Resting Grump Face

1. Sienna

1

SIENNA

I don’t believe in heaven or hell, but I do believe in revenge.

Look, I’m not a crazy person. It’s just that the universe is an exceptionally cruel place, so sometimes it’s necessary to take matters into your own hands to right the wrongs, to set the record straight, to clean up Karma’s mess.

Of course, to avoid drawing the wrath of the universe upon yourself, there are a few rules you probably want to follow:

First of all, harm no one (unless they actually deserve it).

Secondly, the punishment must fit the crime (though eyeballing is acceptable).

Thirdly, do not get caught (because no one looks good in orange).

Sounds simple enough, right?

Someone is rude to the cashier at the supermarket? You tell them you’re a dermatologist and that they should probably get that dick-shaped mole on their neck checked out.

Someone steals candy from a child? You steal their keys, or wallet, or joy of living.

Someone has the audacity to skip the extensive line of people waiting to go through the security check at the airport?

Well, apparently what you do is: you imagine yourself scratching the shit out of his back with sharpened nails, while he presses you against a wall and his luscious lips all over your body.

At least that’s what I find myself doing when that someone passes me, and about a hundred other people, followed by what I assume to be his crying assistant or possibly former girlfriend.

“Still there, Miss de la Vega?” The indignant voice of my boss echoes through my phone and pulls my attention from the stunning stranger without manners, back to the annoyed asshole without morals.

I clear my throat and make sure he actually said what I think he just said. “So, just for my understanding, you have to let me go… but it’s not because I refuse to lie to the press about you embezzling money?”

A loud huff blows through the phone and I can practically smell the stench of old coffee on his breath. “Like I said, I don’t want to fire anyone here! But if you refuse to do your job, then I’m afraid our company might be in need of a new PR consultant.” He stops for a moment, then quickly continues. “Furthermore, I’d like to clarify that every last cent is accounted for. No one at this company committed any act of embezzling or other illegal and/or morally questionable actions whatsoever.”

Right, I think to myself. He rehearsed that, didn’t he?

“You mean morally questionable like threatening to fire an employee for not committing a crime to cover your tracks?”

“Miss de la Vega…”

My boss’s belittling tone makes me want to punch through the phone. The condescending smile on his face is audible.

“I would never! Don’t think of it like that. Think of it in terms of… job security, specifically yours at our company.”

He is enjoying this way too much. This manager of misery would be better suited to running a dirty dungeon down at the docks.

“Company…” I say, barely able to hide my disgust. “You’re the CEO of a non-profit organization. We do not operate the same way a company does. Not that any of this would be acceptable at an actual company. And just because you and your obedient little slave… sorry, I meant our Chief Financial Officer got caught and preemptively put back what you stole, does not make what you did okay.”

“Of course, yes, I understand.” He is using his fake-sincere voice now, letting me know the hammer is about to drop. “How about we just talk about this when you come into work today?”

“Mr. Sake, you know quite well that I won’t be coming into the office today. I told you I am attending my best friend’s wedding this weekend. You green-lit my vacation and then made me clear it with?—”

“My obedient little sex toy?”

Ah, for crying out loud.

“Slave… I said obedient little slave. You made me clear my vacation with Mrs. Highwater, our CFO.”

“Right. Well, I don’t recall any of that and, besides, vacation requests are to be filed in written form, as I am sure you are aware. Since neither I nor Mrs. Highwater have received any requests, you are absent from work, which, I believe, means strike number two, Miss de la Vega. You will have your official reprimand in your inbox within the hour.”

I take a deep breath, stare off into the distance, and watch as the handsome stranger without manners slips a TSA agent some money and is escorted past security, leaving his dejected entourage of one behind. Looks like I’m not the only one having a bad day.

“I assume strike three will happen the next time I come in late to work?”

“That would be a fireable offense then, wouldn’t it?” Judging by his cheerful tone, Mr. Sake might as well be sitting in a strip club right now rather than in his office.

“Well, Pete, don’t bother. I quit. I’d rather hire an army of hitmen to hunt me down than spend another day of my life working for you.”

“That actually sounds like a well-thought-out plan,” he replies. “Let me know if you require any additional funds. I might be willing to pitch in, since it would be for a good cause.”

