Anyone But You

1. That Man Over There

That Man Over There

Victoria

I pinched the bridge of my nose as tears streamed down my cheeks.

“I can’t stand that man. God, please let him get hit by a fucking garbage truck or a food truck or something,” I whispered. I had my third argument of the day with Mr. Ramsey and had to sequester myself in the supply closet at the end of the hall to avoid bludgeoning him to death with my stapler.

“I’d beat his motherfucking brains in with that stapler. Then I’d open it and staple his fucking lips together, so I don’t have to hear another damn thing come out of his mouth!” I seethed.

“Join me in my office once you’re done fantasizing about murdering me with a stapler. We have work to do. Stop using company time for your little bitch fits,” Mr. Ramsey complained through the door.

I bit down on my knuckles to prevent myself from screaming in frustration and repeatedly drove one of my heels into the floor like a petulant child.

I had no one to blame for my current situation but myself.

I could’ve resigned a year ago when I realized Knox Ramsey and I had clashing personalities.

I could’ve walked into his office and dropped my letter of resignation on his desk with a polite smile and a fuck you before filing an EEOC complaint, but the money was good—good enough to endure his toxicity.

I’d be out of here like a deadbeat parent if I didn’t have to supplement my mother’s nursing home bill with my income.

At the tender age of 50, my mother began exhibiting signs of dementia after undergoing a hysterectomy.

The signs were subtle at first. She would misplace her keys, purse, and the television remote.

As time progressed, my mother often lost her train of thought and struggled with communication.

The moment she began hallucinating, I knew something was terribly wrong and rushed her to the hospital.

I explained all of my mother’s symptoms to the overworked resident, who looked as if she wanted to tell my mother to scootch over so she could get in the bed with her.

She bobbed her head as I rattled off my mother’s symptoms, and she remarked that my mother was exhibiting signs of dementia.

I laughed in her face. How could a healthy fifty-year-old woman have dementia?

We were referred to a neurologist and blindsided when the results returned.

My mother was diagnosed with early-onset dementia due to complications from the anesthesia from her surgery.

Two years later, she was completely reliant on assistance with her activities of daily living and could no longer safely live at home.

It broke my heart to admit her to a nursing facility, but my siblings proved to be unreliable, and 24-hour in-home care was more costly and less reliable.

“Suck it up, Tori, and do it for Mom,” I chastised myself as I swiped angrily at my tears.

Thank God I don’t wear makeup to work anymore. What would be the point when I had to run to the supply closet or the restroom for my daily mid-afternoon cry?

* * *

Just to inconvenience Mr. Ramsey, I took fifteen minutes for myself in my office to recuperate. I slumped into my office chair and spun around until I was staring at the downtown skyline that was splashed with red, orange, and pink from the setting sun.

A buzz from my desk distracted me. I opened it and fished out my personal cell phone. It vibrated in my hands several times, and I wasn’t surprised to see my best friends going back and forth about our upcoming trip to Miami.

Brittney: I don’t know about y’all, but I’m already tipsy!

Alyssa: Trust and believe I’m right there with you!

Me: Sadly, I am not.

Brittney: You’re still at work, aren’t you?

Me: You know it.

Alyssa: You’re better than me. I would’ve burnt off on your boss at 5 o’clock on the dot!

Brittney: Alyssa, you know Tori isn’t gonna leave until Mr. Ramsey says she can leave the Big House.

I snickered and shook my head as I responded to their texts.

Me: Shut up, Britt. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.

Alyssa: Standard thirty minutes, or CP Time thirty minutes.

Me: CP Time.

Brittney: Okay, fuck around and miss your flight. You’ll be crying while Alyssa and I are in Miami looking for our hoochie daddies.

Me: You don’t have to worry about that. There’s nothing that’ll make me miss this flight.

Alyssa: How much do you want to bet Tori hasn’t packed yet?

Victoria: Don’t waste your money because my bags are packed and by the door.

