Boss Me Hard (Boss Me #2) (6 page)

“
O
h my God
, this was super helpful,” I declare on Thursday night as I close my massive textbook. “McDoogle can suck it, because I’m so ready for our quiz tomorrow.” My eyeballs hurt from staring at the book for so long, and I scrub my hands over my face. “And now I just want to go home and sleep for twelve years. My brain aches.”

Sidney laughs. “Mine too. I don’t want to think again, ever. I’m going to go home and lie on the couch in a puddle of my own drool.”

“That sounds like a plan.” I gather my stuff up and stretch hard, glancing around. The library on campus is still pretty busy with a number of students hunched over the tables, despite it being so late in the evening. I left work today and hustled right over to take my class, then stay for extra studying time with Sidney.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been tired all day from staying up far too late into the evening last night with Dane. We had slow, delicious foreplay for a good hour that led to intense phone sex, me masturbating and crying out in pleasure as I came for him. While we came down off that high, we talked for a little while longer about this and that, just random topics that flitted into our heads.

I’m exhausted, but it was so worth it. The looks we exchanged at work today were almost flammable. Thankfully no one seems to notice what’s happening, but I’m going to have to be more careful, since I know I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m not great at hiding my emotions. And boy, does he bring them out of me.

I don my winter gear and head to my car. Gonna be an early night for me. I shoot Robert a text letting him know I’m on my way home, then sit in my car for a few minutes to let it warm up. It’s especially cold tonight, a chilly wind battering the car.

Gonna be a long, hard winter.

Speaking of long and hard…my face breaks out into a smile. I have to stop thinking about him so much.

I get home a little while later and key the door. It’s dark inside the apartment. “Robert?” I call out as I flip on the living room switch, bathing the room in a golden glow from the side table lamp. Come to think of it, my brother didn’t respond to my text. He should be home right now though; his therapy appointment was earlier today. “You here?” Maybe he’s asleep already.

I knock on his door. “Hey, you awake?” I say in a soft whisper.

The door whips open, startling me. My brother’s hair is a dirty mess, and he’s wearing a white undershirt with sweat pants. His eyes are bloodshot and hazy, roaming my face. “Oh, look who decided to show up.”

My lungs tighten as I take in a whiff of liquor pouring off his breath. Shit. He’s loaded. I can’t remember the last time he’s been drunk. What happened in therapy today? “Robert,” I say gently. “I already told you I had to study, and I sent you a text when I was heading home. Did you eat?”

“I’m not fucking hungry.” He rolls his eyes and shoves past me to plop down on the couch.

A swell of anger fills my chest. I try hard to push it back, but these mood swings, the erratic drinking spells, they’re starting to wear on me. “What is going on? Why are you in such a bad mood? And why are you drinking? You know you’re not supposed to mix liquor with your anti-depressants.”

“Lay the fuck off me.” The words are slightly slurred. “I already got a case of the ass from the shrink today.”

“Why?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He groans and stretches out, rubbing his stump. The flash of pain on his face is vivid, and I feel guilty.

“I’m just trying to help.” I know the hurt and frustration are in my voice, and I can’t stop them from leaking in.

He definitely hears it, and the barbed tone in his next words make me reel. “Well, you’re not. You’re a shitty substitute for our mom, so stop fucking trying to be.”

“You’re an asshole, Robert,” I bite out, then spin on my heels and slam my bedroom door closed behind me. My whole body is shaking with the pent-up emotion I’m feeling. All the deep-down hurt I always shove away at his selfishness comes roaring to the surface. I’m tired, and I’m tired of him always needing something from me.

I’m not trying to be Mom. I’m just trying to get by. But the pressure of taking care of someone who resents me for it is wearing so, so thin, and I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Like I don’t miss her too? Like I’m not trying to cope the only way I know how?

I fall on the bed and let the hot tears pour out. I don’t censor my feelings, just let them all batter through my head, a big, tangled mess. I’m so damn tired of feeling guilty that he can’t cope with her death, can’t cope with his injury. I can’t keep doing this. I’m exhausted to my bones. And the worst thing is, I know he won’t remember saying these things to me in the morning. He’s done this before, and it always is a blackout situation where he feels like shit and apologizes.

He forgets, but I don’t have that luxury. I have to live with it and decide what I’m going to do. Because it’s clear my brother needs more help than I can give him.

I fall asleep on top of my covers, my face covered in tracks of tears.

* * *

F
riday morning
, I barely make it to class on time. Robert doesn’t emerge from his bedroom, so I make my own breakfast, of which I only manage to choke down half, and leave the apartment without saying a word to him. I don’t know what to say anyway, and I’m afraid I’d tell him something I couldn’t take back because of still being so angry with him.

I know I look like shit, that my eyes are bleary and bloodshot and my face is puffy from crying. Thankfully, Sidney doesn’t push. She just gives me a hug, presses a kiss to my temple, and tells me she’s here to listen if I need anything.

At least the quiz goes well, though. All that studying has paid off. I feel much more confident in today’s results, sure I got a least a B, if not an A. Finally I exit campus and head to work. The parking lot is full, so I pull my car into a spot far away from the building and trudge toward the entrance.

My stomach is a tangle of knots. Despite all my anger at my brother for his drunken hostility, there’s a constant level of concern that eats away at me. What happened to him? He’s been doing fairly well recently. I know him; he wouldn’t fall off the wagon unless something had come up in therapy that stirred up something in him.