Fuck. Envelopes with a thick red stamp saying ‘Final Reminder’ and ‘Overdue’ appear before my eyes, as does the worryingly low dollar amount that I have in my bank account right now. I couldn’t even hire a cab to take me to the airport, much less a single hitman to throw me off the plane, though that’s something I can probably manage on my own for free. As I stare into the void, an uneasy feeling settles somewhere deep in my belly.

“I am probably legally required to tell you that was a joke, as well as that this phone call is being recorded. So if you want to hand in your resignation in writing, that would be appreciated, but I accept it verbally right now.”

I snap out of my thoughts and try not to let him know I may already regret my decision. “Great, well, with small due respect, Mr. Sake, I hope your day is as wonderful as you are, and, oh, don’t forget to apologize to your mother for the way you turned out.” I hang up the phone, squeeze my eyes shut, and let out another deep sigh.

What a terrible start to my vacation—or rather unemployment.

“Damn,” a voice next to me mumbles a moment later.

When I open my eyes back up, I look at the smudged makeup of Mr. I Bribe My Way Through Airport Security’s assistant, or possibly his now former girlfriend.

She sobs a little. “That’s what I should have said to him when he fired me.”

Assistant it is… was.

I nod slowly and give her a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. The universe has a way of working itself out. They’ll get what they deserve,” I answer, trying to make her feel better. “And if they don’t, someone might just have to lend the universe a hand,” I add under my breath.

His former assistant sobs again, uses her sleeve to wipe her nose, and lets her head drop. “Maybe,” she says with a sigh, and then proceeds to exit the airport, glumly dragging a silver-pink suitcase behind her.

Unfortunately, I know better. Nothing ever happens to people like Peter Sake or her former boss. Not unless the universe gets a little kick in its behind. Which is why my thoughts are already revolving around how to get back at him. I should probably inform the authorities, call the IRS or whoever you call in a situation like this. I would probably call the authorities if it wasn’t for the fact that I have zero tangible proof for any of his crimes and that Pete probably plays golf with whoever is in charge at the appropriate government institution.

Stuck deep in my thoughts, I barely notice that it takes another ten minutes to get past security, despite having been in front of the line for quite some time. After making it through, I wander towards the duty-free area and the gates behind it, and decide to put all thoughts of revenge, retaliation and retribution on hold. This was supposed to be a happy weekend. My best friend is getting married to the love of her life and I couldn’t be happier for them. Of course, I could be financially more secure, in possession of a job that doesn’t feed on my soul, and in a loving and trusting relationship with a rugged, yet emotionally intelligent man who’d never embezzle any money or fire employees simply for having a backbone. But, like I said, the universe is an exceptionally cruel place.

When I walk into the first shop that I come across to look at the humongous Toblerone in their natural habitat (as one naturally does at an airport), I stop dead in my tracks when I discover Mr. Handsome Without Manners in front of the souvenir section of the store. Quickly, and without knowing why, I duck behind the aisle right next to me. When I remember that we don’t even know each other, I slowly stand back up. Our eyes meet for a second and I can almost feel my knees give out. They must be truly tired from standing in line for so long. Of course, he wouldn’t know what that’s like. If anything, his back might hurt from carrying his overflowing wallet around.

He’s sporting an expression on his face that is clearly meant to deter any person from approaching. It’s something between grumpiness and condescension, with a dash of violence. I grab a magazine off the shelf and pretend to read while observing the man in his bespoke suit that probably costs more than a hitman’s salary.

How much do they charge these days anyway?

He grabs a pair of whimsical socks that make your feet look like you’re wearing shoes (odd choice), then walks over to the alcohol section and reaches for what I assume to be the most expensive bottle of whiskey they stock (which makes more sense).

The way he carries himself is annoyingly mesmerizing. It’s like he owns the place and everything in it. His movements are calculated, precise, exuding confidence, and I hate it. I hate him. The longer I look, the more aggravated I get. Beauty is always wasted on the douche bags who fire good employees for no good reason.

Maybe just a smidge of revenge, retaliation and retribution would be acceptable?

At the checkout, he grabs a box of condoms. I assume his assistant was carrying those for him, and now that he’s done fucking her (over) he needs to replenish his supply. After paying, he walks towards the gates, with me, unbeknownst to him, in his tow. As I follow him around, I imagine all the things I could do to him, which range from spilling a sticky coke on his crotch (he’d be getting off easy), over hiding his carry-on suitcase (I wouldn’t get off easy if caught), to screwing his brains out in an airport restroom (alright, now I’m losing it). Preferably twice (yep, already lost it).

