Baby for the Bosshole Page 4

  Because I still find him hot, dammit! Sometimes when I just let go of everything in my head and stare at him, I can feel myself melting like chocolate on an equatorial beach. And that, more than anything, adds to my irritation and frustration. I should find him hideous. Grotesque.

  What’s worse—I can’t complain about working for Emmett to anybody. All my friends who graduated with me at Wharton and went into finance are insanely jealous. “You’re so lucky! I’d give up a kidney to be able to work for Emmett Lasker!” And it’s not just from my MBA pals, but everyone in the field.

  So I shouldn’t resent the fact that Emmett just torpedoed another of my romantic plans on the same day he asked me pick out a present for his lady friend. Once in a great while—when the stars from twenty galaxies go into alignment—he lets me go home early enough that I can grab a late dinner with Rick. Emmett’s become more demanding in the last six months. He might be thinking I’m senior enough to rise to higher expectations. Or he’s decided he needs to make me work harder to avoid the regret of hiring me. Or maybe he’s realized his two-year carte blanche is about to expire, so he needs to kick it up a notch.

  Regardless, these endless late nights will end. No matter how much Emmett regrets hiring me, the headhunters are going to focus on the fact that in the time I’ve worked for him I’ve overseen two IPOs and numerous ventures that got noticed by the national media. I’m going to get amazing job offers with more pay, more benefits and better hours over the next eight weeks. I’m probably going to have an orgasm right here on the office floor when I throw my resignation in Emmett’s face and keep every last penny of my signing bonus.

  For that, I can suck it up for the next two months.

  I boot my laptop. As it comes back to life, my eye catches the five circles and a star on my calendar. Please. I need to get the hell out of here. Please let the Blaire Group make me a juicy offer.

  Then I finally note the sad little 6MAT by the star. Damn it. Should’ve known the trip wasn’t happening when Rick texted me this morning. Our relationship has been anything but smooth sailing. If I were superstitious, I’d suspect we were cursed.

  Just look what happened today. I gave everything to Emmett before lunch, and he waited until now to ask for changes.

  Stop being upset. Dig into the various markets and statistics and redo the model. Pull out the pricing projections Emmett asked for. The faster I do it, the sooner I can leave.

  I open the Excel file I sent to Emmett. Even now, my projections seem fine. I can’t make my assumptions worse than they are without making them about a crappy case of recession, which I don’t think is coming anytime soon. Indicators don’t support that.

  Still…

  He sees something I don’t, I tell myself, taking a long, calming breath. He sees something I don’t. If I don’t force myself to believe this, I’m going to bash him over the head with my heavy-duty stapler.

  Before I start digging into the spreadsheet, I shoot a quick text to Rick. I feel bad for letting him down because he was super excited this morning, but I have no choice. At least I’m not telling him through a Pulse post comment.

  –Me: Something came up at work. I think I’m going to be late. Sorry!

  After I hit send, I contemplate the huge model. Rick shouldn’t have to wait for hours when he could be heading to Lake Tahoe and getting the maximum value out of the cabin rental. So I type another text and send it to him, all the while doing my best not to cry over the fact that I’m stuck in the office and will have to make the long-ass drive myself later. This seriously is not how I wanted my Friday evening to unfold.

  –Me: Actually, this is going to take a while. Why don’t you send me the address of the cabin? I’ll drive out after I’m done. Thanks!

  It takes ten hours or so to drive to Lake Tahoe. Shit. Maybe I should just fly, not for myself, but for the safety of other drivers on the road. I can’t be sure I’ll be able to stay awake.

  I put the phone away and begin poring over the market data. Still can’t see how my projections were wrong…

  Nevertheless, I do manage to find enough indicators to support an absolute worst-case scenario and incorporate them into the model. This should make Emmett happy.

  I’m a little over halfway done when my stomach starts to growl. I also can’t suppress a yawn. The numbers in the Excel cells are beginning to blur, bleeding into each other like the Rorschach blots psychologists use for personality tests. Wonder what it means that what I’m seeing looks like… I squint. Huh… Kind of like a penis.

