Page 2 of The Boss

Life was good.

It hadn’t always been that way, but if I’d learned anything, it’d been to appreciate what I had when I had it.

I pulled my feet up under me, wrapped an arm around my popcorn bowl, and picked up my remote. I’d been waiting all week to binge the second season of my newest guilty pleasure. A fictional show about a reality show. I’d stumbled on the first season a couple weeks ago and finished it up last Sunday afternoon, but this past week had been too busy for me to be able to watch more than an episode or two a night, so I’d decided to give myself a little reward for hard work well done and spend my Saturday night watching TV while snacking to my heart’s content.

I shifted, frowning as I couldn’t quite get comfortable. Something was lumpy right against the middle of my back, and it took me a moment to realize it was my hair. It hung nearly to my waist, and I hadn’t felt like taking the time to completely dry it after my shower, which meant the only way to keep it from becoming a tangled mess was to braid it.

The door across the hall slammed, and I heard a burst of laughter as my neighbors headed out for the night. I’d lived here for a couple months and had met them a day or two after I’d moved in. Perry and Gary. Nice guys. About my age and fellow NYU graduates. They hadn’t been in the communications program, but we’d shared a couple of the same teachers, though not at the same time.

We’d talked a few times, whenever we happened to run into each other in the hall or at the mailboxes. Once, I’d been downstairs doing my laundry, and they’d come down and spent an hour with me. Gary was a flirt, but he never took things too far, and I definitely wasn’t Perry’s type considering he was gay. I hadn’t been worried about moving to Lower Manhattan on my own, but Mom hadn’t been thrilled. When I told her about Perry and Gary, she’d felt much better.

I may have exaggerated my ‘friendship’ with them, but if it made her worry less, the little white lie was worth it. Besides, I had a feeling they were the sort of neighbors who’d at least keep an eye out for anything suspicious. We’d had a couple of those in the Staten Island neighborhood where I’d grown up.

As if the thought of her had prompted it, Mom’s text tone went off on my phone. I went to my favorite streaming app, then leaned forward to pick up my phone.

Did you see last night’sMurder Mysteries? I think that suspect looks like Lauren Lopez’s Uncle Mauro.

I laughed and shook my head. Mom’s newest obsession was anything about unsolved murders. She was convinced she was going to solve one of the cold cases, and every so often, she’d send me a text with her thoughts on a specific episode. Sometimes I watched them, sometimes I didn’t, but I always listened to her theories. She was never actually serious, but it was a thing of ours. We’d always made a point of having something we could talk about that had nothing to do with real life. It had been our way of dealing with things when they’d gotten bad, and we’d continued it even as life had gotten better.

Last year, we’d discussed bird watching. The year before that, it’d been musicals. Whenever an Olympic year came around, we’d share tidbits about athletes and countries and cultures.

Was Uncle Mauro the one with the limp or the one who was missing the tip of his left pinky finger?

Two mouthfuls of popcorn later, Mom’s response came through.

Dammit. I guess that would discount him since they had a set of full fingerprints and he was reported running away from the scene.

I started the first episode, fully aware that I would probably continue to have minor interruptions for the next couple hours until Mom decided it was time for her to go to bed. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, though. We still lived in the same city, but I didn’t get home to visit as much as I wanted. This was a good way for me to stay in touch as my schedule grew busier and busier.

I never wanted to be too busy for her. She’d never been too busy for me, no matter what was going on in the rest of her life. I was always her top priority, and she’d always be mine.

Anything exciting at work? Possible serial killers? Romantic possibilities? Hopefully not the same person.

I coughed as a dry bit of popcorn got stuck. Leave it to Mom to bring up my dating life – or lack thereof – in a creative way.

Three

Ashlee

Artists and Repertoirein the music industry referred to the department that was responsible for the broad concepts of talent scouting and overseeing artistic development. At least, that was how it’d been explained to me when I’d first applied for an internship at Manhattan Records. I had a degree in communications, but that had covered so many different possibilities that it’d been impossible to remember all of the definitions for every department in every field.

When I’d first applied to be an intern, I hadn’t known where I wanted to work, but as a runner, I’d had the chance to see for myself who did what and how and where. After six months or so, I’d been moved to run for primarily A&R, and that’s how I’d decided this was where I wanted to be.

At least, that was the story I kept telling myself.

Not because I disliked my job. I liked it well enough. And I was pretty good at it. More than pretty good, as I’d discovered three months ago when I’d gotten a promotion from runner to personal assistant.

Speaking of…

I held out a cup of Salted Caramel Mocha Coffee as the elevator door opened, and my boss stepped out. Stu Hancock had been with Manhattan Records almost since the beginning, even though he barely looked old enough to vote. I was pretty sure I actually looked older than Mr. Hancock.

“Good morning,” I said as I fell in step with him. “I put your mail on your desk, but most of it looks like junk. I confirmed your first appointment of the day and will start working my way through the rest of your schedule first thing.”

“You know, Miss Webb, you aren’t required to get me coffee each morning,” he said with a smile. “I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not really necessary.”

I shrugged. “I figured if I was already stopping to get my own, I might as well pick up yours and Ms. Lamas’s while I’m there. No point in either of you needing to stop on your way in or send Flora or me out again.”

“Well, thank you.”

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