"Why do you do this?" I ask him.
It comes out unbidden. I don't mean it as a genuine question, but now that it's hit the air, I realize it kind of sounds like one. And it's thrown my boss for a loop, more than I would have expected. He frowns a little, his brows knitting together slightly, and I wonder if he has the same permanent headache there that I do. I tried taking a yoga class once for coping strategies, but I left in shame when my phone went off during the silent meditation portion. It was Mr. Risinger, of course. And my fault for not turning it off. I never went back, but I do remember they talked a lot about holding tension in your third eye center.
If Mr. Risinger has a third eye, he definitely uses it for nefarious purposes only.
"I told you already," he says. "I had an idea and I wanted to make it happen, especially when people told me I couldn't."
"So, spite, then." I cross my legs at the knee, delicately. I'm tugging my skirt down while I do it, and I notice his eyes following my hemline. "That's not a very good answer to give the readers, when I meet them."
He pauses, halfway through reaching into his bourbon drawer. "When? I'm surprised at you, Meghan. I expected more of a fight."
I shrug. "The whole thing threw me off for a minute, but it's not like I can afford to turn down an extra paycheck."
It's genetically impossible for this man to feel guilt, although he does offer me a glass of bourbon again, which I decline this time.
"I just brought you coffee," I point out, as he puts ice in his glass. I don't even know where the hell he keeps ice in his fucking desk.
He stirs the bourbon with his finger (what?) and then sucks it into his mouth, licking off the alcohol. My heart stops beating for about five seconds, and then kicks in, trying to make up for lost time.
"Hmm," he agrees. "I think I've lost the taste for it, by now. It's nearly lunchtime."
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to do it. I am going to murder him with the shards of his own decanter, and not a court in the land would convict me.
"I've got actual work to do today," I point out. "The expense reports have to be reformatted, and accounting says if you send them back one more time … well, I don't know, something about the tyranny of evil men, and striking down with great vengeance and furious anger. I'll have to refer to my notes if you want specifics."
He rolls his eyes at me. "So send them back."
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to listen to them piss and moan."
"Christ." Mr. Risinger pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can't do everyone's job for them, Meghan. Why do women always do that?"
"Because shit gets done." I re-fold my arms across my chest, tighter. "It's easier to just take care of it than listen to people complain."
"Then don't listen!" He makes an abstract, frustrated gesture with his hands. "Tell them it's not your problem. Walk away."
"Right." I laugh. "That ought to go over well."
He gets up and paces over to the window. "Who cares how it goes over? You work for me, not them."
"Yes, and I'm your human touch." I sigh heavily, leaning back in my chair. "I have to be soft and approachable because you're not. Half of this office would've quit by now if they actually had to talk to you on a regular basis."
Mr. Risinger glances over his shoulder at me, and the look on his face tells me that this man has no idea what I actually do all day. The amount of time I spend apologizing for him. All the time and effort I put into persuading the people he thinks he's managing. I haven't literally talked someone off of a ledge yet, but I feel like it's only a matter of time.
"So stay tonight and do the reports," he says. "If you're so insistent on doing Accounting's job for them, it'll have to wait until you're finished with everything I need."
Maybe it's just a defense mechanism to keep my brain from processing what he's actually just suggested, but there's something about the way he says everything I need that makes my stomach flutter.
I take a deep breath. "I've got plans."
"No you don't." He smirks at me. "Relax. I'll pay you time and a half."
Lord grant me the serenity to not stab him in the face with his letter-opener.
"I'm salaried, Mr. Risinger," I say, through carefully clenched teeth.
"A bonus, then." He waves his hand at nothing. "Whatever. You know, I don't have to offer you anything. If you don't send them back, technically you're being insubordinate."
"I'm insubordinate every day of my life," I point out, unable to hold back a little laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. "It's never been a problem before."
He turns to me, smiling, and for some reason that smile makes my breath quicken a little. "You can be mean to them. I promise, no harm will come to you."
"Except to my reputation." I raise an eyebrow at him. "You act like that, you're being authoritative. I act like that, and I'm being a cold bitch."
Mr. Risinger shakes his head. "You of all people should know, the only proper way to deal with double standards is a roundhouse kick, right to the face." He makes a demonstrative gesture.
"Yes, good. Solving every problem with violence. Did you learn that in your Women's Studies workshop, too?"
He sprawls back down in his chair. "Have it your way. You think Miss Emma Peel worried about the glass ceiling? Not on your life. Kicked right through it."
"Yeah, I'm going to avoid taking my life advice from people who fight crime in S&M outfits and four-inch heels." I stand up. "Good talk, though."
He tuts softly. "So judgmental. I'm sending you to that workshop, Ms. Burns. You could learn a thing or two."
***
It's after hours, and I'm in the zone. As much as I hated the idea of staying late to work on it, a mindless spreadsheet is exactly what I need right now. As I tab my way along the rows, with Nicki Minaj blasting in my earbuds, I'm actually starting to relax a little bit.
Until someone reaches over my shoulder, and like a completely normal and mature adult human, yanks the plug of my headphones out.
MY ANACONDA DON'T - MY ANACONDA DON'T -
I slam the screen shut, silencing the music.
"I thought you went home." I'm playing it cool, even though I already visibly jumped out of my skin. Mr. Risinger leans up against my desk, casual as you please, so his hip is about three millimeters from my shoulder. I'm trying not to look at him, but there's nothing on my desk to stare at, except my name plate. If I open my computer again it'll be to the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-a-Lot. I'm already fucked, the next thing out of Mr. Risinger's mouth is almost certainly going to include the phrase baby got back, but I have to at least try controlling the damage.
"I would've taken you for more of a Taylor Swift girl," he says, grabbing into the edges of my desk and smiling down at me. "It's nice to know you can still surprise me."
"I have layers," I tell him, still staring at nothing. "Not everyone is as one-dimensional as you."
He grins. "It's after-hours, so I'm going to overlook the policy violation, but don't let the interns see you with headphones. You know how they are."
"Fallible human beings?" I look up at him, smiling coolly. "Disgusting, isn't it?"
"All I know is, I wouldn't have been able to get away with half the shit they pull. Not when I was their age." He shakes his head. "This generation thinks everybody owes them something."
"You know the Boomers think the same thing about us." I pick up my stapler, then put it back down. "And the Greatest Generation thought the same thing about the Baby Boomers. And … "
"Yes, yes, everyone's terrible," he says, impatiently. "Do you have anything to wear for the signing?"
It takes me a second to catch up. "Uh … I'm not really sure what's expected."
"Well, you need to look successful." His eyes drift over my body, and my breath catches in my throat in spite of myself. "So … you know, not that."
He digs into his pocket and produces a wallet that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Making a quiet, thoughtful noise, he pulls out a card and drops it on the desk in front of me. I swear it almost makes an audible thunk. It looks like it's made of obsidian.
"Get yourself a few nice outfits," he says. "Five or six, at least, because if this goes well, there's a conference coming up in Austin that I can get a last-minute registration to."
"Um." I pick it up, feeling like there's a punchline coming. "Okay. I don't really … "
"Money's no object," he says, with a dismissive gesture. "Obviously."