Page 33 of Sexting the Boss

I smirk, stretching back in my chair.

Me: There’s not much to say.

Unknown Number: Bullshit. What do you do? Besides dodging the IRS, obviously.

Me: I run a business.

Unknown Number: Ooooh, vague. Suspicious. Very “I have bodies buried in my backyard” energy.

I huff out a low chuckle, shaking my head.

Me: No bodies. Yet.

Unknown Number: Oh, so you’re a CEO? A big, intimidating boss man?

Me: Something like that.

Unknown Number: I knew it. I can hear the overpriced suit through your texts.

I glance down at my very much overpriced Tom Ford jacket.

She’s not wrong.

Me: And what exactly does an overpriced suit sound like?

Unknown Number: Like a man who doesn’t wait in line for coffee. Who probably owns more watches than pairs of jeans. And who could single-handedly fund my escape from capitalism but chooses not to.

I smirk.

Me: Tragic for you.

Unknown Number: Truly. If only you were a man of the people.

I should cut this off. I should let her wonder instead of feeding her curiosity. But something about her texts—the ease, the sharp humor, the ridiculousness of it all—keeps me playing along.

Me: If it helps, I started at the bottom once.

Unknown Number: Oh? Did you suffer in the trenches of entry-level hell like the rest of us?

Me: Something like that.

I don’t tell her how far back my “bottom” really was. That my first job wasn’t behind a desk, but learning how to make a man disappear without leaving a trail.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Unknown Number: So, what kind of boss are you? Power-tripping tyrant or the mysterious, brooding, impossible to read type?

I smirk.

Me: What do you think?

Unknown Number: Oh, definitely brooding. Probably terrifying. I bet when you call someone to your office, they have to do a prayer circle before knocking.

I pause, exhaling a quiet laugh.

She’s not entirely wrong.

Me: I expect competence. That tends to intimidate people.

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