Page 14 of Loathing My Boss
Annoying.
It’ll be hard to make his life miserable with other authors at a retreat watching. Particularly as I assume other authors have assistants who aren’t dead set on their bosses’ downfalls.
When all my scheming started, I reverse-engineered abusive relationships.
Step one is cutting off external support. Even though I haven’t exactlydonethat. Viktor’s brothers are great, super kind to me, and seem to find my antics funny. Probably because they are.
Despite my self-proclaimed title asthe worst person in all of existence, I do have a line. And taking people wholove you away is a level of cruelty that I actually don’t think I can manage.
That being the fact, the effort I’ll have to expend in order to make sure my attitude doesn’t shift between Viktor and I but also doesn’t make any of his new author buds sayhey, um, your assistant’s very clearly a psycho…is not something I’m looking forward to.
So I up the sorrow in my eyes when I look at Viktor, who is focusing on tracing the rim of his water glass with his finger. I say, “I can’t go with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His finger freezes.
“I have a fish.”
His brow lowers.
“Potato. He needs me.”
Slowly, Viktor says, “You…have a fish…named Potato…who needs you?”
“Yes.” I nod, despondent. “He’s a pea puffer, which means feeding him is a bit of athingeach day. They’re carnivores, pufferfish, so I have to feed him teeny tiny pest snails and blood worms by hand.” I am positivelyweepyat the notion of being unable to go with him to this retreat. But I simply cannot abandon my Potato. “He’ll miss me too much. He might not eat. Two weeks is a long time to be without him.”
Concern for the—actually true—dependency I appear to have on my fish swells in Viktor’s expression. “Can’t a friend feed him if you show them how?”
“My only friend is an heiress.”
“Right,” he murmurs, lifting his water glass to his lips. “Crimson Nightingale.” He sips. “She keeps staff.”
My lashes flutter. “You want me to ask anheiressto addfeeding my fishto any one of her staff’s daily duties?”
“Knowing Crimson, she’d be happy to do it herself,” hemumbles against the rim.
I bristle at the verysuggestionthatanyoneknows Crimson besides me.
“This is very important to me, Crisis,” he says, looking deep into my eyes with an intensity I’m positive only a Bachelor brother can achieve. The Bachelor men are built like priceless sculptures. All dark hair and brooding backstories. Tall. Broad. Severe. Some of them do smile more than the others, but every last one of them can pull off looks that delve this deep into a soul at a moment’s notice.
I clear my throat. “It’s…very important to you that I be present at a writer summer camp?”
“May isn’t summer.”
I touch a finger to the listedeventsabove a very specificand more!“There’s a bonfire advertised, right under swimming at a lake, and horseback riding. This is a summer camp, Mr. Bachelor. It’s only not happening in summer because it’s targeted at people out of school year-round.”
“While thereareactivities, there are also classes. And the intention is that members achieve writing goals during the two weeks. It’s a work trip, with scheduled movement, so the writers who go don’t lose their minds.”
Ilikewhen he loses his mind, though. Nothing brings me more pleasure than watching him drop his head to his desk in a fit of discouragement and agony, then begin gently knocking his skull against the wood as though he’s attempting a force restart of his brain.
Refraining from getting video evidence is the only downside.
To write is to suffer. And he deserves the pain of every word.
JustonceI’d love to see the words he fights through blood and tears for get shot down like how he destroyed meten years ago.
I finish my spinach crepe cup. “Will there be a workshop?”
“I believe so, yes. Possibly a few were listed on the website.”