  Maybe it’s a sign that, deep inside, I think Excel is a dick, which doesn’t make any sense. I actually like Excel. It makes my job a hundred times easier.

  I blink and shake my head to wake myself up. It doesn’t help much.

  Need sugar. And more coffee.

  I head over to the break room to grab a couple of candy bars and a latte from the fancy espresso machine Emmett’s brother Grant put in for his birthday. Emmett and Grant both give presents to the office on their birthdays. It’s a tradition. And probably tax deductible, if I know Emmett.

  The floor’s empty except for two other desks—a couple of first-year analysts who report to Grant. They probably screwed something up. Or maybe they were too bullish.

  But now even they are closing their laptops. Lucky them. That leaves me alone in the office.

  Actually, not alone. Emmett’s still here. I know it because he hasn’t come by my desk, which is on his way to the elevator bank.

  I walk into the empty break room, take a large mug that reads SHORT YO MAMA, fill it with fresh latte and grab a Snickers bar and two bags of Skittles.

  “Why are you still in the office? You aren’t heading out?”

  I turn, and there’s Sasha. We met at Goldman, become friends, went to Wharton together and now are roommates while we work at GrantEm. Unlike me, she works for Grant Lasker, who is a nicer human being than Emmett. She must be ready to go home because she’s carrying her laptop bag and purse.

  “Emmett wants some adjustments,” I say.

  Sasha looks at my java with pity. “He knows it’s Friday, right?”

  “Yes, which is his most despised day of the week. The more he works, the more he thrives.”

  She shakes her head.

  “And the stuff I’m doing is for the meeting Monday afternoon. It can’t wait,” I say, not to defend Emmett, but to soothe my disappointment over not being able to nap in Rick’s car. Otherwise, I might just cry. Or scream. Or maybe do both at the same time—but not yet. I don’t have a job offer secured, and I haven’t hit the two-year mark, which means I can’t throw my resignation in Emmett’s face.

  But in just fifty-six more days, I will. Gleefully.

  She wrinkles her nose. “You couldn’t pass it off to an analyst or two?”

  “If I’m not seeing what’s wrong, they aren’t going to. And I don’t want Emmett calling me in Tahoe and asking me to come in and redo it myself.”

  “Tahoe?”

  I sigh. “Rick booked a surprised getaway.”

  Sasha raises both eyebrows. “Nice. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  “Yeah, me either. Let’s just say it was indeed a surprise.” And not in a good way, but I can’t discuss boyfriend issues with Sasha right now because it will take time I don’t have.

  “That area has some really nice weekend rentals. Really swanky.”

  “He likes them homey.” No need to see pictures to know what he would’ve picked. “I told him I’d join him later today. After I’m done. But whatever. Why are you still here? I thought you were heading out to see Gage.”

  “We both had a few things to wrap up, so I moved my flight to tomorrow.”

  “Price you pay for dating a high-priced Bay Area lawyer.” I haven’t met Gage yet. But then, Sasha hasn’t met most of my boyfriends, including Rick. We work too damn many hours.

  “Yeah. Long distance sucks.” She filches a bag of sour gummy worms—her favorite—and stuffs it into her purse. She always takes one from the break room before leaving. Says it helps her control herself. She claims if she goes to a supermarket hungry, she’ll end up cleaning out the aisle. “But you know me. No working from home. Ever.”

  I nod. That’s been her longstanding rule. Says it ensures that work doesn’t encroach into her personal life. I adopted it too during my second year at Goldman. It helped avoid burnout while putting in hundred-hour weeks, so I’ve kept it.

  “Hey, if you need help, let me know.” She pats my arm in sympathy. Unlike some who might say it as a friendly but empty gesture, she means it.

  “Thanks, girl. I will.”

  After wishing her a great weekend, I head to my desk. I consume the latte, and caffeine jolts through my system, pushing away the fogginess.

