Bosshole by Jagger Cole

2

Barrett

What a shit week.But it’s also fitting for an even shittier month. To top it all off, I’m having a morning from hell. We lost another investor today—a big one, too. And of course, just like the others, they’ve gone to Simmons Financial. Worse, we had another server breach last night. God knows what sort of strategy data the hackers got a glimpse of.

So, a hell of a morning. And now I’ve got coffee on my goddamn shirt. Today can go fuck itself sideways.

“Barrett…”

“It’s Mr. King,” I snap. I whirl on her when we’re alone in my office—just me and this infuriating and yet utterly gorgeous young new analyst. She trembles slightly at the way I loom over her. I can’t say it’s new for people to look at me like this.

I didn’t used to be this much of a prick. But life will break you—slowly at times, and with a fist to the mouth at other times. I’m fuming from my morning, made worse with the coffee spill. And yet, the fire dies down when my eyes land on her. Goddamnit, she’s fucking breathtaking.

She’s gorgeous. Blonde, blue eyes, soft curves, and all wrapped up in an aura of pure innocence. She’s a fucking angel, standing in the Devil’s office right in front of him. And she makes me hard, instantly.

A woman hasn’t caught my eye like this or even close to this, in a very long time. I’ve been too busy making Rome in a day. But she does. And there’s something so goddamn familiar about her, too. I just can’t place it.

So, this is our new Hail Mary of an analyst. I didn’t hire her. Of course not. I have a company to run. I have people to hire people like her. But Helen did mention her. I think, at least.

But for fuck’s sake, her? How old is she? Nineteen? Financial analysts at multibillion-dollar hedge funds should probable have a fucking college degree.

My eyes narrow. "How old are you?”

“Pardon me?”

“How old are you,” I growl louder. She bristles. She looks like she wants to call me out. But she wisely doesn’t.

“Um, how is that relevant?”

No, she just backtalks me instead. The balls on this girl. I narrow my eyes. I want it to anger me, as it should. Instead, it intrigues me. I shake that away though. I’ve never been distracted or put off track by a pretty face. And I’m sure as fuck not starting today.

“It’s relevant,” I growl. “Because I don’t believe you’re our new rainmaker.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

I smirk. I look down at her resume. Jesus fucking Christ. Twenty-three and she’s got a Magna Cum Laude from Harvard, which she apparently graduated from at nineteen. And then another top of her class in her MBA, also from Harvard. After that, there’s a freaking second Masters from Columbia, in financial analytics. All before twenty-three. What the fuck sort of genius is she?

“How?” I growl.

“Because I’m very smart.”

I smirk. Smart would be an understatement for a resume like this. I look down at her. She looks right back with a mix of star-struck and fear. But, I’m not new to that look, especially from women.

Yep, New York City’s most eligible bachelor, right here. I’m thirty, I’m worth four billion dollars, and I sit on a throne. But the article is bullshit. Most eligible? Yeah, right. Maybe if I wasn’t married to, having an affair with, and running away with my job. My work is my wife, my mistress, my girlfriend, my hookup, my friend with benefits…all of them. Pick one or all, that’s my job.

Yet it hasn’t stopped every gold digger in New York from trying to beat down my door. They’ve gotten ridiculous, too. Girls walking up to me in restaurants and just offering to fuck me before I can say “how can I help you”. Then there’s the stalker I had who was waiting for me naked and handcuffed to my own goddamn bed when I came home one day.

Yeah, no thanks. Crazy isn’t a turn on.

I glare down at this new girl. Beautiful genius or not, there’s latte all over my fucking shirt now. My nostrils flare. My eyes bore into her. Why the hell does she look so damn familiar? I glance back her resume. Delphine Laurent. Delphine. I frown. That brings back a memory. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes. Same fairly unique first name, even.

But, that’s a girl from a lifetime ago. And that other Delphine is probable married to some rich douchebag now, drowning herself in gin and affairs with her tennis instructor. I’ll admit, I’ve thought of that other girl more than a few times in the last ten years. But this one? I know she’s not her. Maybe it’s just fucked up wishful thinking.

I turn and step up the stairs to my desk. “Pass me a shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Closet,” I snap like an asshole. I point without looking. “Over there. A white one.”

