Page 14 of Positively Pricked
Again, I felt myself swallow. "What?"
"And I don't knowwhatshe is," he continued, "but I'm gonna find out." He flicked his head toward the main house, where the party was still going strong. "Now, get your ass back to work."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He glanced toward the house. "Wherever your station is, find it. And don't leave until I say so."
I stared up at him. "Untilyousay so?" Okay, I knew that he was the customer and all, but I wasn't his servant. "You can't talk to me like that."
"Why not?"
"Gee, I don't know. Because it's rude?"
"You think I care?"
No. He didn't.That much was obvious.
Asshole.
Probably, I should've been relieved. After all, if he was ordering me back to my station, there was at leastsomechance I'd get to keep my job. If I were smart, I'd probably scurry back inside and count my blessings.
I bit my lip.Damn it.Iwassmart. I had a bachelor's degree in public relations. With honors, too. My stomach sank. And what was I doing? Working as a catering assistant.
True, it was honest work, and I didn't mind it most of the time. But under the guy's scornful gaze, I was starting to feel like a giant loser – not because of my job, but because my degree had cost so much, and netted me so little.
And now, I just had to ask, "Let's say Idogo back inside. What then?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Ifyou go back inside?"
"I mean…" I hesitated. "Are you gonna tell on me?"
"The person I'd tell isme."
"Well, yeah, sort of. But I mean are you gonna tell my boss?"
"Iamthe boss."
Talk about arrogant.And besides, that wasn't even true. Not really. I mean, it's not like heownedthe catering company.
I made a sound of frustration. "Oh, come on. You know what I mean."
He studied my face. "Do I?"
Okay, that was definitely a question, even if it was obviously rhetorical. "Listen," I said, "I don't want to go back in there, only to find out that I'm fired later." I lifted my chin. "If I'm getting bad news, I'd rather hear it now and be done with it."
A shadow crossed his features, and the van suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "Trust me," he said in a voice that inspired zero trust. "Losing your job is the least of your worries."
Was that a threat? It sounded like one. Still, I met his gaze head-on. I wasn't afraid of him, or at least that's what I kept telling myself, even as alarm bells kept ringing in my head.
No – not alarm bells – a phone –his, apparently, because it sure as heck wasn't mine. I knew this, because I had no cell phone. Well, not since last Tuesday, anyway.
This was yet another long story.
As I watched, he reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a cell phone. After glancing briefly at the display, he pulled it to his ear and said, "What?"
He listened for a few moments before disconnecting the call without so much as a goodbye. He tucked the phone back into his pocket and eyed me with renewed scorn. "You're still here."
Yes. I was.
