As Zane walks away, the worst part of my job peeks his head from behind his computer.
Mr. Madsen might have had the makings to be a great boss, but when he departs behind the closed door of his office, I’m reminded of who shares that man’s DNA.
“Are you blushing?”
I refuse to make eye contact and refuse to answer Tathan, Paul’s son. And here I thought making coffee for the office was the most annoying part of my job. Wrong. Tathan is.
“Hmmm,” he says as though he’s considering something. I can see the grin even though my vision is intently focused on my computer screen.
It’s the very reason why I despise my job lately, the part that makes me sure I just might end up in the insane asylum.
Tathan McSlut Madsen. McSlut is clearly not his middle name, but it should be.
I’ll save you the trouble of getting to know him. Just listen. He’s the biggest motherfucking slut alive, and he sits right in front of me. My computer faces Tathan’s.
It sucks. No really, it’s absolutely awful. There’s nothing worse than having to stare at the person you despise for eight hours a day. It’s the worst kind of punishment.
Moments after our small interaction where he teases me, and I ignore him, he’s back to sweet talking the receptionist. I’ve named this one Sweet Cheeks because she’s obsessively sucking on a lollipop, which I’m sure is causing Tathan to squirm.
I name all the girls pining after him with names indicative of their behaviors and looks because I apparently have nothing better to do with my time. Sure, he’s hot—that’s a lie—he’s fucking delicious. But I’m not going there. I refuse to go there.
I’m at a self-induced standstill with my love life, and because of that, I won’t allow myself to contemplate a relationship with Tathan or anyone, because I have more dignity than these girls who basically throw themselves at him.
My focus turns back to Tathan when I hear his laughter. It draws me in every damn time. As much as I don’t like him, everything he does and says lures me in.
At the fading sound of his laughter floating through the office, Sweet Cheeks staggers off with weak knees to the rest of his Crush Brigade to discuss in-depth how good he is in bed. I listen to every word, who wouldn’t? I’m bizarrely drawn to this because really, I sit in a goddamn cubicle all day and have no life outside of this office, so this is my entertainment.
Silently, I live vicariously through Sweet Cheeks, but I know I’ll never be that type of girl—life or no life. I’d rather be alone than be the next step in the revolving door that’s Tathan Madsen.
Trying to ignore him, I’m working—that’s a lie—I’m looking on Urban Dictionary for new slang terms to call Tathan. No new words have posted since yesterday, so I stick with manwhore; it’s original and suits him just fine.
Paul emerges from his office an hour later and hands me a set of floor plans that need to be delivered to the fourth floor. Why he can’t take them and his Armani suit up there himself is beyond me, but I do it anyway because he smiles at me and, well, it’s actually my job to do these things.
It’s sad. I feel like a slave who will never be free from the ties that bind me to this place and this job. And when I think about it, everyone usually has someone they answer to, even when you own the company, you answer to your clients. We’re all slaves in some way or another.
Swinging around in my chair, I stand and reach for the plans tucking them under my arm. On my way out the door, I accidentally drop them near Tathan’s desk. It seems as though he has some kind of magnetic pull on me. He manipulates the laws of gravity and I drop shit when I’m near him.
Refusing to look at him, I attempt to bend over without showing any cleavage but in a pencil skirt, it’s nearly impossible to bend and pick something off the floor. With great effort, I succeed only to have Tathan clear his throat.
My eyes snap to his like a laser beam.
Go ahead, say something, asshole.
“Hey, Amalie, while you’re down there can—” Tathan begins but is cut off when I take the plans and knock him upside the head with them, quickly shutting him down.
“Fuck off!” I whisper, straightening my posture and smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse.
This is our relationship. He provokes me. I react. Usually with violence.
On my way to the elevators, I pass by Tathan’s harem of women. I hear fragments of their encounters with him, and I’m curious. Not because they now all have Chlamydia, but because I haven’t been laid in a really long time and the juicy details they give about said manwhore are pretty hot.
