Page 9 of Over My Dead Boss
“Don’t touch anything,” he threatens and reaches for the door handle. “I want you gone by the time I wake up.”
The door slams shut, and I am left alone in the dark, only the moon from outside illuminating the inside a little. Careful not to bump into anything with my shins, I creep towards the light switch and turn it on. My host has shoved me into what appears to be a guest room. A room so spacious, it’s bigger than my actual apartment.
Am I actually allowed to stay here? At Mr. Cyrus’s luxury cabin?
There’s a king-sized bed and hiding behind a door next to it is my own bathroom. After making use of it and cleaning myself up a little, I lay down on the bed and take the phone from my pocket. One unread message from Sienna is waiting for me.
Sienna: Aaaaaand? How is my favorite ship faring?
I begin to type and delete my message. I type some more and delete it again and again, not sure how to explain what I have gotten myself into.
Olivia: So far? Not so good. I might have inadvertently broken into his house and now I am trapped in his guest room and by ‘trapped’, I mean refusing to leave until he gives me what I need. That’s a solid plan, right?
I already know the answer.
Sienna: What’s that site called again… the one where they list available jobs…
She’s right, of course. Maybe it would be easier to just get a different job, but that’s not an option I am willing to entertain just yet. Isabella promised to continue to pay me, which would allow me to follow my dreams of having my own book published a little longer while still being able to provide for my parents at the same time.If push comes to shove, there’s still OnlyFans,I think and let the phone fall onto my chest, taking a deep breath, making it rise and fall. I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax for the first time that day.
My book will be published and I will pay off my parents’ debt and everything will be fine.
Sienna: Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Just promise me not to move back into Carla if things shouldn’t pan out. We can make it work. Together.
Grateful for my friend, and exhausted from two days without rest, I involuntarily fall asleep right then and there. The mattress probably costs more than my car is worth and it shows, making me feel all cozy and comfortable. I awake, what feels like two minutes later, because of a loud noise coming from the living room. Not sure if I should dare look, I remain in bed, staring straight at the door, trying to listen for any further noise. When nothing seems to happen, I drape myself into the softest sheets I have ever had the pleasure to lay in and quickly drift off to sleep again.
The sun is already up and shining when I wake. To my surprise, I feel thoroughly rested and, unlike usually, had barely any nightmares that night.
‘I want you gone when I wake up.’His voice echoes through my head.
Shoot.
Quickly, I rush to the door and try to listen whether Mr. Cyrus is already up or if I need to climb out through the window. When I hear nothing, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth with a new toothbrush from the cabinet, hop under the shower and slip out of the room. Careful not to make any noise, I spy around the house and am surprised that not even Dog is present. They must have gone for a walk, which may give me time to do the one thing he asked me not to do. I dash to the bookshelf, only to find that he removed all the notebooks that might have been of interest.Of course he did. I let my gaze travel through the room and discover his desk in front of the large window panels.It’s worth a try.On my way over, a sudden sting shoots through my foot and forces me down to the floor. Checking to see what I’ve stepped into, I notice a stain on a painting on the wall before extracting a small piece of glass from the sole of my foot. Mr. Cyrus must have channeled his inner Jackson Pollock on scotch. Without time to feel the pain, I pull the shard out of my foot and throw it into a trashcan by the desk.Can I sue him for a hazardous work environment?There’s no time for medical care right now, so limping around, I check for the manuscript but instead find an unorganized mess. Loose handwritten notes covered in leftovers, empty bottles of scotch, pieces of bubble gum and books covered in post-its.No wonder we’ve been waiting for months for his new book. No one can work like this.I pick up the trashcan and fill it with everything that should have no place anywhere near a work space until I am left with only some books, pens and his handwritten notes which look like either a three-year-old or a crazy serial-killer has authored them. In the trashcan, I discover a bill for several thousand dollars from what appears to be a sporting goods store.Probably steroids. That would explain why he’s so athletic. Wait, do drug dealers invoice their clients? Maybe rich people drug dealers do.Before I can finish organizing everything, I am stopped dead in my tracks by a low grumble behind me.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I try to justify my intrusion before even turning around.
“So you’re not rummaging through someone else’s belongings without permission?”
“Yeah, ok, it’s exactly what it looks like, but please hear me out.”
“Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. Even if it’s yourself.” And with that, he grabs me by my waist, swings me over his shoulder and carries me all the way outside as if I don’t weigh a thing. By now, I know better than to struggle and instead just let my arms dangle in the air, patting Dog, who happily follows behind, jumping up, trying to touch my hands with his wet nose. When Mr. Cyrus puts me back on the ground again, I catch a whiff of his scent. It’s tantalizing and I hate it.
“I don’t care which car you take, but you better get out of here.” Not allowing me to explain, he turns around and leaves.
I bend down to Dog, who doesn’t seem keen to get back inside and instead demands some more head scratches. My question if he could bring me my shoes from inside is met by a lick with his tongue. To my surprise, my shoes come flying over the fence a minute later and Dog is called back into the house, which he follows without hesitation. Defeated, I pick them up, limp back to my car, grab my bag, and hunt for some fresh clothes. Since I am in the middle of nowhere, and Mr. Cyrus seems to have disappeared again, I decide to change right there while calling my boss to report of my progress. She picks up after the fifth beep.
“Hey, Isabella. I don’t have it quite yet, but I do have a hot lead.”
“Who is this?” she asks the person who has been tending to her every need for the last five months.
“It’s Olivia, your assistant. The one who you sent to get the manuscript for Phoenix Cyrus’s latest book. Posthumous. Pronto. Remember?”
“Don’t antagonize me. Do you have it?”
“Well, no. Not yet—”
“Then why are you wasting my time?”
With no further comment, she hangs up the phone. If anything, Isabella is efficient, also rude, but definitely efficient. I sigh and take in the clean mountain air for a second before texting Sienna. It’s nice out here. I can see why one would go into hiding in this environment.
