Page 11 of Over My Dead Boss
“But why would I cook when I can have him do it for me?” She smiles and raises her glass in his direction. “Food is always best when someone who loves you prepares it for you, isn’t it?”
Still not amused by this entire ordeal, Mr. Cyrus fixes Dog another bowl and quietly finishes his own plate. I wonder if Dog and his grandma are the only ones he prepares food for or if there’s someone else, someone he doesn’t just growl at.
“Phoenix, be a darling and go fetch us a wee dram of that scotch you keep for special Wednesdays. And you, my dear, tell me what brings you here. I still need to hear the entire story.”
He does as he is told and brings out three funny looking glasses and a deep auburn liquid that smells like band-aids, sea salt and cigarettes.
“Right, well, technically, I work for your grandson. I am an executive assistant at CY Publishing and they sent me to get the manuscript for his latest book.”
Nana laughs so loud that Dog chimes in with even louder howls. “I told you, Phoenix. Didn’t I tell you?Your little stunt wouldn’t last, I said. But you never listen to me.”
Mr. Cyrus rolls his eyes and takes in a deep nose from his scotch. “So they know…” he concludes.
I shake my head and swallow the last bit of eggplant. “No, I didn’t tell them that I found you. As far as Isabella is concerned, you’re still a selfish prick who died to make her life harder.”
His eyes shoot up and zero in on mine, suddenly making me very aware of my breathing. “Why didn’t you tell them?” He wants to know, but is cut off by his grandma.
“Tell me how you found him first.”
Happy to focus on something that isn’t him and his piercing eyes, I comply and recount my every step that lead me here while Nana listens intently, her graceful wrinkles squished with amusement all the way through. She demands a refill of her scotch when I tell her about her grandson mistaking me for a hooker (I might have bent the truth a little for the sake of storytelling) and threatens him with her knife when she hears how he threw me out of his home earlier that day.
“And all of this because you recognized that he wrote his own obituary? Now that’s quite impressive, wouldn’t you say, darling?” She looks over to her grandson, who raises his dark eyebrows and nods with disinterest. Nana laughs again. “Sometimes you have to be patient with him. It’s like he uses up all his words for the page and then there are none left for our ears.”
“Well, at least those words are pretty good.” I regret admitting as much immediately.
“Not enough sexy aliens or dragons or mermen if you ask me, but I’m incredibly proud nonetheless. Not everyone has a Dead Poet’s Society poet in their family.” Nana finishes the rest of her second scotch. “How is that new book of yours coming along anyway? Still stuck?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.” His deep voice fills the empty space while his eyes seem to remain fixed on me for some unnerving reason.
“Alright, I guess you don’t have to,” Nana says and grunts when lifting herself out of her chair. “Is that your little shit bucket outside there, Olivia? Reminds me of the car I used to drive when I was your age. How about you give me a lift back home, seeing that you already know where I live?” She laughs as she hooks into my arm and we make our way towards the door.
“Absolutely not,” her grandson interjects from behind us. “I won’t have you drive in that car of hers. It’s a health hazard, not only for you but for everyone around you. I’ll take you home.”
“Absolutely not,” Nana echoes her grandson. “You had too much to drink. Olivia didn’t even touch hers.” She motions towards the untouched glass of scotch on the table, which only elicits another dark grumble.
“Fine. Take my car at least. You still have the key?”
I fumble around in my pocket, retrieve the key to his car and dangle it in the air. After helping Nana into the passenger seat, I get in as well, start the car and we’re on our way. By now it has turned dark and I am careful not to drive us into a ditch.
“We should do this again sometime,” she says when I take a turn onto the actual road.
“I am afraid I might not be here next time you come over.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. You probably want a finished manuscript, don’t you? Well, he is not finished, not even close. Everything that has happened in the past six months or so has thrown him for a bit of a loop. His friend taking advantage of him the way he did, taking the company from him… Even his writing is suffering. You might want to give him some time, maybe even lend him a hand.”
A friend took the company from him?I wonder what exactly she might be referring to. What could have happened to him? “Is that why he’s pretending to be dead?”
“Well,” she clutches her cane, “I think he just doesn’t want to deal with being a Cyrus anymore. You know, when his parents died, it suddenly left him in charge of everything, when all he really cares about are his books. And now he’s lost control of those, too.”
“I see,” I say and pull up in front of her house, which, in the dark, appears to be even more expensive than Mr. Cyrus’s. I rush around the car, help Nana out, and lead her to the front door.
She smiles and, before bidding me goodbye, clasps my hand. “You know, he’s not actually a bad guy, even if he seems a little rough around the edges at times.”
I try to hide a little smile. “He has neither murdered nor called the cops on me yet. He can’t be all that bad.”
“Sometimes he just needs a little sunshine in his life, even if he doesn’t realize it. Either way, I hope you find what you’re looking for. And also that you get that manuscript of yours.”
I hope you find what you’re looking for.Before I can ask what she means by that, she disappears behind her door, and I drive the car back to the estate.
