Page 12 of Over My Dead Boss
I need to get the manuscript. A few sheets of paper. That’s it. Can’t be that hard.
When I get there, the gate is still open, so I park the car, stick the key into the sun shield and, not entirely sure what to do next, make my way back to my own car when I hear someone clear his throat.
7
“Leaving then, are we?”
I turn around and inspect the mountain of a man that is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, no emotions on his face whatsoever, and I have to bring back to mind that his thick wavy hair and the sulky gaze don’t make him a good human being, if he even is human. Still not sure what to do, I just shrug my shoulders.
“You didn’t finish your dinner,” he says while rolling his eyes and moving to the side. “I hate throwing away perfectly fine food. Besides,” he adds as I stroll back to the entrance, “the patron saint of stalkers has instructed me to allow you to stay the night.”
“Oh, did she?” The unexpected support surprises me as much as it eases my mind, because I really didn’t know where to go from here. “I guess I wouldn’t wanna offend the holy spirits, but I am pretty sure I did finish my dinner.” I walk in and over to the table, which he already cleared, only to find the scotch that I had not drunk earlier. “Speaking of spirits, huh?” Glass in hand, I wander around the open space in his house while he watches me like a hawk from the sidelines. The silence is as discomforting to me as it seems natural to him. “So you’re gonna let me drink alone then?” I ask.
“I don’t fraternize with the enemy.” His answer is short and brusque, while his eyes are still fixated on me as I come closer to where his desk is positioned.
“I don’t think I am your enemy, Mr. Cyrus.” Addressing him with his proper name feels weird, and even though I technically don’t know the person standing opposite of me, I can’t shake the feeling of familiarity. It’s as if I do know him; I know how his mind works, his inner thoughts, all those that he wrote down on paper.
“You work for CY Publishing, don’t you? That makes you the enemy. And you report directly to Isabella. That makes you the nemesis.”
“If I’m the nemesis, what does that make Isabella then? She’s my boss and I only do her evil bidding, after all.”
His head tilts to the side, barely noticeable. “Good point. I guess that would make you the evil little underling.”
“Glad we cleared that up.” I nod, plop down in his office chair, and swivel around. “I would need to get rid of Isabella to become your nemesis. And I would also need a white cat. Just seems like a lot of trouble to go through.” He eyes me without saying a word. “Look, believe it or not, but I don’t want to be here either. I don’t enjoy intruding on other people’s privacy, but I am afraid I have little choice. Luckily, it’s quite simple,” I explain. “You are contractually obligated to give your manuscript to CY Publishing, right?”
Mr. Cyrus sighs hard, and it almost sounds like even his sigh has a seductive Scottish accent. “It’s an imposition how even dead people can have contractual obligations.”
I nod. “Well, I need the book. You need to stay dead. So here’s the deal: I help you finish your manuscript, you give it to me and I leave. You can remain dead. I will never tell a soul — other than my best friend but definitely not Isabella —, I get my own book published and we live happily ever after. Separately, that is.”
Dog barks loudly before jumping up and putting his paws on the armrest of the chair I’m sitting on, obviously wanting me to scratch him behind his ears.
“No, Dog,” his owner says and shakes his head. “We can’t just dispose of her body. People would ask too many questions and apparently her best friend already knows.” Dog barks again and I swallow hard as Mr. Cyrus makes his way past the fireplace, over to me. “I know. It would be too much of a mess.” He closes in, puts one hand on the armrest, one on Dog’s head, and then leans down to look into my eyes, causing me to freeze up. “What makes you think I would need your help to finish my manuscript? I have probably written more books than you have read in your entire life.”
Rude and also: I have read them all! And cannot believe that I used to admire a person like him as much as I did. His altar will have to go as soon as I get back home.
Trying to lure Dog away from his owner, I reach over and scratch him under his jaw which, to my surprise, works and is reciprocated with head wiggles and his nose poking into my side. “My remarkably reliable sources tell me you are nowhere near finished with your manuscript and, to be honest, it’s not much of a surprise.” I swivel the chair away from the grumpy face staring at me, making him almost fall over. “Just look at this. I tidied your desk mere hours ago, and it’s already a mess again. No one can work like this. You need someone to help you take care of the distractions so you can focus on writing. Luckily for you, I get paid to do exactly that. Furthermore, I have been gaining experience with the she-devil, so handling you should be a walk in the park.” With my back turned towards him, I wait for his reply and hope he takes my bait. I don’t want to rat him out, but what choice do I have? Getting his manuscript would not only mean getting my own book published, but it might save the company and everyone’s jobs, at least for now. “Besides, I think you could really use a new editor, if you don’t mind me saying so. That obituary was probably the worst thing you’ve ever published, and that includes those poetic erotica stories you wrote under your pseudonym.”
Mr. Cyrus coughs behind me and turns the chair with one swift motion to face him once again. “How the hell do you know about those?”
Happy that my assumption was indeed correct, I can’t help but smile a little. Sure, I may be lying when I say that those stories were bad, but he doesn’t need to know that. “They were published byyourpublishing house and they haveyourhandwriting all over them. Also, I believe you used you father’s name, Leon, as a pseudonym. It doesn’t take a genius to make that connection.”
He eyes me once again, still hovering close to my face, and I cannot decipher if he is impressed or angry or both. After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. “There will be rules.”
Wait, did I do it?
“You will follow them without exception unless you want to be Dog’s dinner.”
That cocky jerk. Thinking he is in any position to make demands.
“One: No snooping. Don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to touch.”
“How would I know if I am allowed to touch something or not?”
“Two: No stupid questions. Just don’t touch anything unless I say so.”
“May I touch your cheek with my bare hand for a second then?”
He comes even closer, forcing me back in my chair. “Three: No annoying me.”