To be exact, I haven’t had any in six months, and for good sex, it’s longer than that. Sex-deprived, I live for these details. The last time I had good sex was about eight months ago, and the details are fading fast. Sadly. One Halloween party, a bottle of gin, and a cat woman costume will do that to you.
On another note, going without sex for this long can do some alarming things to you. For me, I say some fairly inappropriate things at times and confuse words. When they say her mind’s always in the gutter, it’s a true statement for me.
Take yesterday for example. I asked Tathan for a box of paperclips, but instead, I asked him for a box of paper cocks.
Tathan’s immediate mouth drop, then grin had me fumbling to correct my obvious faux pas.
Not exactly my finest moment there.
Much to my surprise, he laughed at me and began unbuttoning his pants, prepared to give me a full-blown cock, not the paper kind apparently.
I’m losing my mind. Honest to God, losing my fucking mind with Tathan around me.
Every time I look at him, I picture him naked and more importantly, me naked with him. I can’t stop either, and I want to because he’s a manwhore and has Chlamydia.
Of course, I don’t know this for sure, but I’m pretty sure. Like 96.9 percent positive.
At least I hope he does because it’s my reasoning for staying away from him. I’m clinging to the fact that he has Chlamydia. I need him to have Chlamydia.
“Chlamydia. He has Chlamydia,” I tell myself, chanting it as I walk the plans to the fourth floor. I decide to take the stairs as opposed to the elevator. Maybe exerting some physical energy will exhaust me and I’ll have no strength to think of Tathan naked.
It helps some, but when I return to my desk, I’m more annoyed than when I left because he’s smirking.
“What?” I ask callously as I sit back down.
His head pops out from behind his screen, his beautiful golden eyes sparkling with amusement as he watches me. “Come to lunch with me.”
I’m not sure why, but Tathan tries this every day and my answer remains the same. At some point you’d think he’d give up from a wounded ego, but no, the persistent shit never does.
“Nope.” My answer remains the same every day. “I have no desire to join your Crush Brigade,” I tell him, checking my e-mail and avoiding eye contact. Avoiding his eyes is very important. If you do happen to make eye contact with Tathan, you’re shit out of luck. The Force is strong with this one.
“What’s a Crush Brigade?” He stares at me with amusement, sweet caramel orbs wandering over my body as he runs his hand down the side of his face and his beard, and damn it, I desperately want to be the one rubbing the side of his face. Or other parts of him.
He has my attention, as does the grin he’s drawing me in with. It widens when I say, “Harem.”
My computer dings, my eyes shift away, and when I do, it’s like clouds blocking the sun and I’m suddenly chilled.
On my screen, there’s an e-mail from Casey telling me to be strong and to fix my bra. It’s peeking out. Thankfully, I can always count on her to look out for me.
As discreetly as I can, I glance down, and sure enough, my bra is showing where my mustard colored blouse has fallen down past my cleavage and revealed the girls hanging out of my obnoxiously bright purple bra.
I like bold and bright colors. Lights up my dull, lackluster life.
Staring at my tits on display, I smile. That certainly explains the amusement on Tathan’s face, doesn’t it?
“Amalie, you’ll give in,” Tathan whispers, and glances back at his computer screen, as if he’s actually working.
“Stop asking me out. It’s annoying, and you sound desperate.” I turn in my chair and chant to myself again that he has Chlamydia.
Tathan doesn’t say anything in response, but I catch sight of his face, the expression, the moment I know there’s certainly more to him than being the office dog. He looks almost offended I keep turning him down. No, offended isn’t the right word here. It’s more like disappointed.
I’m sure deep down Tathan could be a nice guy, but there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way. Probably because I’m sure he’s slept with most of the women in this office—aside from me and Casey—and had he swung that way, I’m sure he would have hooked up with Zane by now. That’s what turns me off about him.
Some of my hostility toward Tathan comes from being cheated on. Why can’t men be happy with one woman? Where’s the appeal in having a different girl every night?