Maybe this whole getting fired thing —I mean this whole preventative quitting thing— is getting to my head a little.

Eventually, we turn a corner and approach a somewhat secluded area where the VIP lounge is situated. I stay behind as the friendly lady at the entrance bids him inside without even checking his papers. I guess she, too, could tell that he just seems to belong there. Once he is inside, I walk towards her, rummaging through my bag in search of the ticket that Olivia and her soon to be husband, Phoenix, had sent me. The lady gives me her best smile and, with a cheerful tone, asks for my boarding pass.

“I guess you can’t let me go inside without one, can you? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I’m sorry, Miss. We’re not allowed to do that. But even if you don’t have a ticket that includes lounge acce?—”

“Aha,” I exclaim and pull out a crumbled piece of paper that I hand to her while trying to keep track of my target. “My ticket.”

The lady, using her glasses, brushes a strand of hair off her face and inspects it thoroughly, costing me valuable seconds. “Very well,” she finally says with a smile while returning the sheet of paper. “Enjoy your stay and have a pleasant flight later.”

“You too,” I reply as I shove the paper back into my purse, grab my luggage and continue my pursuit. “I mean not ‘you too’ because that doesn’t make any sense… unless you’re also flying somewhere later, in which case I do wish you a pleasant flight.”

Smooth, I think to myself as the lady laughs while I rush through the entrance.

Once inside, I inspect my surroundings. It would appear I have stepped into a giant version of one of those high-end furniture store catalogues that make you wonder who would spend ten grand on a soap dispenser. Expensive looking armchairs stand next to even more expensive looking decor, which luckily stands near a bar. I might need that later. Farther in the back, I spy what I assume to be a restaurant, a small library and even some bedrooms, probably with a massage service. The watch on my phone says that I don’t have all that much time left until the private plane Olivia’s fiancé booked is set to depart.

Just when I wonder where my mysterious target might have gone, I catch a glimpse of his dark hair disappearing behind a door. Without giving it a second thought, I follow on the double and step inside the room as well. The door closes behind me with a silent thud and I stare into the most captivating eyes I have ever seen. I think what makes them so captivating is that they look like they are about to kill me.

“Impressive,” he grumbles as his eyes narrow even more. “Usually the reporters don’t make it into the VIP lounge.”

“I’m not a reporter,” I shoot back. “I’m also not a stalker or a hitman,” I add preventatively.

For a second, I imagine I can see the slightest of smirks on his face when really he just went from scowling to full on growling.

Who does that?

“Good to know,” he lets out. “You’re still not supposed to be in here.”

I glance around and notice that we are standing in a bathroom that’s probably nicer than my bedroom. When he takes a step forward, I take a step back and inevitably bump into the door behind me. A strange feeling makes its way through my body, something between thrill and fury. The fantasy from earlier shoots through my mind again: my nails in his back, his lips all over me.

I can smell him already. This must be what all those authors are talking about when they say their protagonist smells like sex and sandalwood and man and —my eyes get stuck on his delicious lips— more sex.

He just fired that poor woman right in front of me.

I take a deep breath and try to get my bearings.

What is happening here?

And why the hell is it turning me on?

He keeps closing the distance between us, like a predator about to pounce. But I am not scared. I am not prey. Quite the contrary, my treacherous body is on fire, more alive than it has been in… ever, really.

She has bills to pay too.

And he just fired her.

I wish I could rip out my fallopian tubes to strangle him with them.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Those ridiculous lips of his ask, now almost whispering, still inching closer.

“About?” I mutter and pry my eyes off them, only to get stuck on his eyes. They’re deep and dark. The kind that make you forget that hypnosis could never ever work on you.

I’m trying to remember why I came here in the first place as a tingling floods my entire body.

“How do I know you’re not lying about being a reporter, stalker, or hitman?” he repeats in an unreasonably low voice now.

We come face to face. He stops just short, hovering over me, his eyes still narrow, still narrowing in, his smell even more tantalizing.

“Well,” I swallow hard, “I’d probably be more of a hitwoman.”

This time he does smile. It’s almost unnoticeable, but I’m sure of it, because it makes me really fucking weak.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell, I think as our lips smash into each other like two worlds colliding, but this feels like I may have discovered both at the same time.