Page 8 of Over My Dead Boss
“Sit.”
Following the command, the wolf sits down. It’s still tall enough to look me straight in the eye, but I conclude it is no wolf at all but a rather large husky.
“Do you live in that crap bucket?” The voice sounds through the open window to my right.
My head swivels over to Mr. Cyrus, whose contours are barely visible in the dark. “Hey, don’t talk about Carla like that!” I say and, as gracefully as possible, climb back into my seat.
“You know we have wolves out here.”
“I can see that.” I nod and look over at the giant dog whose tongue is hanging out of his mouth, making him look much cuter and less threatening than before.
“You can’t stay here.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna stayhereeither but—”
“Your car broken?”
“Well, obviously,” I motion at the window and once all around the interior.
Mr. Cyrus sighs long and deep, then grabs something from his pocket and, with a condescending shake of his head, tosses it into my lap. “Here, take this. Consider it reparation for having to work for Isabella. If you tell anyone where I am, I will sue you for theft.”
I stare at the key fob to his car between my legs. “Is this a bribe or a threat to keep my mouth shut?” I ask, but he and his dog are already gone, the door in his gate left ajar.
Staring at the key some more, I ponder my options and conclude that this key opens a door, but it’s not the one to his vehicle. Determined, I step out of Carla, walk up to the gate, and enter. Ignoring my brand new bribe, I walk straight to the heavy, wooden front door and, suddenly much less determined, knock, barely audible. A dim light illuminates the inside and, to my surprise, the door opens ever so slightly. Carefully, I push it open some more and am greeted by his dog, who must have opened up for me. Trying not to make a noise, I close the door behind me and kneel down to thank my new accomplice, who licks my face as if it was made of peanut butter. If only his owner was as pleasant. Not that I want him to lick my face, but still.
From deep inside the house, that dark voice of Mr. Cyrus travels to the front door, “Dog! Come eat. Dinner’s ready.”
Don’t mind if I do,I think, and together we walk towards a generous, open-space living room that connects with the kitchen, though both appear to be so big that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. “What are we having?” I ask and sit down at the table when Mr. Cyrus appears from a corner in the kitchen, his mouth slightly open, obviously surprised to see me. And not in a good way. “Also, you can call me Olivia. I am not entirely opposed to pet names, but ‘dog’ is a bit too literal for my taste.”
His gaze darkens, obviously not amused. “You can’t be here,” he says, holding a plate in one, and a bowl of food in the other hand.
Next to me, his dog jumps up onto a chair and barks loudly.
“Don’t—” My former boss starts but is immediately cut off by another bark. Grumbling audibly, he walks over to us and places the bowl onto the table in front of the dog, who reciprocates his growly stare. It is as if they are having a conversation between themselves without any words. Then, hesitating for a second, Mr. Cyrus puts the plate in front of me before disappearing into the kitchen again. Dog and I wait patiently for him to return with another plate before we dig into the food. Lasagna, which admittedly smells and looks amazing.
“So,” I try to think of something to say to kill the tensioned silence, “how much do you think I’d get so far? Stalking, breaking and entering — although I guess I didn’t really break anything — possible grand theft auto if your prosecutor plays his cards right.” I omit the triggering of his fire alarm. “That should get me at least… what? Three to four years? Maybe more because you and the judge probably play golf together? Then again, he might take pity on me because I really don’t look good in orange jumpsuits.”
Mr. Cyrus stares at me without ambiguity. He does not enjoy a single second of this. If looks could kill, I’d probably be Dog’s dinner by now. “I’m not surprised you’d know that,” he says. “It wouldn’t be your first jumpsuit, would it?”
I decide to ignore his comment and change the subject instead, inquiring about my new friend while scratching the soft fur behind his ears. “Is he really calledDog?”
Another grunt from the grumpy man across the table as he finishes his dinner.
“That’s a rather unusual name.”
“Wasn’t my choice,” Mr. Cyrus answers without further explanation and collects our empty plates to take to the kitchen.
“Here, let me help,” I offer, but am rudely dismissed with a single glance that sends me back down into my chair, making me feel as if I have done something wrong. He might look like a beautiful mountain range, but underneath lays a volcano, waiting to erupt.
Both Dog and I remain seated and wait for the owner of the house to come back. I look around the living room: at a fireplace that illuminates some modern art pieces on the wall, at the giant front of windows that gives a fantastic view of the moonlit valley in the distance, and at an even bigger bookshelf that is filled to the brim with little treasures. “Come on,” I call on Dog to follow me for protection and walk over to the shelf. Shakespeare sits next to Sanderson, sits next to Salinger, sits next to Seuss. Looking for his own books, I go through row by row but can’t find anything until I get to a section that seems to consist of handwritten notebooks.
JACKPOT!Does he keep his notes here? Are those his manuscripts?
Quickly, I reach for one of them but am stopped short.
5
His much too powerful hand wraps around my wrist, holding it in place, not hurting me but not allowing me to move either. I look up into those ocean-blue eyes of his where a storm seems to have erupted. Without warning, he drags me away from the shelf and out of the living area. Before I can even try to say anything, I am dragged into an adjoining room.
