THE BOSS

Michael

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Manhattan, New York

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The last time my face was plastered across the front page of a tabloid, the headline was at least somewhat true. What I was currently staring at in this moment was beyond far-fetched, even for someone with a scandalous and sex-filled reputation like mine.

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Playboy CEO of Leighton Publishing Leaves Woman Crying in Hotel Lobby After Hours of Loud Sex on Balcony

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I flipped through the pages of The National Enquirer, skimming the details from the so-called “trusted source” while resisting the urge to roll my eyes. According to them, I’d had sex with this woman in the penthouse suite of a hotel and simply put her out so I could have sex with someone else. And according to the woman who’d clearly concocted this bullshit story, she said my exact words to her were, “Thank you for letting me fuck your pussy. It’s time for me to fuck someone else’s now. You can see yourself out.”

There was no mention of the fact that this very same woman was recently convicted for lying to a grand jury in a theft case, but tabloids were never interested in the truth. They only wanted to sell papers.

I managed to get through the entire article without a reaction, but I couldn’t help but laugh at the last line: Rumors are now swirling that the ‘naughty’ CEO engages in sex with two different women for every day of the week. He apparently keeps a private schedule for his sex-life.

I shook my head.

It’s only one different woman for every day of the week...

Tossing the tabloid into the trash, I remembered to send a generic text to the women I planned on seeing this week. There was Lisa on Tuesday, Mariah on Wednesday, Hannah on Thursday, and Tiffany on Friday.

Michael: Looking forward to seeing you this week.

Their responses came in exact succession.

Lisa: Looking forward to seeing you, too :)

Mariah: Can’t wait to fuck you again ...

Hannah: Let me know if you want to change it to an earlier day :)

Tiffany: Anytime :)

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With a few minutes to spare until my six o’clock meeting, I set a box of potential front-list novels on my desk. I made two pots of coffee and opened new notepads. Then I impatiently waited for my executive assistant.

I’d long given up on her arriving early to meet me for anything because she was always five minutes late. She literally lived right across the street from the building and she never ceased to amaze me with her endless excuses as to why she couldn’t be on time.

Ten minutes past six, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Fifteen minutes past six, I wondered if my previous thoughts of her being the most incompetent assistant I’d ever had were true, and at twenty minutes past six, I caved in and called her desk.

“Yes, Mr. Leighton?” she answered on the first ring.

“Did you forget that we’re supposed to discuss the winter selections today?” I asked. “You know how I feel about things needing to be on time.”

“Oh, right! I am so sorry! I got caught up on these reports, but I’m on my way.”

She hung up, and within minutes she walked into my office carrying a box of assigned novels. She placed it on my desk and sat across from me.

“Wait.” She held up her hand. “Before we start, can I ask you something personal?”

“No.”

“What if it’s something important?”

“It can’t be important if it’s something ‘personal,’ because you’re not entitled to know anything about my personal life.”

“Are you really as bad as all the tabloids say you are?” She raised her eyebrow. “Like, when do you possibly find the time to sleep with so many women since you’re always here working?”

I could’ve sworn I said no ...

I gave her a blank stare.

“I deserve to know what type of man I’m working for,” she said, crossing her arms. “Especially if this man wants me to keep the truth about how difficult he is to work for under wraps.”

“Are you threatening to blackmail me?”

“No.” She smiled. “I just really want to know if your sex life is as exciting as the press makes it seem. I actually think it’s pretty hot, and off the record, I am totally willing to look past the non-fraternization policy if you ever want to try me out.” She lowered her voice. “I can be naughty in the bedroom, too. I can let you have my pussy, and you can leave me hanging in the hotel lobby afterwards, if that’s what you’re into.”

Jesus...

“Can we please get started with the work?” I rolled my eyes. “I need your thoughts on the titles you were assigned so we can send them down to marketing tomorrow.”

“So, right after that I can go?”

No, right after that I can ‘fire’ you ...

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “What did you think of Grisham’s latest?”

“His latest what?”

“His latest book.” I pointed at the box she’d brought in, at the advanced copy of The Whistler. “It was one of the three legal thrillers you were supposed to read this month.”

“Oh, yeah.” She picked up the hardback and flipped through its pages. “I thought it was very good. Very legal, very thrilling.”

“Can you please be slightly more specific than that?”

“I really liked the book’s cover a lot.” She ran her fingers across the cover. “He really pulled me into the story with it, you know? This image of the boats docked at an orange sunset sea was quite compelling. I think the graphic artist definitely deserves an award.”

Silence.

“We’ll come back to the thrillers,” I said finally. “You were also supposed to read five romance novels. Which one would you recommend the most?”

“Well,” she said, leaning forward and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “It was a hard choice, and I do mean a really hard choice, but ... Out of the amazing ones I was assigned, I think loved the one that ended in a happily ever after the best.”

“Every romance novel ends in a happily ever after, Penelope.” I felt my blood pressure rising. “That’s what makes it a fucking romance.”

“Really? Wow. I never knew that. So, I guess I loved them all!”

I stared at her, clenching my jaw. I always thought she was on the incompetent side from the very day she started, from the moment she said, “So, you’re a literary publishing company and you only publish books? Why not movies?” And somehow, I’d managed to look past that. But this? This was bullshit and she was far worse than any of my other failed and fired assistants.

“Have you read any of the front-list books, Penelope?”

“No, but only because I didn’t know that I personally had to.” She slurped her coffee. “I mean the books got read, but you never said that I was the person who actually had to read them.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m working really smart here. I hired a virtual assistant and paid her a couple hundred bucks to read all of them. Oh, and I sent a few of them to some book bloggers on Facebook that I follow. They like, totally live for this reading stuff so they’ll probably have those ARCs done even sooner. Can you believe they like, actually enjoy reading?”

