Page 8 of Five
“Are you good at organizing and managing day-to-day events?”
His frown quickly gives way to an agape mouth and widened eyes. “I’m a paralegal, not a PA! And frankly, working for you would feel like hitting my head repeatedly against a brick wall—moronic and time wasting.”
Evelyn gasps at his last statement, while I have to stifle a twitch of my lips. The people working for me treat me with deference and overt politeness and attentiveness. Lori is the exception. His crude honesty at times is refreshing. But mostly, I’m indifferent to it. He’s here because I need to keep an eye on him and see if he slips. Discover what’s his angle.
“Very well. Break time has ended.” I give him an empty stare, to which he responds with an eye roll and mumbled words too low to decipher.
“Ta-ta, Eve. Boss.” He sashays out of the office. I watch his high, plump ass more intensely than I should—because of Bez. But I have to admit those jeans wrap it perfectly.
A perfect peach for my teeth, Bez grunts.
They are my teeth too, I remind him.
Like you don’t enjoy when I have my fun at gay clubs.
Evelyn clears her throat, and I only then remember her presence. “This temp PA issue…” I start.
two
LORI
This day is utter demonic shite! It smells like crap. It looks like crap. AndIfeel like crap.
It all started with a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep caused by the urgency of finishing an essay for my constitutional law class. It went pear-shaped when I woke up to find a zit on my chin that stopped me from reciting my mirror-mirror-on-the-wall chant because the fairest of them all can’t sport a bloody pimple on their face. Snow White does converse with animals and sings withbirds—hidden innuendo there?—which makes her mad as a bag of ferrets in my opinion, but she’s always a thing of beauty.
Bollocks!
On my way out of work, I quickly glance at the empty reception desk as my cute leather boots take me inside the almost empty elevator. Still, if someoneaccidentallybrushes my ass again, I’ll turn Texas Chainsaw Massacre on all the riders. I have to get rid somehow of the shitty vibes inside me.
And I’m back to today’s shite. My morning princess-demoted-to-commoner routine was disturbed by the landlord, a.k.a. Octopus Prime—his sweaty hands always find their way near my body; it’s like he has multiple arms sticking out of his torso. He evicted me for having a pet in the apartment. He said he received too many complaints, and that the noises that Wednesday makes are like Satan’s alarm clock.
I brought Wednesday home two weeks ago from Pet Palace, the pet shelter I volunteer at. I couldn’t resist her unmoving reddish eyes almost entirely covered by a black and white fluffy crest, the little claw on the back of her feet and the considerable waddle of her round hips. Her careless attitude and unfazed look make her adorably weird and comically creepy.
I never thought I’d ever get a pet, but she was mine the minute I saw her ingurgitating an alien-looking, eight-hairy-legged and yellow beady-eyed spider like a tic-tac. Now I have my own personal home-based eco-friendly pest control solution—and a two-week-notice eviction.
You would think that the people living in a building which is a few tip-tap steps from collapsing wouldn’t care about pets. Plonkers, the lot of them!
I’ve been late with the rent, it’s happened only a couple of times, while Curly Barbie from 6B is always asking the landlord for a few more days. I know she gives him another kind of lip service as an extra. I can unfortunately hear the big, oily, old cockwomble with a one-dollar beer belly, an allergy to soap, and garlic breath making rapid gurgling sounds like a dying turkey when Curly…mouthsherthanks.
I can also read his repellent thoughts every time he leers at my mouth—they make me hurl.
The elevator stops on the first floor and everybody else exits, leaving me alone. I can see the dark evening sky beyond the front glass walls of the building and…a tall guy in a hoodie and a white mask—which covers his entire face—standing on the sidewalk before the elevator doors close once again. Lord, I’ve been working late for too many days, my sight is playing tricks on me. I should go to see an eye doctor. But the Kramer case is a real brain teaser since the opposition keeps magically pulling out new testimonies and evidence.
Not that I have anybody waiting for me at home, except Wednesday.
I sigh inwardly—and outwardly as well. Because fuck my life and this day that could’ve only brought the usual trip to the HR office and the sight of Gabriel Reed, my boss’s boss’s boss and my bestie’s brother-in-law.
He’s always so detached. If his pulse gets any lower, we’d have to declare him dead.
Admittedly, the bloke has taste in clothes. Over his shirt and those surprisingly wide shoulders, he always wears a smooth, tight vest. Today it was anthracite gray with a nice suit jacket on top. His long legs sported suit pants of the same color that fit his strong muscular thighs just right. His blond hair was combed back in the usual style, no lock out of place. He looked like an untouchable, superior entity.
I can never decide if my urge to strangle him is stronger than the one to tear off his stylish clothes. He is so infuriatingly attractive. His face is almost too perfect to be real. Maybe that’s why I need to punch it; perfection is bloody overrated. While angry sex is truly the best. But all I get from Gabe is flat indifference.
I don’t take it personally. Everybody gets the same unfazed treatment from him, even his family. Don’t know if his emotional detachment was caused by the horror he went through during that secret government project or by the evil-dispatching family business. The only time I’ve seen him show a tad of interest is for a donor—or maggot, as I like to call the arseholes they kill.
The method he uses to unalive them is the most frightening among the brothers—I’ve observed them all, enjoying the various styles. They all have their own merits, but his lack of verbalization combined with his soulless silver stare and knife throwing instills mindless fear in the maggots.
He maintains the record among the bros for most involuntary bladder release—in other words he makes the maggots so scared shitless they piss themselves. I keep a torturing record book (TRB) on all the brothers—using code words and nicknames that not even DaVinci could have deciphered—tracking most blood spilled, skin carving work, talkative tormentor, eclectic weapon user, shirts splattered. I started it only recently since I became part of the evil-dispatching family business only a few months back when Ollie met KKJ—his husband, whom I call King Kong Junior. I haven’t killed any maggot yet, but I’m getting there.