I lied. I was nowhere near packed. My bedroom floor was littered with bikinis, sarongs, tiny shorts, tank tops, maxi dresses, and sandals. It wouldn’t take me long to pack because there was a method to the madness—pick everything up, toss it all into the suitcase, and figure it out later.

I rolled my eyes when my instant messenger pinged in the background.

It’s That Man Over There. He can wait.

Brittney: You’re a bags-are-packed-at-the-door lie.

Alyssa: Her clothes are all over her bedroom floor.

She’s not lying.

I had met Brittney and Alyssa during my freshman year of college when I joined a journalism club on campus, and we’d been inseparable ever since. They knew me inside and out and felt more like sisters to me than my own.

Which reminds me…

I shot a text to my trifling sisters, reminding them I’d be out of town for a few days.

Me : I’ll be out of town for five days starting tomorrow. Can you two please check on Mom while I’m away?

Faith : Where are you going?

Me : Miami…I told you this…twice.

Hope : I will if I have time.

Me : You only visit her on her birthday and Mother’s Day. Make the time.

Hope : Like I said, I will if I have time.

I almost texted her that she’d make the time to be at the reading of the will so she could get her cut, but I decided to keep my mouth shut to avoid an argument.

Me : Sure. On another note, can you two throw in on Mom’s bill next month?

Faith: Why? Do you need money? How are you going to Miami if you don’t have money?

Hope: Why would you ask that, Victoria? You know we don’t have money like you do.

What money? I could only afford to take a vacation because of the quarterly bonus I received from That Man Over There. I lived in New York, and if my apartment wasn’t included in my lucrative employee package, then I’d be fucked, and Mom would be on the streets.

Me: Don’t worry about it.

I tossed my phone into my desk, grabbed the leather portfolio binder my boss had gifted me for Administrative Professionals’ Day and a stapler, so he knew I wasn’t playing with him, and trekked to his office.

He grinned like an idiot when I entered.

“I see you’ve brought the stapler.”

“You’ve been warned,” I threatened, snapping the stapler in his direction before sitting in a leather accent chair in front of his desk. “You have ten minutes, and then I’m leaving. The next time you see or speak to me will be a week from now.”

Knox

“The next time you see or speak to me will be a week from now.”

Miami.

I’d like to believe those words didn’t just slip from her lips. My sexy yet delusional executive assistant thought I’d allow her to jet set to Miami with her drunk friends so she could flounce around in barely there bikinis, fuck other men, and twerk on tabletops.

I’m not an idiot. I’ve heard what goes on during those girls’ trips to Miami. She can’t go.

I’d been monitoring Victoria’s online activity on her employee laptop for the past month.

I’d watch her mouse drag across the screen and grind my teeth when she’d add a risqué bathing suit to her shopping cart.

My favorite was a red triangle string bikini that would look striking against her deep, rich skin.

It’d show a lot of ass, too—another reason she couldn’t go.

I didn’t want any men looking at what was mine.

Thinking about going a week with no contact with Victoria was maddening.

No calls? Texts? Emails? Nothing?

My unhealthy codependency wouldn’t allow it.

It was why I resorted to nefarious tactics just to get a hit of Victoria Caldwell, no matter how detrimental it was to my health and safety.

I’d call her early in the morning just to hear her groggy, freshly woken voice.

I demanded excessive overtime for the chance to linger in her vanilla perfume a little longer and to share late-night dinners with her, even if they were work-related.

I was a masochist in many ways, always needing to be on the receiving end of her vitriol.

The more she raged, the more excited I became.

A therapist had volleyed the term ‘energy vampire’ once before and coupled it with “narcissism” when I brought up Victoria.

That was the first and last time I lay on a shrink’s leather couch.

I’ll do anything to prevent her from going on her trip, even if that means devising a bogus mandatory business trip. The trip will be unforgettable. It’ll be her and me basking in the lap of luxury.

