Page 4 of Heartless Boss
I’m. Not. Dating. End of fucking story.
Women care more about what’s in my wallet than how they feel about me. They’d rather have Gucci, Chanel, or Michael Kors than the real me. So why the fuck would I spend my time looking for love?
Love is a poison I don’t want to drink.
“Date, Gunner. You need to put yourself out there.” She says this as if she’s tired of repeating herself. She places her blue notepad decorated in Bible quotes on the neat desk.
The leather couch squeaks as I sit up and glance around the small office. The walls are pale as a ghost, and her metal desk is shoved in the corner next to a window that’s shaped like an oval. The sky is gray, and rain taps angrily on the window. Four towers of fashion magazines are stacked neatly in the corner by her desk. (I suspect she’s a hoarder.)
“I have eight words for you. Stay the fuck out of my love life.” I pause. “Help me fix my anger issues.”
This is one of the main reasons why I see her. Anger outbursts have been kicking my ass ever since my piece-of-shit dad fucked off to the next woman he could destroy. FYI, my dad’s hobbies were getting sloppy drunk and pounding on my ma and yours truly until we were black and blue.
“Sorry, just doing my job.” She pauses. “This is the third time you’ve come in here hungover. ” Concern colors her hazel eyes. “Why are you wasting our time if you keep repeating the same behavior?” She loudly pops her gum.
I asked myself the very same question right before I showed up here. The answer is I want to feed myself false hope that I’m getting better. For six months, I’ve been coming here once a week—sometimes twice depending on my work schedule—trying to get help for my anger issues and the shit-ton of other issues I have.
Realization hits me—I’m a broken wheel on its way to destruction. All I want to do is get fucked up. Jack Daniel and tequila have been my best friends since I was sixteen years old, but my drinking has been heavier than usual. I’d give up my left nut for a drop of alcohol right now.
My life consists of pussy, alcohol, and work.
Repeat.
But I know I can’t keep living my life like this. Especially after last week when I almost got a DWI. When a female cop pulled me over and asked me to blow into a breathalyzer, I clutched my dick, shook it at her, and told her to blow. Her answer was to slap handcuffs on my wrists, and I ended up spending the night in the slammer. Luckily, my friend, Logan, a criminal lawyer, got me off the hook. Whatever illegal shit he did, I didn’t care. We work on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, so if shit hits the fan and he gets caught, I won’t be incriminated for it.
“You know why I’m here.” My tone is still flat.
We both know I’m not talking about my drinking problem or my anger issue.
“I can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.”
“Point taken,” I say, stand from the couch, straighten out my Tom Ford black slacks, and stroll to the door. She grabs the disinfectant spray from her desk to spray the couch.
“I’ll see you next Friday. Be on time, please.”
I nod before the door clicks closed behind me.
* * *
Underwood Banking is in the middle of the Financial District next to Wall Street. Powerful men who shit more money than the US average salary pace up and down the sidewalk with their cell phones glued to their faces. By the time I swagger through the revolving doors of the thirty-story beige brick building with my last name attached, the pounding in my head has stopped and everything isn’t as loud. I tilt my head to Dexter and Waldo, both wearing navy-blue suits with wires linked to their ears, and they straighten their backs and nod in return. They know better than to ask me to empty out my pockets and show my work badge before entering.
As usual, I’m late for work. I’ve never been a punctual person and never will be. I’m supposed to be here at seven in the morning, but I manage to drag my ass in at nine or ten. When you run your own multibillion-dollar company, you can do whatever the fuck you want.
Right before I reach my private elevator, Donna, the receptionist, takes a seat at her desk. Her glasses are slightly crooked, and she’s wearing her striped blouse inside out. She’s an older woman with silver hair and wrinkling, blotchy skin. A few years back, she got struck by lightning, and it affected her mentally. Her speech is slurred, and she can’t remember what day it is. I should fire her, but I won’t because this is her only source of income. When I tried to convince her to stay home and I’ll pay her bills, she wouldn’t let me. She’s as stubborn as a mule. Donna has been working for me for seven years now. She was one of the first employees I hired when my bank was small, so she’s practically family. Call me a fucking Boy Scout all you want, but I enjoy helping people—especially women and kids. There’s no reason for me to have a shit-ton of money and not give some back to the world.
“Th-thanks for allowing me to s-stick my g-g-granddaughter in the daycare,” Donna says, the right side of her mouth curl into a smile. “I-I don’t know where my t-tramp of a d-daughter is.” I have an in-house daycare on the second floor, that way my employees don’t have to worry about finding a babysitter.
“You’re welcome, beautiful.” I point to her blouse. “Your shirt is inside out again.”
“G-gosh d-darn it, this is the th-third time this week th-this happened.”
She grabs her cane and limps to the restroom. When I head to the private elevator, my employees bomb-rush to me, greeting me like I’m a fucking celebrity. It annoys the hell out of me on most days because all I want is to be left the hell alone.
“Gunner, is there any update on the new computer system change?”
I don’t know, check with the IT department.
“Are we still having the annual summer party?”
