WARNING: This story contains disturbing and sometimes violent material. If violence bothers you, please do not read this story.
Chapter 2
New Orleans in August was one hot bitch.
I was standing at the window of my ninth floor office, staring out at the city below me, lost in thought. I could see people walking on the sidewalk, hurrying to get to work on time. It was only eight in the morning, but it was already 91 degrees outside. The heat was coming off the streets in waves. But this is not what had my attention. I was thinking about my basement. About what was in my basement at that very moment, waiting for me.
"Miss Swan?" An annoying female voice was clawing its way through my subconscious.
I ignored it and continued to mentally calculate how many minutes were remaining until I could leave the office at the end of the day without arousing suspicion.
She cleared her throat loudly, obviously directed at me, and started again.
"Miss Swan?" A little louder this time. Jessica hated me. It was mutual.
The moment was lost, so I put a smile on my face and turned to face the sadistic little office manager.
"Yes, Jessica, what is it?" As the words left my mouth, I became quickly aware of the reason she was invading my office - the young man standing next to her. I completely ignored Jessica's demanding little stare and turned my attention to our new acquisition.
"Miss Swan, this is Mike Newton, the new intern." She nodded at me with a fake smile plastered on her face. She gestured to Mike. "Mike, this is Isabella Swan. Miss Swan," she said with barely veiled contempt, "is the Director of Project Management here at AdOne. She will be your supervisor." That last part she said through clenched teeth, yet smile intact. She truly hated me and hated admitting that I was responsible for anything.
Mike smiled and extended his hand to me. His teeth were perfect, the obvious result of years of expensive orthodontia and monthly bleaching. His salon streaked blonde hair was casually falling across his forehead in a manner meant to be attractive to someone other than me. It was only a matter of seconds before he did the requisite head toss, and then the cycle would repeat itself, endlessly. His salmon colored Polo shirt was tucked neatly into his designer khakis, with the collar popped up in the back. He wore two-toned Sperry boat shoes, no socks. He looked exactly like every other intern. Daddy got him the job at the most prestigious firm in the city, and we had to suffer the consequences.
And he was confident. Cocky, even. Not the slightest bit scared of me. Well, I had some ideas about how to change that.
"Mike. Pleased to meet you." I gripped his hand and shook it firmly, one pump. He looked a little surprised for a second, like he expected one of those pathetic, half-handed, fingers-only handshakes that some women gave. I fucking hate that handshake.
I held his hand, just for a second longer than normal, just a little tighter than normal, looking into his eyes a little deeper than normal, searching... There it is. Yes. Yes, he'll do. I released his hand, still smiling.
Mike stared at me for a half a second, like he was stuck in gear and needed a kick, which, of course, I would gladly oblige if he were truly interested, but then the tickle of hair on his forehead activated his hair-toss cycle, and with one quick flick of blonde hair, he was returned to all his prep school glory right in front of me.
"Miss Swan, it's a pleasure. I've heard a lot about you from my father. You were in high school together, right?" Nice. He established an inappropriate level of familiarity and my exact age within five minutes of meeting me. He was going to pay for that later.
Mike's father, Bill Newton, owned a sporting goods store in the small town where I grew up - Forks, Washington. His nickname in high school was "Fig," but it was only used behind his back. Not very creative, I know, but considering that the population of Forks was only 3,000 or so at the time, the assignation of the nickname itself was a fairly significant event. If you called him Fig to his face, he would beat the crap out of you, which he did, several times, to the same unsuspecting losers who always seemed to crave a beating. Because of this, he always was a pushy son of a bitch, and over the years, he worked his way up through local politics until he finally nabbed a state Senate spot. He ran the state of Washington for several years, working every under-the-table deal he could, until he finally made the big time - the U.S. fucking Congress. Now, a couple of phone calls (and a politically misappropriated scholarship to Tulane) later, and his freshly-college-graduated son is standing before me.
I decided to completely ignore the high school remark and, instead, set the tone for our budding office relationship. Dispense with the niceties and move on. I dropped his hand and turned back to my desk.
"Newton… Mike, is it? Mike, I assume Jessica has filled you in on the basic requirements of the position?" I shuffled through some folders on my desk, my back to him, waiting for him to answer me.
Silence.
Interesting. We'll have to work on his responsiveness. A chill went down my spine at the thought.
I turned my head to look at him, and he was still smiling. It was a cocky grin that said "my dad got me this job so I can put it on my resume and then get a real job paying four times what any of you people make, and I plan on flirting with the female interns and playing on the computer all day, so don't bother pretending to instruct me on how do any real work."
I turned completely to face him and leaned on the edge of my desk. My eyes bored into his, and I spoke quietly but firmly. The rest of my staff knew what this tone meant, but the Newton boy was clueless. For now.
"Newton, you belong to me. When I want coffee, you'll get me coffee. When I need something copied, you'll run, and I mean run to the copier. When I need a file, you will search for that file in the file room like you were a hungry man and that file was the last crust of bread on earth. When I work until ten at night to prepare for an early morning meeting, you will be here with me, sitting at your desk, just in case I might need you. When I come in at seven in the morning to work on a project, you will be here at 6:30 with all the paperwork I need, a hot cup of coffee, and whatever breakfast pastry I happen to like at the time." I hated coffee and donuts, but I wanted to fuck with him a little, see if he was listening. "If I decide to work on the weekends, you will be here. If I decide to work from home, you will come to my home and work with me there. You will meet me in the parking garage every morning to carry in whatever I need carrying, and you will escort me to my car every night. You will learn to anticipate my every need."
I paused before that last line for effect, but I don't think it was necessary. He looked like he might have wet his pants. I think he was finally getting it.
Jessica had heard this speech a million times before, and she tried not to look bored or laugh as she stood in the doorway waiting for me to finish. She couldn't wait to report back to her minions. She was the queen of a very tiny kingdom of secretaries and lowly paid office workers, and she ruled over it like Elizabeth II herself.
Mike stood there, seemingly in shock. Apparently, no one had ever spoken to him like that before. I don't think he was expecting to have to actually work. I raised one eyebrow at him, waiting for some sort of response, but he hadn't realized that one was required of him. So he cleared his throat and answered the best possible answer, considering the situation.
"Yes, Ma'am."
Perfect.
"Very good, Mike, you may go. Jessica, thank you." And with that, they were dismissed.
I walked around to my desk, and just as I was sitting in my chair, I caught a glimpse of Newton's ass in those tight designer khakis as he was walking out the door.
Oh yes. He'll do.
Disclaimer: All things "Twilight" belong to Stephanie Meyer. "Trunk Boy," however, is all mine.