  I unwrap the Snickers and pull my phone out of my purse to check for Rick’s directions to the cabin. Multiple texts and five missed calls. This is unusual. He’s never called me over missed or changed plans. Not that he’s done much to hide how he felt. He can whine better than a three-year-old who missed his nap. But he never tries to compete with my career for my attention. That’s the biggest reason we’re still together, despite the times my gut whispered that I needed to cut my losses. Rick and I really aren’t going anywhere. Rebounding with him seemed like a great idea six months ago, especially when my last boyfriend dumped me after I couldn’t make two consecutive dinner dates and said that he needed a girlfriend who would put him first. He didn’t understand that dinner dates won’t pay off my debt.

  –Rick: I didn’t want to do this via text, but I guess you leave me no choice. This is ridiculous, Amy!

  –Rick: Me or the job?

  What? Where did this come from?

  –Rick: Think real careful before you answer that.

  –Rick: Are you listening?

  –Rick: Are you ignoring me?

  –Rick: Hello?

  I stare incredulously at the texts. The time stamp on the “Are you listening?” is six thirty-four p.m.; “Are you ignoring me?” and “Hello?” are six thirty-five p.m. He went ballistic over me not texting back within a minute? Couldn’t he see that I hadn’t even read his messages?

  Besides, I told him I’d join him after I was done. So what’s up with the ultimatum?

  He doesn’t get to make threats after dumping this trip on me at the last minute! Especially when he knows the number of hours I work! I was clear about that from the beginning. Furthermore, I made it clear that I could only meet him around my work schedule.

  And he said he was fine with that, no problem!

  –Rick: Don’t be a bitch.

  Oh, hold on. Did he just call me a bitch because I told him I have to work?

  –Rick: Me or the job?!!!!

  Isn’t the answer obvious? I didn’t spend nearly half a million dollars on undergraduate and master’s degrees to choose him and unemployment.

  –Me: The job, BITCH!

  I hit send with more force than necessary. Then I glare at the screen, fuming. Who does he think he is?

  But every second I’m giving the phone a death stare is one more second I’m being unproductive. The projections won’t populate themselves into Excel on their own. And besides, Rick can’t even see my evil glare.

  I put my phone away and turn back to my laptop. The calendar on my desk sits in my peripheral vision. I look at it and see the stupid 6MAT over today’s date blowing a raspberry at me for bothering to try to accommodate Rick.

  Screw that.

  I reach into my drawer, pull out a black Sharpie and scribble out the 6MAT to erase the evidence of my relationship idiocy. Two seconds later, the area smells faintly of permanent marker ink. I put the marker away and go back to Excel.

  I can probably get this done in the next hour or two, email it to Emmett and then go home. I’m going to splurge on an excellent bottle of Merlot and take a luxurious bubble bath. And then sleep. If everything goes well, I should be able to swing at least six hours rather than my usual four. The possibility is exciting.

  That’s me—living the high life!

  I put together a document that lists the indicators and articles I’ve referenced. That way Emmett can’t come back and ask me for exhibits to validate my projections and pricing of commodities and labor.

  I hit save and reach for the Skittles. Boosting my blood sugar will be paramount to surviving the next two hours…

  But the damn bag won’t cooperate. I try to pull it apart a couple of times, fail, then snarl in anger and yank on the damn thi—

  The little candies explode like a rainbow grenade. Some of them end up on the floor; most clatter around on my desk. I swipe those up and shove them into my mouth. Then I bend down to pick up the ones on the floor. We have janitors, but it’s my mess.

  After I grab all the contaminated candy and toss it into the trash, I park my butt back at my desk. The second my eyes fall on my laptop screen, horror sucker-punches me so hard I actually gasp.

  Microsoft Excel is not responding

  If you start or close the program, it will try to recover your information.

  → Restart the program

  → Close the program

  → Wait for the program to respond

  “No! Oh, no, no, no, no…”

  I click on “Wait for the program to respond” repeatedly. The error pop-up stays.

