringing any of his dry cleaning inside, though. If he wanted those suits, he could go down to the garage and get them himself.

Now, more than ever, there was a huge part of me that wanted to pack up all of my things and never come back. Yet, I knew I couldn’t leave this place without personally telling him to go fuck himself first. I’d more than earned that.

When I’d finally let go of enough anger, I picked up my desk phone and dialed Amy’s number.

“Hey there!” She answered on the first ring. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not at all.” I sighed. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it to the two-month mark anymore, Amy. I really don’t.”

“You can do this,” she said. “This is just one bad day and I’m sure by the time you get home later you’ll feel differently. Don’t let him get to you. Ever.” There was a sudden loud banging noise in her background. “Ugh! Let me call you right back, Mya. The neighbors are being ridiculous with their music today.”

She ended the call before I could say goodbye, and I heard a ping from my inbox seconds later, knowing she’d sent me one of her usual “Stay Calm” emails.

I opened my email—expecting to see something inspiring, but the second I saw the subject line and the sender my jaw dropped to the floor.

Subject: Re: My Boss.

No, you haven’t already told me that you hate your boss, today, but seeing as though you’ve sent me this email directly, I know now...

Yes, I did ask you to pick up my dry cleaning the second you arrived to work to day. (Where is it?) And I did tell you to take my Jaguar to the car wash and pick up my thousand-dollar watch. (Thank you for taking five hours to do something that could be accomplished in two.)

You don’t have to wait two months from now to see the look on my face when you tell me you’re quitting. I’m standing outside your office at this very moment. (Open the door.)

No comment on your “fantasies,” although I highly doubt they’re “long over.”

Your boss,

Michael

PS—Yes. My day is definitely going far better than yours...

Oh. My. Fucking. God!

I felt all the color draining from my face, and I swear I didn’t breathe for over a minute.

I shook my head in utter disbelief, refusing to accept that I’d sent my rant to him instead of Amy. I refreshed my computer screen again and again, hoping that this was some type of joke.

A loud and sudden knock came to my door and my heart nearly fell out of my chest, but I didn’t get up. I didn’t make a single move.