“Let me get this straight ...” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I hired you to be my executive assistant and you outsourced all of your work to other people?”

“Not all my work. Just the stuff I don’t want to do. I mean, occasionally, I’ll read a page or two to keep my brain refreshed, but reading isn’t really my thing. And you only gave me a month to read ten books. Ten, Mr. Leighton.... That’s technically hard labor and I could sue.”

“This is a fucking—” I caught myself. “This is a publishing company. We publish books, and books being ‘your thing’ is the very first thing we asked about on your application.”

“Oh, I lied about that part, but only that part. Everything else I wrote was honest, especially the part about wanting to work under a sexy CEO for a change.”

“Penelope ...” I held back a groan. I didn’t need to waste any more of my time with this. “You can get the hell of out my office now.”

“Really?” She stood up smiling. “I was hoping we’d get out of here early. My favorite show will be on in an hour. You know, maybe you should ask me to review TV shows—I’m sure I’d impress you that way.” She shrugged and headed to the door. “See you tomorrow!”

The second she left my office, I sent my advisor, Brad, an email.

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Subject: Tell HR to Fire My Executive Assistant.

Now.

Right now.

Michael Leighton,

CEO, Leighton Publishing

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I walked over to my beverage cabinet and unlocked it, pouring myself a much needed shot of scotch. I downed it and quickly poured another. As it was burning its way down my throat, Brad’s ringtone sounded on my cell phone.

“Yes?” I answered.

“You want to take one good guess as to what I’m looking at right now?”

“Depends on if I’ll win a prize for getting it right or not.”

“I’m staring at the cover of Page Six with an undeniably-not photo-shopped picture of you. It’s definitely you and one of your ridiculously expensive watches with a Cuban cigar between your lips.”

“Sounds like a very good photo. Feel free to send me a copy.”

“Oh, but that’s not the best part of this photo. The best part is the three bikini clad women with messy hair who literally look like they’ve all just fucked you. Would you at least like to guess the headline?”

“You still haven’t mentioned a prize. Is there a prize?”

“Playboy CEO Beds Three Busty Blondes in Belize. What do you have to say for yourself, Michael?”

“Not much.” I walked over to my desk and clicked on the picture he’d emailed me. “They did a brilliant job with the use of alliteration in the title, though. They must have finally hired a competent editor.”

“God, Michael ...” He sucked in a breath and sighed. “Do we have any grounds to threaten them with retraction and defamation, or is this true?”

“It’s partially true.”

“Which part?”

“The part about me being in Belize.”

“Please stop fucking with me.”

“Fine.” I smiled. “I only ‘bedded’ two of the busty blondes. Not three.”

“Oh, just two. Well that’s quite comforting and I guess they owe you an apology. Not. Anything else?”

“Yes. The article says I’m wearing a Rolex in the photo. I haven’t worn a Rolex in over five years.”

“Ugh.” He groaned. “I’m using one hundred thousand dollars of our public relations account to prevent them from running this on Friday. I’m also sending them an additional two hundred to three hundred fifty thousand to refrain from mentioning your name or running your picture for the next two months.”

“Thank you.”

“Please don’t. I’ll need a list of everything you’ve done over the past eight months so I can clean it up in advance. And you know, for someone who plans to take his company public within the next two years, I would think that you would try a lot harder to clean up your image and stay out of the press. Otherwise, the only investors you’ll attract will be me and you.”

“Noted.” I poured one last shot of scotch. “Did you get my email about needing a new executive assistant?”

“Another one? This is number seven.”

“Eight. However, I’ve yet to be sent a competent one. Perhaps if you used a different screening agency, or at least let me sit in on some of the interviews—”

“No. I’ll tell you what I will do, though. But only if you do something for me.”

I was silent, so he continued.

“Could you kindly keep your dick in your pants for the next twelve months and try not to fuck anyone?”

Twelve months? “Anyone?”

“ANYONE. ANY-ONE.” He enunciated every syllable. “At least anyone who will definitely draw attention to you and your unfortunate, insatiable ways. And that includes all the women you have lined up for this week. Your assistants may not have known what those small blue dots on your digital calendar mean, but I do. Cancel them all right now. You can sleep with whoever you want again after you successfully go public.”

I hesitated for a long while, but I realized that what he was saying made perfect sense for the sake of the company and my image.

“Fine,” I said at last, begrudgingly sending them all my standard, “Something just came up. I’ll have to reschedule,” message and walked over to my windows.

“I’m not going to use our partner agency to find your new assistant. I’m going to handle this personally. Any requirements on your end?”

“Hiring someone who is capable of reading a book is a good start. I’d also prefer someone ten to fifteen years older than me, married or already engaged, submissive enough to complete tasks without sarcasm, Ivy League education, and someone who knows how to tell the goddamn time.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s put up the job description in those exact words and see how much of a field day the press has with that one.”

“I’m willing to bend on the Ivy League part if it’s a college with a good reputation. I’m not bending on anything else.”

“We’ll see.” He was definitely rolling his eyes, and I could tell he was about to give me his much repeated lecture about hiring laws and blind interviews, so I beat him to it.

“Just get me the best person for the job. I’ll wait however long it takes since this “fire today, hire tomorrow” approach isn’t working. And actually, just get me someone who impresses you, because if that’s the case, I know this person will impress me.”

“Now, you’re finally thinking smart,” he said. “Give me six weeks. I’ll screen the hell out of everyone and make sure the next executive assistant you have is someone who’ll last over a year.

“Thank you, Brad.” I hung up, wanting to feel optimistic, but with my track record, I knew the odds of me employing the same executive assistant for a year were highly unlikely. Just like I knew the chances of me going twelve months without fucking someone were too unbelievable to completely fathom.

I’ll try it though....