  Why is it not going away? Does this mean my computer understood I’m going to wait or what? The engineers who designed Excel should’ve created a special alert that reassures panicked users that the “Wait for the program to respond” option has been chosen and the program will respond. The lack of such a feature is incredibly user-unfriendly!

  Time slows. I gnaw on my nails, my eyes glued to the damned pop-up that refuses to go away. How long does it take before Excel deigns to respond?

  I pull out my phone. There are more texts, probably from Rick, but I don’t have the bandwidth for them. I open the timer app, go to the stopwatch tab and immediately hit start. The numbers on the screen whir past.

  Please! God, oh please!

  Two minutes. Three. Four…

  …Ten minutes.

  Panicked bitterness wells up, choking me. If the program hasn’t responded after ten minutes, it isn’t going to magically start now.

  I give it another five minutes. Just in case.

  Nothing.

  Now all my hope is on this phrase: If you start or close the program, it will try to recover your information.

  Don’t you fucking fail me, Microsoft!

  I force-close the program, then immediately restart it. I clasp my hands together in a desperate prayer, my eyes squeezed shut.

  Please recover the file. Please, please, please! I’ll sacrifice my left little toe.

  The tension around my shoulders eases as Excel shows a recovered file in the left-hand pane. I click on it. Then press my hands to my mouth so I don’t shriek with frustrated rage.

  Screw you, computer! Screw you, life!

  The damned program didn’t recover the latest version. It recovered one from over an hour ago.

  I look down at my phone. Eleven fifty-nine p.m.

  In less than a minute, it’s going to be Saturday. I was supposed to have an awesome job interview and hopefully make it to the surprise getaway to Lake Tahoe—not get stuck in the office, wrestle with Excel, break up with my boyfriend via text or have Excel crash and burn, forcing me to redo at least an hour’s worth of work.

  My fingers shake with fury and frustration. The lack of sleep over the last several weeks has left my head full of sludge. The gears in my brain refuse to turn, despite the fact that I had a huge latte less than two hours ago.

  Whatever control I try to hang on to slips away. In its wake, a murderous rage erupts.

  I jump to my feet. This is all Emmett Lasker’s fault!

  The projections I gave him earlier were fine. Wharton doesn’t hand out MBAs just because you have a pretty smile. I deserve an explanation. And Emmett’s going to give me one now!

  I march toward his office. The gap between the bottom of the door and the floor is lit. He’s probably in there panting, worn out from counting all the money he has. GrantEm is a venture capital firm. There could’ve been a major jackpot payout where the firm made its money back a thousand times over since he tossed this redo in my lap.

  Now my resentment is boiling over. He has the pleasure of rolling around in a pile of cash like Scrooge McDuck. But me? I’m just a peon with an expensive degree I still need to pay for. And that payment seems to include giving up sleep and sanity, largely due to my boss.

  It’s time Emmett knows those two are a big no-no. The hell with suffering for another eight weeks!

  I burst into his office. If he can make me work late, he has to deal with me confronting him about it. Furious words are loaded and ready, like bullets in a machine gun. But before I can fire them off—

  “Amy…”

  I freeze. That…didn’t sounds like a reprimand. It sounded like a…moan. And not just any moan. A sexual moan. The kind you make when you’re in a haze of lust.

  It takes a while for my sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated brain to process the scene.

  Emmett, reclining on a couch. His dick in his hand.

  I just walked in on my boss’s midnight masturbation.

  Chapter Five

  Amy

  The angry words in my head get jammed. I open and close my mouth, but not even a croak comes out.

  Emmett’s penis is huge. The biggest I’ve ever seen. And thick. Veins stand out, pulsing in his grip.

  I drag my eyes up. He’s fully clothed and properly covered, except for the crotch area. He’s looking straight at me. No sign of embarrassment or oh-shit-I-got-caught panic.

  Okay, I have to be dreaming. I know I’m exhausted. Maybe my latest Excel model did get saved. Maybe I emailed it to Emmett and had my wine and bath, and now I’m having a lucid dream.