Page 4 of How to Deal

As Zane walks away, theworstpart of my job peeks his head from behind his computer.

Mr. Madsen might have had the makings to be a great boss, but when he departs behind the closed door of his office, I’m reminded of who shares that man’s DNA.

“Are you blushing?”

I refuse to make eye contact and refuse to answer Tathan, Paul’s son. And here I thought making coffee for the office was the most annoying part of my job. Wrong. Tathan is.

“Hmmm,” he says as though he’s considering something. I can see the grin even though my vision is intently focused on my computer screen.

It’s the very reason why I despise my job lately, the part that makes me sure I just might end up in the insane asylum.

Tathan McSlut Madsen. McSlut is clearly not his middle name, but it should be.

I’ll save you the trouble of getting to know him. Just listen. He’s the biggest motherfucking slut alive, and he sits right in front of me. My computer faces Tathan’s.

It sucks. No really, it’s absolutely awful. There’snothingworse than having to stare at the person you despise for eight hours a day. It’s the worst kind of punishment.

Moments after our small interaction where he teases me, and I ignore him, he’s back to sweet talking the receptionist. I’ve named this one Sweet Cheeks because she’s obsessively sucking on a lollipop, which I’m sure is causing Tathan to squirm.

I name all the girls pining after him with names indicative of their behaviors and looks because I apparently have nothing better to do with my time. Sure, he’s hot—that’s a lie—he’s fucking delicious. But I’m not going there. I refuse to go there.

I’m at a self-induced standstill with my love life, and because of that, I won’t allow myself to contemplate a relationship with Tathan or anyone, because I have more dignity than these girls who basically throw themselves at him.

My focus turns back to Tathan when I hear his laughter. It draws me in every damn time. As much as I don’t like him, everything he does and says lures me in.

At the fading sound of his laughter floating through the office, Sweet Cheeks staggers off with weak knees to the rest of his Crush Brigade to discuss in-depth how good he is in bed. I listen to every word, who wouldn’t? I’m bizarrely drawn to this because really, I sit in a goddamn cubicle all day and have no life outside of this office, so this is my entertainment.

Silently, I live vicariously through Sweet Cheeks, but I know I’ll never be that type of girl—life or no life. I’d rather be alone than be the next step in the revolving door that’s Tathan Madsen.

Trying to ignore him, I’m working—that’s a lie—I’m looking on Urban Dictionary for new slang terms to call Tathan. No new words have posted since yesterday, so I stick with manwhore; it’s original and suits him just fine.

Paul emerges from his office an hour later and hands me a set of floor plans that need to be delivered to the fourth floor. Why he can’t take them and his Armani suit up there himself is beyond me, but I do it anyway because he smiles at me and, well, it’s actually my job to do these things.

It’s sad. I feel like a slave who will never be free from the ties that bind me to this place and this job. And when I think about it, everyone usually has someone they answer to, even when you own the company, you answer to your clients. We’re all slaves in some way or another.

Swinging around in my chair, I stand and reach for the plans tucking them under my arm. On my way out the door, I accidentally drop them near Tathan’s desk. It seems as though he has some kind of magnetic pull on me. He manipulates the laws of gravity and I drop shit when I’m near him.

Refusing to look at him, I attempt to bend over without showing any cleavage but in a pencil skirt, it’s nearly impossible to bend and pick something off the floor. With great effort, I succeed only to have Tathan clear his throat.

My eyes snap to his like a laser beam.

Go ahead, say something, asshole.

“Hey, Amalie, while you’re down there can—” Tathan begins but is cut off when I take the plans and knock him upside the head with them, quickly shutting him down.

“Fuck off!” I whisper, straightening my posture and smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse.

This is our relationship. He provokes me. I react. Usually with violence.

On my way to the elevators, I pass by Tathan’s harem of women. I hear fragments of their encounters with him, and I’m curious. Not because they now all have Chlamydia, but because I haven’t been laid in areallylong time and the juicy details they give about said manwhore are pretty hot.

To be exact, I haven’t had any in six months, and for good sex, it’s longer than that. Sex-deprived, I live for these details. The last time I had good sex was about eight months ago, and the details are fading fast. Sadly. One Halloween party, a bottle of gin, and a cat woman costume will do that to you.

On another note, going without sex for this long can do some alarming things to you. For me, I say some fairly inappropriate things at times and confuse words. When they say her mind’s always in the gutter, it’s a true statement for me.

Take yesterday for example. I asked Tathan for a box of paperclips, but instead, I asked him for a box of paper cocks.

Tathan’s immediate mouth drop, then grin had me fumbling to correct my obvious faux pas.

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