Page 6 of Over My Dead Boss
I watch as the Noël lookalike helps the old lady into a car parked down the road before getting in the driver seat and driving off. Immediately, I buckle up and follow them down the main street until they pull into the parking lot of a supermarket. Both of them get out and walk into the store with me, as inconspicuous as possible, in their tow. From behind a pack of cereal that I grab off the shelf and use as a cover, I observe as I follow them around. Whom I believe to be Noël’s grandma, loads up their cart with groceries, or rather has him load the cart with groceries, to which he adds a couple of bottles of whiskey when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I see a woman approaching me rapidly.
“Hey!” she shouts, catching me off-guard. “Are you stealing again? I told you: no stealing in my store!”
Shocked, I stare like a startled deer. Just before she can grab me, I toss the cereal her way and run. I exit the store as quickly as possible and turn a corner.
Good gracious. This must be payback from when I stole that magazine about horses back in second grade.
I run as fast as my legs would carry me but notice soon that no one is actually following, so I quickly sneak back to my car where I hide until Noël and his grandma return. They load up their groceries and drive off. My pulse is still through the structurally questionable roof of my car when I put in a gear and follow them through the streets. The quaint houses lining them probably have their own charm, but all I can focus on is the sleek SUV in front of me. German and shiny. I know nothing about cars, but this one looks like it would be a lot more than my yearly income.
We make our way out of town and finally take a hard left up a long driveway. I turn my lights off, pull over, and watch as their car comes to a stop. Through my binoculars, I see how Noël helps his grandma out of the car and into the house before carrying the groceries inside. She hugs him when saying goodbye. Quickly, I start the car and reverse back on the road, parking it behind some trees, hoping not to get spotted like the creep that I apparently have just become.
Luckily, he doesn’t pass me on his way back, so I speed down the street to discover him taking the next driveway left, all the way uphill to a heavily secured enclosure. I follow with my lights off as the gate opens automatically and allows his car to enter. Once I see him go into the building, I pull up on the narrow driveway, hoping to be obscured enough by the trees while still having a straight line of sight to his house.
Am I a criminal? I feel like a criminal. Did I survive for 25 years to see myself turn into the villain? Don’t people usually have to stay alive longer than that to become evil?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting the manuscript. There are bills to pay, debts to be paid off, and jobs to be saved. I look around and inspect the… well, estate. This guy is loaded. The building he entered looks like the opening scene of a thriller in which the protagonist is a famed architect, and a serial-killer in his spare time.
I wonder who he had to murder to have enough money for this extravaganza.
In the distance, the sun is about to set, drenching the little clearing in front of me in a golden color. I still think about what the best course of action might be when Noël comes around the back of the house, an axe in hand.
Well, damn. I guess it’s me who gets murdered before the opening scene is even over.
Instinctively, I scoot down in my seat and, without making a sound, stare through the gap between the dashboard and the wheel as he begins to chop wood for fire. Not allowing my eyes to wander, I feel around for my binoculars until I find them on the seat next to me. Through the lenses, I zero in on his powerful swings, his black shirt straining against his muscles, seemingly growing tighter by the second. I notice that my mouth has opened for no good reason and finally sit back up in my seat. My car is still hidden, and it’s not like hiding behind my steering wheel would be much help anyway, so instead I do the only thing I know how to: I sit and wait and watch as one block of wood gets decimated after another and my fan fiction comes to life before my own eyes. His jeans hugs his butt every time he bends down, causing my mouth to open all on its own once again.
This is better than reading about Noël,I think, close my eyes and allow my head to fall onto the steering wheel in front of me, which inadvertently causes the horn to go off.
NO!This cannot be happening. He probably didn’t even hear it, out here in the total silence of the wilderness.
Slowly, I raise my head, open my eyes and, sure enough, see Noël approach his front gate to check who had car-called him in the middle of freaking nowhere. When he sees me parked outside his property, he opens the little door in his gate and walks my way. Instead of panicking and flooring it out of here, I sit and stare and do nothing. With his axe swung over his shoulder, he stops right in front of my door and all I can do is to keep staring like the total idiot that I had just proven to be. With my mouth probably still open, I let my eyes wander up his broad chest, over the prominent veins on his arms and all the way to his face. Too tall, too dark, features too defined.
I’ll be damned. That’s not Noël… How did I not realize sooner?
When I don’t roll down my window, he knocks on it lightly to get my attention.
Right. Window.
I use the squeaky handle to lower it and can feel myself blush as I stare into his dark, ocean-blue eyes.
Say something! You need an excuse for trespassing. Something plausible like… like I tracked you down to steal a manuscript from you, but I will take your number instead.
I don’t say anything. Instead, I just slowly close my mouth and swallow.
“Oh,” he says and tilts his head, giving himself a better view to inspect me top to bottom, allowing his eyes to rest on my boobs just a millisecond too long, and for a second I thought he said:It’s you…
Did he say that? Does he know me?
Still staring like a deer into deep-blue headlights, I watch as he fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a money clip that’s bursting with cash.
Of course he uses a money clip. It’s what rich serial killers have instead of wallets.
He takes a $100 bill, looks me over once more and pulls out another $100, which he then hands my way. That’s when I finally regain my composure.
Did this scumbag just try to buy me? Offer me money in exchange for…
I reach for the door handle, pull it and thrust the door open, right into his side, causing him to grunt with a deep hum.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask and remember that the best defense is a good offense. “You think you can just buy me like that? Look, I don’t know how things usually work for you around here, but I am not some kind of floozy that you can just walk up to, offer 200 bucks and then take home. Not that I’m judging anyone who does that sort of work, but—” I cut myself off before I get lost in my rumbling.
