Page 4 of Unbossly Manners

I had two choices.

One: Lock myself in my room and pray he wasn’t violent.

Two: Tuck my tail and leave.

I only knew one other person in the city—Selena. But she was out of the country this week, photographing a wedding in London.

“You’re the worst girl I’ve ever been with,” Chip snarled. “You should come with a warning label.”

He lay back on the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes, a smirk on his stupid face.

Rage rushed through my head so fast it overtook all thoughts. I walked to the small kitchen and turned on the tap until the water burned. My hand wrapped around a tall glass from the drying rack, and I filled it to the brim.

The glass was so hot it hurt my fingers but I didn’t care. I raised it and poured it on his exposed crotch.

“Ah!” Chip crunched over his groin. “My little man!”

I covered my mouth, resisting a laugh. There’d be no permanent damage, but I could still hear him cursing as I walked down the stairs and out of the building.

Karma be damned. I’d already wrecked one dick. What was one more?

two

Outside the apartment building, the sidewalk was bustling with Friday night revelers, laughing and stumbling to the next bar or party. I stared at the window of my apartment and halted. With Selena out of the country, I had nowhere to go, and I briefly debated if I should go back upstairs.

Er…nope. Not after I’d bungled Chip’s dick. He’d make sure I paid for it, and I wasn’t a masochist.

Before I could do anything, I needed my phone. I hauled ass to my office to retrieve it and figure out where the hell I was going to sleep.

The elevator dinged and the door opened to a darkened hallway dimly lit by security lights. I trudged to my desk, my cheeks cherry-red with sweat dripping down my back after the twenty-block walk. It was early June and the heat and humidity of summer had fully arrived.

I worked for Dreamary, a podcast media company. The office was modern and sleek, with hammock chairs hanging from the wood beams, beer on tap, shared work tables instead of cubicles, and a small platform at the far end of the large space filled with oversized pillows that was meant to be used for various activities like yoga, live music, and workshops, but was mainly used for cat naps.

I snatched my phone from the work table and hurried back to the elevator only to remember I had no destination.

SOS! Can I crash at yours? Worst. Date. Ever.

I texted Selena, but it was the middle of the night in London, and she often rented her place on Airbnb when she was out of town for work to make extra cash.

I dragged my feet across the blond wood flooring and sat on the stage, glaring at my phone.

It didn’t matter how much my mind knew Chip was the jerk-off (probably what he was doing right now), mortification wrapped around me like an iron vise.

You should come with a warning label.

I shook away his words, and heard a creaking of metal across the room. The noise came again. A squeaking and then a kind of mewling. I crept down the side hallway toward the two recording studios. The door of studio A was cracked, and I looked through the long slit.

The oval table holding soundboards, and microphones, carried an additional burden in the form of two people in a state of half-undress.

The new intern—Brody—leaned over the table, his body spread long across a man who wore dark jeans and Merrell boots.

I knew who he was instantly. Isaac Pillon, one of the owners and creators of Dreamary. He always wore the same style of boots. I bet his closet floor was lined with them.

Brody shifted and the soft overhead lighting reflected off Isaac’s pale shaft.

I threw myself against the wall outside the door, covering my mouth, suppressing a shocked laugh.

Holy shit. I’d just seen my boss's dick.

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