She glares at me. “Barrett, I’m not your—”

“And I’m not your fucking friend!” I whirl on her with a snarl. I really didn’t used to be this man. But life made me this way. “It is Mr. King, for the last goddamn time!” I hiss. My narrowed eyes lock with defiant ones. “Now get me the damn shirt.”

I start to take my shirt off. I hide the smirk I get when I catch the new girl gawking at me. Her face turns pink. Her eyes slide over my bare muscles. Then she seems to catch herself. She whips around with a pinched face and stomps over to my closet.

I’m not being a dick because it’s fun. In fact, I sometimes hate being this way. But it’s just who I am. Life broke me in places you can’t fix. So now I go at it with my fists raises and my teeth bared every day. Life is war, and I intend to win.

I start to turn away as she comes marching up the stairs, scowling. Whatever. She’ll lose the ego soon enough or quit—

Instead, she goes sprawling.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?” I rush around the side of the desk to help her. It’s like instinct, even with how much of a prick I am.

“Fuck, are you—”

I groan and go silent. Shit. She’s sprawled on her back across the hardwood of my office floor. Her shoes are half off, and her skirt is bunched up around her waist. And she’s not wearing panties.

My blood burns hot. My jaw grinds as my eyes land between her creamy thighs. My vision sees nothing else but the soft, pink lips of her entirely bare pussy.

She gasps and bolts to her feet. Christ it’s like she’s just been jabbed with a taser the way she defies gravity and springs up.

“Oh my God!” She all but screams. She quickly pushes her skirt down and smooths it over and over. She turns like she might run away. Then she stops. Then she looks like she’s going to bolt again before she stops cold once more. Her fingers twist in front of her and she looks at the floor.

Maybe I’m broken. Maybe years of seeing the creative way women have thrown themselves at me or tried to take my money have hardened me. Maybe another man would be concerned that she’s hurt, or else utterly mortified. But me? I just see through the act.

I narrow my eyes. “Was this really your play?”

Her eyes snap to mine. Her face is bright red, but that just means she’s practiced this. “Excuse me?!” She gasps.

“Your play.” I frown. “C’mon, this isn’t even original.”

“What?!” Her mouth fumbles over words. “Look…I…a truck splashed me!!”

“Uh-huh,” I grunt. My arms fold over my bare chest, reminding me that I’m actually shirtless in front of her. I snatch the shirt she was bringing over from the floor. I slip it on and start to button it up. She just glares daggers at me.

“You think I seriously just walked in here and did that on purpose?!”

“If the invisible panties fit,” I growl.

She glares at me even harder. Her lips thin like she’s holding back vitriol. But, I’m over this. Hot or not. Genius advisor or not, I’m not playing this game.

“I think you can see yourself out,” I growl. “If not, I can call security.”

She balks. “What?!”

“I said you can leave.”

Her mouth opens and closes quickly. She blinks just as rapidly. What might be anger or maybe indignation crosses her face. “I’m sorry, are you firing me for tripping up your stupid staircase?! Who the hell has a four-step staircase to their desk?!”

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m firing you because I don’t play this game, least of all with my fucking employees.”

“Barrett…”

“It is Mr. King,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I turn away from her. “And you’re done. Goodbye.”

She purses her lips tightly. “You didn’t used to be this much of an asshole.”

I pause and glance back at her. “Excuse me?”

She sighs heavily. Those pouty little defiant and sassy lips of hers stay pursed. “It’s Delphine, asshole. Roland’s sister?”

It feels like I just got sucker punched. My jaw drops. My vision narrows. And suddenly, I see it. Blonde hair, skinned knees, braces. And an obvious crush on me when I was nineteen. But then, it all rushes back.

The betrayal by her brother and her whole fucking family. The price I paid. The future that was taken from me. The hole I had to claw myself out of until my fingers bled. My rage swells, my vision shakes.

“Get out,” I hiss.

“Barrett…”

“You get the fuck out of this office!” I roar. It startles her. She gasps and takes a step back from me. “And tell your brother to rot in hell.”

“Look, can you just listen—”

“OUT!” I bellow.

She swallows and trembles a little. “It was nice to see you again,” she whispers. I say nothing. But I watch her with cold, hard eyes when she turns and leaves. I wish I could say I was glaring at her back. But I’m really just staring at her swaying ass and imagining exactly what it would look like without a skirt on. And I’ve got a pretty crystal-clear mental image now of what it would.

