Chapter 3
Archer
Where the hell is she?
I hate it when Hazel leaves without telling me where she”s going. It”s not even noon, and she”s nowhere to be found. I wanted to ask her to grab lunch for me. I usually attend meetings during lunch, but otherwise, she”ll order from my favorite places.
It”s not like I”m asking for the world.
She”s been screwing up my dates and love life for weeks. Always a mistake. Maybe she”s too busy with her life and doesn”t care about mine. I scowl.
A mistake. What I pay her, both in salary and generous benefits, she won”t get anywhere else. I expect excellence, and she doesn”t see that”s the best for her. It must be an age thing.
Hazel is twenty-one. She”s resourceful and efficient, though I wouldn”t be caught dead saying those things too often. Maybe she”s going through something, so she”s acting all strange. I scratch my chin. What could it be?
I guess I don”t know much about her personal life. It”s easier that way.
My mom raised me after my father left us when I was three. She was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease when he decided to re-enter our lives seven years later. She was weak, and not just from her illness—she”d missed him even though he was a prick. So she accepted him back and made me do the same.
What for?
He hung around for two years until my mother died. Ensured he got her hefty inheritance before he shipped me off to live with my maternal grandmother and took off again. In those two years, I was weak, too. I left my guard down and got to know him—and what happened?
He disappeared.
When my mom died, I lost both my parents, but I gained valuable insight at twelve— don”t let people get too close. There”s no need.
So, why would I waste time delving deep with my assistant if I don”t do so with dates? That wouldn”t make sense.
I look at Hazel’s organized desk and see the Post-It note attached to the monitor, written in neon pink. Be right back.
She usually orders for me. I”m too busy to waste my time, and I hired her to handle all my needs.
A flutter crosses my chest. That sounds wrong. Shaking my head, I drum my fingers on the smooth surface of her desk. As always, besides the sleek oversized monitor and keyboard, there isn”t much on it. She knows I like things neat.
Maybe if I find her work cell phone, I can order from there. That saves me time from downloading a new app on my cell and all that crap. I don”t have the time for this shit.
I open her drawer and glance inside to see if I’ve found the phone. Nope.
I try the second drawer and am about to close it when something catches my attention.
A deep purple leather-bound book.
I look at it. A journal? My jaw clenches. I didn”t think people her age journaled… especially on paper rather than on their phones.
A part of me warns me I shouldn”t peek. But then again, this is my territory. What if she”s writing down ideas to sell to competitors, and she doesn”t want them on the computer because of the company”s heightened cyber security system?
I can”t take that risk. She’s already fucked up my calendar.
I open the journal. Her handwriting greets me, and I quickly recognize how she loops her letters and connects them with elegance, the words gliding from one line to the next in black ink. Then, I read and register them carefully.
I hate my boss.
Today, he made me turn around and buy his coffee again—because the temperature wasn”t to his liking, even though I did nothing different than I do every damn day.
Every part of me prickles with awareness.
I plop down on her chair, and my hands cling to the journal like it”s an extension of my limbs. I can”t stop reading.
I hate my boss. He called my unexpected sick days off “unplanned vacation.” Instead of asking me how I was, he told me I had to catch up on the mountain of work from the three days I missed because of a godawful flu.
Fuck.
I keep on reading about all the atrocities she claims I”ve committed against her. In my defense, I asked her to buy coffee again because the temperature was a joke. And that was in her first month at the job. I had to train her for excellence. I was doing her a favor.
And the days off… how could I know she told me the truth? She gave me no warning and took off three days before Labor Day. I thought she was being a smart ass by saying she shouldn”t have to work during Labor Day—I wanted to ensure she could commit to the job. These young employees are such a pain in the ass.
A sense of excitement fills me as I continue to read her entries like an addict anticipating his next fix.
Then, I see something slightly different.
I hate my boss.
I also hate how he makes me feel—like I want to shove his head between my legs so he”ll stop talking. That”s not right, I know. He”s the devil.
But these thoughts… of him licking my pussy, then fucking me with his tongue until I undulate on his desk like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat... These images populate my mind and chase me through the worst times.
Today, he asked me to take his expensive, high-end suit to the dry cleaner. But I can”t stop touching it, with his male scent lingering in the air. Then, I want to see him in it and out of it. I’ve never seen him without clothes on, obviously.
He”s all beefy and hot. What if he oozes ten-inch dick energy, but deep down, he”s nothing to brag about? That would make my life easier. If he were small down there.
Physically, he can”t be perfect.
I can find too many flaws in his personality. Those are easy. Those keep me from throwing myself at him and acting like a foolish lunatic—and the fact that he”s my boss.
Let”s face it. A man like him would never devour my pussy.
Super attractive men are usually awful in bed because they never have to do any work. They probably lie there and expect the woman to do the heavy lifting. Besides… I haven”t had sex in over a year, so I probably wouldn”t be able to rate his performance well.
Man, this journaling thing works. I feel better already.
My heart races in my chest like I finished a triathlon. I know the exact sensation because I’ve completed four of them with excellent timing.
What did I just read?
I let the journal slip from my hands until it falls on my lap. What the fuck did I just read? If I didn”t recognize Hazel’s handwriting, I”d think it was someone else”s. But her stories are real if misinterpreted.
The words play in my mind again, all flashing relentlessly.
I hate my boss. He”s the devil. Fucking me with his tongue.
I honestly don”t know which part was worse.
Hazel.
I never knew she had such sexual awareness. I suspected she had a fiery side bubbling under the surface. But the cusswords and the speculation about the size of my cock? Me eating her out on my desk?
My cock twitches, and suddenly my pants feel tighter. What the fuck? I grab the journal and open it again, flicking through the pages and scanning her confessions and fantasies.
I”m sucking him as he finishes a virtual meeting. I”m under his desk, kneeling before him, running my tongue up and down his cock. I want all of him in my mouth, but I can”t fit it. He”s too big.
I”m big, all right.
I touch my collar, wishing it hadn”t shrunk in the past few seconds.
Shit. Who knew? Hazel Dillon is trouble—of the worst kind.
After Nancy left, finding a good assistant took me a while. And now, these journal entries leave me confused. What if she”s planning to stain my good name somehow? I”m not a celebrity, but I”m well-known in the travel business and Texas.
If gossip sites have a slow news day, they could pick up the story of the horrible boss who menaced the poor assistant. I scowl. The poor horny assistant.
Perhaps she”s writing a different book—not a tell-all, but an erotic one, and is using me as inspiration.
I rub my temples. What do I do? I can”t fire her. Maybe I should contact Human Resources or my lawyers and get their opinion. I drum my fingers on the journal.
My assistant wrote about sucking my dick under the table.
No, I swear that it never happened. Just her fantasy.
Yes, I want her gone.
Maybe that would make things worse.
Shit.
I hear female voices and footsteps on the hand-scraped hardwood floor. Shit, she”s coming back—talking to that chatty receptionist who does anything but mind the reception.
When I was six, I found a picture of my father in my mom”s jewelry box. Every day, when she was taking a shower or busy making dinner, I”d go to her room, open the box, take the picture out, and talk to it. Then, one day, my mom caught me, and although she didn”t say anything, embarrassment filled me like an over-inflated balloon.
The same way I feel now.
Instinctively, I put the phone back in the drawer where I found it and close it. Then, I stand and turn, taking quick stock of the area to ensure she won”t know I was there. I must find out the best way to deal with this situation. And more than anything… I need to make sure I wipe those dirty images from my mind as soon as fucking possible.