Page 60 of The Boss

Every table is VIP, or at least makes you feel like it. Our seven-person table is surrounded by carefully crafted iron barriers that give us a vague sense of privacy as we gab about sex, shopping, and school. You know, the three Ss of the average college girl. Both Cher and another girl are in sororities and talk up the pledging that happened earlier this semester – that they missed, because they were working their asses off at Bradford & Marcon for so little pay we probably don’t make enough to get taxed.

Three of us have significant others, but one wouldn’t mind breaking up with hers or cheating with someone tonight. There are quite a few good-looking people here. The night is young at eight in the evening, but I smell cologne and aftershave as guys in fitted T-shirts and tight jeans filter in with high-fives and knowing looks. I may be off every market imaginable now, but even when I was single? No way. It’s kinda embarrassing in here.

Most of the people here tonight are athletic. Maybe they play for one of the pro sports teams, or they’re student athletes from another school. Can’t be sure. All I know is that they look loaded even though they’re wearing casual clothes. Most of them are covered in tattoos. Some of them bring dates with them, but most are stag. Women who come in are looking for a good time. A small bachelorette party explodes in the far corner of the room. Lots of guys elbow each other and waggle eyebrows. That is until they find us, anyway.

The girl sitting at the far edge of our booth is named Heather. The mousiest of us all, if I’m being honest. She’s only slightly older than me but has a worldly look in her eyes the moment someone approaches her.

“Wanna dance?” That’s all he says.

The rest of us goad her on to dance with him. Before any of us can say bon voyage, Heather is off to grind against some footballer inked from head to toe.

“Lucky,” Cher sneers. Our second round of drinks arrives. “Let’s toast to Heather getting some in the back alley tonight.” She holds up her drink, and we follow suit. “And let’s toast to our sweet Alessa.”

I almost spit my drink back out. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, girl. You’re boning the boss. We all know it. You think we don’t know that she’s regularly fucking you now?”

Everyone else has drunk enough because they sagely nod as if they’ve been thinking the same thing this whole time. I haven’t drunk enough. I need a third drink before committing to sharing any of my personal information, let alone about Julianna!

“Tell us,” someone named Lizzie says. “How good is she? We’ve got a pool going. Heather says she’s a master with her hands. I think she’s got hip skills to rival a legend.”

Cher snorts beside me. “Please. She’s nothing. She looks like a perfectionist in the streets and a deviant in the sheets.” She looks at me. “Well? How good?”

“How good is wh… oh. You mean that.”

They look at me, expectantly.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“Come on!” they all yell in unison.

“You’re such a lucky bitch,” Lizzie says, already tipsy. “That woman struts around the office barking orders and threatening to chop off everyone’s heads, and all I can think is that I can’t wait for her to call me into her office for a spanking.”

I shift in my seat.

“Forget spanking. I want her to fuck me,” says Jackie, the fifth girl in our group. She’s the oldest out of us all, a nice and haggard twenty-five. “She looks like a power driller with a strap-on.” She slams her palm against the edge of the table and uses her other hand to mimic hot, raw doggy-style sex. “Am I hot or cold here, Alessa?”

I’m so red that I can’t even blame the alcohol on my complexion.

“What I want to know iswhy you?” Cher scoffs. “If she wanted to fuck an intern, you’d think she’d pick me.”

“You would say that, Cher. You’re so up your ass.”

“I’m only saying. I’m way hotter than Alessa.”

Both Jackie and Lizzie see how uncomfortable I am and decide to vindicate me through Cher. “Not everyone is into you, hon! There’s a reason you don’t have anyone! It’s ‘cause you’re a bitch, and Alessa isn’t.”

“You’re the bitches,” she mumbles. “Besides, Ms. Marcon isn’t my type. I’m more of a Ms. Bradford kind of girl.”

“Now that’s the real surprise.”

Heather stumbles back toward our table, her visage lush with dance fever and probably whatever the footballer covered in tats gave her. “Oh my God, you guys! I can barely stand!”

“My turn,” Jackie says, getting up. “Someone find me someone to mack on. Mama’s got an oral fixation in need of placating.”

“These are the horniest people in the world,” Heather continues. “They’re all DTF and looking for their hookups of the night. Get. Going.”

“I’m in!”

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