She slams the door to my office shut. I groan and sink against my desk. Wonderful. Before I thought It was a problem that I found her attractive because she was my employee. Finding out she’s the sister of my sworn rival is about ten times worse.

I forget the second half of my shirt buttons. I sink into my chair just as the door to my office bangs open. Helen comes storming in looking pissed.

“What the hell was that?” She demands.

“What?”

“Did you just fire Ms. Laurent?”

“Yes.”

She glances at my half bare chest and frowns. She shakes her head. “No, Barrett.”

“It’s done. Trust me, it’s done.”

“Do you even know who she is?!”

“Yes!” I roar. “And you know my history with that fucking fam—”

“Barrett, she’s on our side!” Helen snaps.

“She’s a fucking Simmons!”

It all comes back now. She’s not technically a Simmons. Her last name is Laurent, after her mom. But she and Roland have the same father. When her mother died, she came to live with that piece of shit Harold Simmons, and his equally piece of shit son, her half-brother.

So, maybe not a Simmons on paper. But you lie down with dogs…

“And yet she applied here!” Helen hisses.

“To spy on us, Helen!” I throw back.

“No. Barrett, she’s estranged from her family!” She sighs heavily. “Come on. Like I wouldn’t know who she was? I hired her for a reason, Barrett. Give her a shot!”

“Too late,” I grunt.

“Barrett…”

“And she tried to…” I growl.

“Tried to what?”

“Nothing,” I grumble.

“Barrett, she tried to what?”

“She tried to flash me, okay!” I snap.

Helen pales. “Barrett…”

“See? She waltzed in here playing this fucking ‘oops I fell, how clumsy of me’ act. And lo and behold…”

“She got splashed by a plow out front!”

I frown. Shit, that’s what Delphine said, too.

“Well, it’s too late, and I don’t care.”

“Well, you should!” Helen snaps.

“Find someone else.”

“Barrett.”

“What?”

“You saw her…” Helen clears her throat. “I mean, when she fell, you said she flashed you…”

“She was on her back with her skirt around her fucking hips, Helen. Yeah, I saw everything her fucking gynecologist would see.”

Helen groans. Her hand comes up, and she pinches her nose. “And you said what, exactly?”

“I called her out on trying to play me.”

Helen groans again.

“And then I told her to get out.”

My VP takes a deep breath. She groans yet again.

“Oh, what, Helen,” I grumble.

“So, to be clear, you had a brand-new employee, who’s a woman and your junior, alone in your office with you. And then you fired her after she fell and you saw her bare ass?”

I nod. “That about sums it up. And?”

Helen’s face turns dark red. “And you had your fucking shirt half undone?”

“More or less. And?”

“And do the words ‘sexual harassment lawsuit’ make your ass pucker?” She hisses. “Because they should!”

My mouth tightens. “Shit.”

“Shit is right! You need to go get her!”

“I don’t need to do shit,” I grunt.

“Golding Financial, a year ago.”

I groan. “Helen…”

“No, tell me what happened there, Barrett. Wasn’t it that a secretary accused Bob Golding of firing her when she turned him down after he asked for a blowjob?”

I glare at her. “Helen, that’s hardly the same situation.”

“Ten million,” she hisses. “That girl got ten million in an out of court settlement. But worse, every single one of Golding’s clients bailed. And where’s Bob Golding today, Barrett?”

I growl. “Helen…”

“No, where?”

I sigh. “Working for a shitty third-rate hedge fund as a junior analyst.”

I look up. My VP is glaring at me with her arms folded. “I’d go get Ms. Laurent and let her know you were kidding before she walks into the nearest law office.”

I groan. “Goddamnit.”

“You need to fix this, Barrett,” Helen sighs. Most of Wall Street fears Helen. She’s like that bossy no-nonsense aunt who tells you to mind your manners and go wash your hands again at Thanksgiving dinner. But we make it work. She’s also the only person in the fucking world who could speak to me like this.

She pushes the desk phone towards me, glares at me, and then starts walking out. “Fix it, Barrett!”

I mutter to myself and pick up the phone. I call down to the front desk in the lobby.

“Yes sir, Mr. King?” the man answers.

“Yeah, if a Ms. Laurent checks out, hold her. She’s a new employee, blonde…”

“Oh, sir, she just left.”

I groan. Shit. I slam the phone down, stand, and grab my coat before running out the door.

Today can seriously go fuck itself.