Page 17 of Loathing My Boss
My nostrils flare. “I will sleep on the floor in whatever room I have here. YouknowI’m stubborn. Do not make me call your agent so we can gang up on you.”
He frees his luggage from the death grip, turns toward me, and glowers down the tip of his nose. “You are not sleeping on the floor for fourteen days. Period.”
“Well, you certainly can’t. You’re practically geriatric!” I lay my hand against my bosom, fingers splayed with elegance. “In contrast, I am youthful and spry.”
He releases the spirit of a demon—or sighs. It is anyone’s guess, truly. “I’ll sleep on the floor, Crisis. I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor.”
I glare.
He glares.
We glare at each other.
I lift my fist. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
“No.” He stomps, bends, and swallows before latching his grip around my upper arm and dragging me to my feet with an ease that should concern me given that I’m suggesting we sleep in the same tiny stall bedroom together for two solid weeks.
It doesn’t.
He mutters, “You’re not going to sleep on the floor, and that’s final. I’d soonersharethe bed.”
The idea ofthatmakes me shudder, so I put energy into keeping disgust off my face as I nod and whisper, “Fine…if you’re going to be mean about it. Are you sure we can’t take turns?” Look at me. Being so kind. And reasonable. Just call me Madam Sincerity and Care.
Releasing my arm, he grumbles, “I’m sure.” With a huff, he turns back toward the door that leads into the main hall of this large, multi-floor barn. “We need to be at the ranch house to meet everyone in less than five minutes. We better start heading that way.”
Since his back’s turned to me, I smirk even as I sweetly say, “Okay… Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 6
?
I’m not geriatric, for cryin’ out loud.
Viktor
I am going to kill my brothers.
Whichever of them is responsible for this dies the second I’m back home. Heck, I might make a special trip of it. A murder trip. What fun that might be. Whenever Crisis heads into town to check on her pufferfish, I’ll step away, too, drive back home, andmurderKyran or Zakery.
I can’t believe I thought I could trust them to help me with this.
Shifting against the rug, with little more than a pillow and the throw blanket that was on the foot of the bed, I seethe, listening to the horses snuff in the stalls bordering this room.
Zakery, being the artistic one and second youngest of us, only helped me with the artwork and graphics for this retreat. He drew the logo, arranged the flier, and put together the visuals for the website. Kyran built the website and handled the rest of it—advertising, hiring staff, all the other technical things, etc. Zakery’s a prankster, but he wouldn’t overstep like this. There’s no way. He’s too used to beinggoodeven when the black hole where his soul would be if he had one demands offerings of mischief.
The number our parents did on him left him a littletooobedient sometimes…
Kyran, thankfully and yet alsounthankfully, didn’t quite get that trauma response.
I bet he’s to blame.
Which means my baby brotherdieswhenever I see him next.
I should have known better.
I really, really should have known better.
