Page 22 of Loathing My Boss
I mean. Hemight, but only if they—raw, itty bitty writers that they are—ask him to critique their first ever complete book.
I hope these losers aren’t so starry-eyed that they won’t do at least a tiny bit of decimating when it’s time for the first workshop in a few days. Seeing Viktor’s current work in progress torn apart is the only real reason I’m here. Like always, very little outside a deep-seated desire for retribution fuels me. After all, being here day-in, day-out goes against my work agreement. I had every right to turn down participation had I persisted.
Standing, Viktor frees a breath and carefully looks at me without turning his head. “Time for work,” he says,then he charts a course away from all the bubbling guests talking about what they’re going to do…instead of getting to it.
The atmosphere alone propels me toward wanting to use the many hours ofdedicatedwriting time over the next thirteen days to throw down at least a short story, so I can be an even worse, smug, horrible person by the end of the retreat. When these people who needed a whole entire event to get their butts in gear mention how—shockingly—they didnotattain their goals, I’ll be sat pretty, knowing I did what they couldn’t.
Without a single scrap of forethought.
I should probably see a therapist about my superiority cravings. This bone-deep desire to “one-up” complete strangers without ever letting them know I did can’t be healthy…
Once in our room, Viktor sets up his laptop at one of the two small desks framing the entryway across from the bed. He sits in the cushioned chair, places his printed-off outline beside the keyboard, and scowls at the screen.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Bachelor?” I ask, amicably.
“My name,” he states. “My first name.”
Why in the world he’s suddenly pressing for me to call himViktorI do not know, but I do like the part where it bothers him that I’m refusing, and I appreciate the part where I have absolutely every reasonable right to.
He’s myboss. Not myfriend. I’m not gonna call himViktorany more than I’m gonna call CrimsonMiss Nightingale.
Besides, sayingViktoraloud means I’d have to shorten his name toVikin my brain if I want to continue being secretly disrespectful, and then I’d just be thinking of Vaporub all the time. None of the Bachelor brothersstomach shortening their names. Zakery is Zakery. Kyran is Kyran. Lukas is Lukas. And I don’t even know how to butcherKalebin a feasible way, so he’s obviouslyKaleb. For the record, people do not call himKale. Although, plant addict that he is, he’d probably love that.
Humming, I get my own laptop started up at the other desk, and it’s almost like working in his room. Except, with enough dedication, I could reach out and touch him across the vast two-feet distance betwixt us.
Silence, broken by the occasional chatter in the hall, sweeps into the cramped space as I check on emails, project inquiries, rent payments, and tenant complaints. While I’m in the middle of forwarding an issue to the appropriate department within Viktor’s team, my chair breaks.
Thecrackof wood sounds in my ears a moment before my rump hits the ground, tumbling me from the seat to the hardwood with a mutedoof.
Viktor—forgetting his neck’s broken state—whips his head toward me, then keels in on himself, grunting, “Are you…okay?”
Better than you are, mate.
I bet these things happen to me because I’m a bad person. It’s the only explanation, actually. Like a bad person, I pick myself up on my hands, puff strands of my hair out of my face, and say, “Of course. I’m young and spry, remember? Bones like rubber.”
My rubber butt hurts.
But I will get over it.
Finding Viktor with his hand clamped to his neck makes me wince. “Your not young and spry neck’s still bothering you a lot, huh?”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, clearly not very fine.
Getting off the floor, I nudge the splinters of the broken chair leg under the desk where I’m less likely to trip on them, thenI position myself behind Viktor, settling my hands on his shoulders. Taut muscles meet my fingers as he stills. “You’ve tightened up again,” I say, pressing into the tendons. “Stop tensing.”
He forces his shoulders to drop.
“Keep working.”
He lifts his hands to his keyboard.
His immediate, unquestioning obedience gives me a high.
I hate to say it, but the way he breathes through the pain of my working on him also gives me a high. I get a high…off hurting people.
Simply…love that about me…
Throat tight, I dig into the sore muscles, coaxing them loose, as though fixing the problem I caused is some kind of penitence.