“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other sooner than that.”

“I highly doubt that. What do you need, Mr. Ramsey?”

You coming on my dick, but I guess I can’t say that, can I?

Wordlessly, I slid a leather folder in her direction.

Her eyes narrowed once it met its resting place in front of her.

Silently, she placed her hands on the folder and slid it back to me.

I grinned and skated it back. “We can do this all day, Victoria. As always, I know you have last-minute packing to do; it’d be a shame if you had to stay late. ”

“ You are the reason I pack last-minute.”

“Don’t blame me for your poor time management skills.”

“Poor time management? Really? Because my last evaluation said that I have excellent time management skills,” she quipped, sliding the Folder of Doom back to me.

The Folder of Doom could be anything—a new acquisition, a business meeting with a cantankerous client, a gala invitation, and, in this case, a business trip.

“Take the folder,” I insisted, shoving it back.

“Whatever is in this folder can wait until I return.”

“Victoria!” I snapped, using an authoritative tone that meant I didn’t have the time or patience to engage in a squabble.

She huffed, snapped up the folder, and flipped it open.

I gazed at her beautiful face, taking in her striking features while I waited for Mount Victoria to erupt.

A perfectly arched eyebrow slowly ascended her forehead.

Her eyes widened as she read the pages, and her button nose twitched like a bunny now and again.

Those red pouty lips that I dreamed of sucking on at least five times a day folded inward.

Agonizing silence continued for another minute before she snapped the folder closed and placed it on the desk.

“I think it’s time for me to speak to the Board,” she said softly.

“And why is that?”

“Because you are clearly unfit to run this company as Chief Executive Officer. You should exchange the Italian designer suits and the penthouse office for a straitjacket and a white padded room because there’s no way in Hell you thought I’d agree to go on this trip!” she barked.

“It’s mandatory, Victoria.”

“Mandatory for you, not me,” she argued.

“I’m considering another hotel acquisition, and I need my right-hand woman with me.”

“You need a lobotomy,” she hissed, spewing her venom at me.

She’s getting worked up. I should schedule a couples massage for us promptly. A Swedish massage on the beach sounds heavenly.

I slipped into another one of my fantasies as she ripped me apart. Her pouty lips rapidly moved, and her arms waved around frantically, but her words of disdain never reached me. All I could think of was a lovely house, two kids, and a hamster named Hamlet.

Maybe not Hamlet; that might be too on the nose.

We’ll have to name it a stupid small critter name like Bubbles or Cheeks.

Are my fantasies tipping into delusion? That bitchy therapist would say yes, but as the old adage goes, “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.” We can have this if Victoria’s willing to give me the time of day.

I sighed and relaxed into my chair as her tirade continued.

My eyes darted to the stapler she unhinged before bouncing back to her luscious lips.

I couldn’t fear for my life because everything she did seemed to endear me.

Her anger was red hot and volatile, making my dick stand at full attention.

I bit back a groan when an insult slipped through.

I think this solidifies that I have a nasty degradation kink. Who fucking knew? Well…to be fair…the therapist did say that. Perhaps I was too harsh with her.

“I know you’re stupid, but let me help you out one more time: I’m not going on this trip. I have approved time off, and I’m going to Miami. Go…to…Hell.”

“The car will arrive promptly at 7:00 AM to pick you up from your apartment.”

“I won’t be there,” she insisted, standing to her feet.

“I’ll bring the donuts you love!” I shouted after her retreating form. She slammed the door hard with such force that the meek employee at the printer nearly jumped out of his skin. My eyes narrowed when Victoria paused to speak to him. He touched her arm and rubbed it soothingly.

Note to self—fire him. Oh, wait. The little twerp is Blankenship’s executive assistant. I can’t just get rid of him. No bother. He isn’t a threat. He can never get a rise out of her like me. I have a plan to ensure Victoria doesn’t make it to Miami. I just have to duck the next time she sees me.