Page 8 of Devilish Bully
—Lucian Pearson
“Okay, fuck you,” I mutter, slamming my laptop shut.
I flop facedown on the couch, the cushions swallowing me whole. For the first time all week, I let myself just be still. A few blissful minutes pass before I roll over, balancing my tequila on the armrest, sipping like it’s holy water.
Another email.
Subject:Employee Satisfaction Survey Request: Expires at Midnight (Mandatory)
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, sitting up.
I feel empowered to do my best work.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
My CEO supports my growth.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
I skim the rest of the statements and rapid-fire hit “strongly disagree” all the way down.
Any comments about how the CEO could make this company a better place?
Nope. Skip.
ERROR: You must answer this question before submitting.
“Ugh!” I slam my glass down and jab at the keyboard.okokokokokokok.
ERROR: Your answer must be at least 250 words.
“Are you kidding me?”
I yank open the Amazon page for my last book, copy the blurb, paste it in, and hit submit.
You’re almost done! Do you have anything you wish to share with the shareholders about your employment at Pearson or your CEO?
“No, thank you,” I mutter, clicking the box—when my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“So, I have to call you from an unknown number to get you to answer me, Miss Clarke?”
Lucian’s voice drips through the line, low and edged with irritation. It’s unfair how much better it sounds outside an email—he should be narrating audiobooks of sins, not badgering me about quarterly reports.
“Hello?” he presses. “Miss Clarke?”
“No hablo inglés…” I mumble.
“Bullshit.” His hiss slides like smoke into my ear. “I need to present these to the shareholders at our all-hands meeting tomorrow.”
“I’m having a hard time hearing whoever this is,” I say, pushing the glass to my lips. “My phone must be broken. Goodbye.”
I hang up.
He calls right back.
I watch the rings appear on the screen, one by one, until voicemail cuts him off.