I don’t know if I’m the source of his anger, but I suspect not. I am, however, the recipient of those feelings. He and I are going to need to have a real talk about this, because if he’s going to keep living with me, that’s not going to work.

The ride up the elevator is quiet. I can’t help my mouth curling up in the corners just a tiny bit as I remember when I was in here with Dane. Him holding me up and slamming into me.

Need pinches my lower belly, and I fight back a sigh. Instead of feeling satisfied, I find myself wanting him more and more. And not just physically, though of course that ache seems to be present way too much. Right now, I want to just see his face, hear the cadence of his voice. Let that sweep over me and remove the stress and strain from my heart.

Being around him helps me feel better, and my battered soul needs a little bit of that happiness right now.

When I reach my desk, I see him striding toward me, a folder stuffed with papers in his hand. A smile starts to spread on his face, then freezes in place when he gets closer. His eyes narrow as he notes the tension, the evidence of sadness on my face.

My heart squeezes, and I clear my throat. “Is that for me? Do you need copies or anything?”

He steps close to me, a bit closer than he should be, given that we’re out in the open in the office, and my pulse stutters. We don’t speak for a moment, just looking at each other. His brown eyes are a quiet haven of calm, and I find myself starting to relax for the first time since last night.

Dane hands me the packet; his thumb strokes my hand for a moment, but there’s a volume of words unspoken in that gesture. Comfort. Something in my chest cracks open at the feel of him reaching out to me, despite the dangers.

His voice is quiet when he says, “Do you need to take the day off?”

I shake my head, my throat closed tight. “No, I need to be here,” I make myself say. I need to clear my brain and not think about Robert for a little while, as harsh as that sounds. But if I’m not honest with myself, I’m never going to find that happiness I crave.

He gives a quick nod. If anyone were to get it, it would be Dane—escaping into work to avoid facing those issues that hammer in the back of your head. He practically wrote the book on it. Not that I’m judging him right now. If anything, I understand the impulse, more than I did before.

“Okay, go make me enough copies of the paper on top to hand out at the meeting this afternoon. You can keep them at your desk until then.” Boss Dane is back in place. For once, I take comfort in it, because this is something I know how to deal with.

I lick my dry lips and nod, then head to the copier room. There are two people in line ahead of me, so I let my gaze wander around the room, its boxes of paper. The women chat casually about their kids, the commute to work. The rhythmic pulse of the copier, the mingled voices, the soft noises outside, all create a white hum in my head that helps numb me a bit.

After about ten minutes, the copier is free, and I’m able to make my copies and head back to my desk. When I sit down, I see a folded and stapled piece of paper in front of me. That makes my heart give a painful, excited thud.

It’s from him.

The last of my sadness rushes right out of my body, and in its place is an all-over tingle of anticipation. Dane clearly knows that what I need right now isn’t to wallow in my own sadness. It’s to clear my head, to give myself space to find the solution without obsessing over it.

And another encounter with him would certainly provide that opportunity.

I draw my lower lip into my mouth and pop open the paper. Inside is a folded strip of black silk, which sides off the paper into my lap.

R
eserve
the corner meeting room for an hour at eleven-thirty. At that time, go in there, turn off the lights, and wait for me with this blindfold on and your panties off and in your pants pocket.

Between now and then, I want you to think about nothing else but the feel of my hands on your body, my mouth on your pussy, my dick slamming into you. And the fact that I can’t seem to think of anything else but being with you again.

W
ell
, my brain has pretty much stuttered to a halt now, unable to do more than read his note over and over. My pelvis gives a hard throb in response, both out of arousal and fear. This is really kicking it up a notch. Not to mention he’s yet again pulled something out of my journal, this time about being blindfolded.

Am I really going to do this? In the office, where anyone can walk in and find me? It’s one thing to pretend I’m in his office taking notes or making phone calls. But there’s no way to fake that an encounter is work-related if I’m wearing a damned blindfold.

What if someone else walks in before he arrives and can lock the door behind him? Does that room even have a lock on the door?

My hands begin to shake. I cram the note into my purse and drop my fingers to my lap, touching the silky fabric. The slide of the material against my skin is a quiet promise of real pleasure.

And here’s what it comes down to—trust. How much do I trust Dane to not let me get hurt or have my reputation damaged beyond repair?

I think about the way we’ve grown closer over the last couple of weeks, how everything I learn about him fleshes out the knowledge I’ve been accumulating since starting at the company. We’re so different, he and I. Is this crazy of me to seriously go down this road with him, to put myself on the line?

To let someone have this power over me who could totally break my heart?

But then I shake that thought off, because the drive to see him again, be touched by him again, be close to him again—is too strong to resist for even a moment.

I reserve the room in our company-wide calendar, if only to give myself more time to think this through. And I debate the issue for the next hour. I think about his eyes seeing my pain, him reaching out to me in a way he knows will help me escape my hurt.

I can’t walk away from the promise in this note. Plus that last line…it’s been resonating with me since I read it.

Dane didn’t write that he wanted to be
in
me again. He said he wanted to be
with
me. A vast difference, an intentional wording from someone who spends his life being precise with words. And my stupid heart won’t let that phrase go.

Suddenly it’s eleven twenty-five. Do or die time. My whole body is trembling with anticipation, because I know exactly what I’m going to do.

I ball the blindfold up into my hands, grab a stack of papers so I look like I’m going in for work purposes, then step toward the corner meeting room. The lights are already off, with scant outdoor sunshine peeking through the blinds, so I close the door behind me and leave them that way. I hurry up and take off my panties, then thrust my legs back into my pants.