Page 45 of Big Boss
I nod even though he’s not looking. “Yes, I remember you now. What’s going on?”
He makes one of those short, hard noises that means he’s already mad about something. “That’s exactly what I’m calling to ask about. What in the name of crazy publicity stunt is going on over there? Where the hell is Tate?”
My hands sweat a little at his tone, but I was considering calling one of his friends for help anyway, and now he’s calling me instead.
“I haven’t seen Tate since he left here yesterday morning.”
Jackson makes a rude noise. “Yeah, well, I’m the one who came and picked him up. We went back to my place for a little bromotional support, and then we watched some documentary about a serial killer and like five episodes of that baking show he’s obsessed with. His choice, because you know I’m not into that. I dropped him off at his car around eleven last night, and I thought he went home and went to bed.”
Everything about the words he said keeps rattling around in my skull, but this isn’t the time for me to solve the mystery of Whatever Tate Was Doing Yesterday and Why. “You haven’t seen him since then?”
His voice drips with condescension. “Obviously not in person.” Alarm bells immediately start to go off in my mind, but the man on the call doesn’t even give me time to catch up. “And now we have an actual, real life, grown-up type problem, and the man in question has his phone turned off.”
I take a few deep breaths then try to figure out the best way to help defuse the situation. “Well, he’s not here and I haven’t spoken to him. You saw him more recently than me.”
The man on the other end of this call grumbles something that I can’t quite decipher, so I ask him to repeat himself.
But of course he doesn’t do that. My boss and all of his closest friends are the kind of men who don’t do anything they’re told, and it’s beyond frustrating at times like this.
“Erica, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on him. You said you would keep him out of trouble, and that was literally the entire point of him hiring you, the person who is arguably least qualified to do this job.”
Is that why he sounds so angry with me? I can feel my coffee churning in my stomach, but I have to ask anyway. “What happened? Is Tate in trouble? I’ll go get him and you figure out how to keep it quiet.”
I hate how small my voice sounds, but we all have our weak spots, and apparently Tate being in any form of actual trouble is mine.
Jackson laughs, but it’s not because I’m being funny. It’s a sharp sound that lets me know he’s upset and somehow wants to pin all the blame on me for whatever is going on.
“Before you head off on your rescue mission, why don’t you go ahead and do a quick internet search for your boss, Miss Ridley? I’ll wait.”
The coldness of his tone isn’t doing a damn thing to settle my nerves, but in situations like this, it’s better to square up and look this kind of problem right in the eye. Avoiding problems never seems to make them go away. More often than not, the trouble multiplies and makes a bad situation into something completely unmanageable.
And with that in mind, I go ahead and do something that I’ve always felt obligated not to when it comes to Donovan Tate. I look him up on the internet.
He has his own Infopedia page, so I start there. The picture they have up on his page is one from his office, the long-haired, shirtless version of my hot guy boss eating fruit picture. Gross.
And it turns out his stupid band is famous for that awful song about cunnilingus? Double gross. Also, how did he manage to have me working for him this entire time and simply never mention his claim to dubious fame out loud?
Although given my prior personal experience with the one and only Donovan Tate, it does seem like the filthy lyrics of that particular song were based on real life.
The thought makes me flush, as a brief memory of his hand wrapped around my throat while I came interrupts my internet sleuthing.
“Well?” Jackson asks, clearly impatient and ready to yell some more.
“I’m looking at his Infopedia page but—”
“No, just do an image search. You’ll see what I’m referring to. It’s everywhere.”
I pause for a moment because this can’t be anything good. And if there are questionable pictures of my boss on the internet, I’m not sure I want to see him like that. I don’t want to see him how other people want him to be.
I like Donovan Tate, and I’m afraid that whatever I’m about to find is probably going to ruin our friendship—assuming the night of extremely hot sex didn’t already do that.
But ultimately, I decide it’s still better to face whatever it is head on. The only way I can even try to help Tate is if I know what the problem is, and apparently Infopedia isn’t going to tell me.
I hold my breath and do the image search. The entire page is filled with pictures of Tate and Bella LeGrande. She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands are all over her, and either she’s giving him very intensive CPR or they’re making out like it’s last call and only a vigorous round of tonsil hockey can save her.
I remember to breathe then put extra effort into keeping my voice steady. “When did this happen?”
Jackson sighs. “It had to have been after I dropped him off. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was going to meet up with her, especially after all the effort I put in to getting the two of them photographed together. Before you messed that up, of course.”
