Deal

  Copyright © 2014 by Shey Stahl

  All Rights Reserved.

  This e-book may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

  For Marisa.

  Thanks for being there for me any time I need to vent.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Delayed Offsides Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “Listen to me, you chew up my shoes and I will take your food! I will! And you so much as drool on my Christian Louboutin heels and I will make you sleep in the bathroom on the cold floor!”

  Thinking of him touching those Louboutin heels makes me sick. I saved for a year for those.

  “What are you doing?” Casey asks causing me to jump.

  “Leaving Oliver a message on my answering machine.”

  Casey sits down in the chair beside my desk crossing her right leg over her left and I see she’s wearing my black knee high boots she stole from me last week and paired them with my rag & bone jeans. If it wasn’t for my wardrobe I’m not sure Casey would have anything to wear to work. Sadly, they look slightly better on her and not exactly what you would expect the manager of our payroll department to be wearing.

  “How is he going to check the message?”

  “He can hear it when I leave the message on the machine. It plays as you are leaving it. He hears it, trust me.”

  Casey shakes her head as if she can’t believe I’ve resorted to leaving my puppy scolding messages to get him to behave. “So about Saturday ... Are you coming with me this weekend?”

  “Why?”

  “Because ...” Casey whines and I hate it when she whines. Really hate it. “You promised you’d go.”

  I know I promised but the idea of spending my Saturday at a wedding expo wasn’t exactly what I had planned. “I thought Zane was going with you?”

  She moves on to sighing which is equally as bad as her whining. “He is but I want you there too. I need someone to help me keep him under control. I need to find a photographer and a dress. Imagine what Zane would be capable of.”

  She’s right. Zane at a wedding expo is like a kid in a toy store. We’d never get him to leave. Zane is our co-worker and extremely gay friend. Like a little black dress, every girl needs one amazing gay friend and Zane is our token “girl” with a penis. He’s brutally honest with me and I need that. Where Casey will hold back, Zane tells me the way it is.

  “What time is it again? I have to work on Saturday.”

  “It starts at ten, but we can be late. I’ll pick you up here at noon.”

  This frustrates me because every weekend there’s something to do with this damn wedding. Since her and Bryan got engaged four months ago, the planning hasn’t stopped. Now here we are three weeks until that magical June seventh date and the shit had gotten intense. Think cake samples, dress shopping, looking at every possible flower known to man, and everything else that planning a wedding entails. But every single day.

  Casey McDaniel is probably my best friend in the whole world. No one has been there for me like she has. So in reality, I would most certainly be there for her this weekend.

  I completely understood Casey’s desire to go to the wedding expo because she still hadn’t found a photographer. She’s been more than picky about every minute detail with this wedding but I understood the importance of the photographer.

  Casey smiles, getting in my face with that big grin I swear she reserves only for me, it’s the one she used for her sarcastic side, black hair falling into her blue eyes as she sweeps it aside. “Meeting time.”

  She says this as if I should be thrilled.

  When Casey leaves I’m just getting into my email and reaching for my notepad while I take a quick glance to see if anything needs my attention.

  I used to love my job and now I kind of hate it. Every morning I stare at my computer and think to myself, who am I and how did I get here?

  I think a lot of twenty-three year olds find themselves at similar crossroads, not knowing if this is the job you want to spend the next five years at, hell, even spend the next five minutes, but when I sit at this desk, I think my shelf life is close to its expiration date because of the man who sits next to me. He annoys the ever living fuck out of me.

  I’m an Administrative Assistant for a construction company called Madsen Construction. The title seemed important when I applied for it although I had no idea what an administrative assistant actually did. Casey and Zane who worked here for the last two years told me about it and hyped it up like it would be the best job ever.

  For the most part it was good. I’ve been working here six months and I get to work with my two best friends. Bonus, right? The downside?

  The boss man’s son who sits across from me. I’ll get to him in a minute.

  The other part I didn’t care for was the demands. They weren’t even from my boss either. They were from all the other employees. Apparently that’s what an administrative assistant does. It’s a fancy title for “I’m your bitch and how do you like your fucking coffee?”

  I get coffee for the office at least three times a day. THREE.

  Who drinks that much coffee?

  Apparently these assholes who have me as their indentured servant do.

  I thought I had a problem with coffee addiction, but surely my addiction was nothing compared to these jerk offs. And the specialty creamers they request, do they think this is fucking Starbucks? Sure, I can make you a triple espresso latte non-fat mochachino said no administrative assistant ever. What I really want to say is shove that latte up your ass, fuck face.

  I was tempted just to offer an IV to them. At least if I did that my feet wouldn’t hurt so bad and I wouldn’t be tempted to spit into every cup of coffee I make past number ten.

  So now here I am, six months into said job thinking I should find something else. But what? I’m twenty-three with no idea what I want to do with myself past waking up each day. I leave fucking messages on my answering machine to my dog for crying out loud. Who does this? All I know is that making coffee for a bunch of lazy ass construction company employees becomes less and less appealing with each passing week.

  I wasn’t always on this never ending path of indecision. In high school, I graduated with honors and had a steady boyfriend. My life was going perfectly and we both went to the same college together and had plans to get married after we graduated. Made it a few months into college, found out my boyfriend was cheating on me and I have since sworn off of men. Who needs that added drama and heartbreak? Not this chick. The same month my ex ripped my heart out, my dad got sick. He was all I had left besides a few aunts and uncles so you can imagine where that left me, wondering who I am and what I’m doing with my life as well as being all alone, not counting the many conversations I have with my dog of course. My dad died two years ago and I still haven’t been able to go back to school or even have any semblance of a life. I had a plan for my life,
now I don’t, and here I am headed to another wedding expo with my best friends. I think Webster’s needs to create a new definition of pathetic with just a headshot of me next to the word.

  I’m just getting settled after the meeting when Zane calls me that morning around ten, laughing, “Hey, come over to my office.”

  Zane Thomas is our computer programmer so I figured this call was just another instance where he installed spyware on someone’s computer and wanted to show me their search history. The shit people Google is just bizarre, and often creepy. If someone comes up missing at this place, there are a few suspects I’ll be pointing my finger at to the police based on their browser search history is all I’m saying.

  “Leave me the hell alone, Zane, I ain’t got time for website creeping today.” Slamming the phone down, I look up to find someone standing in front of my desk.

  He’s tall, handsome, dark hair and gorgeous brown eyes. I suddenly feel stupid for letting him hear me cuss, like he would be offended by naughty words.

  I can’t form a response to save my ass and breaking my gaze away from his eyes is near impossible.

  “Can I ...uh ...help you?” I ask, eyeing him cautiously praying he can’t read my mind.

  “I’m not sure if you can.” He smiles, leaning against the partition to my cubicle that was right at leaning height. His long fingers drum against the side. “Are you my new Administrative Assistant?”

  Holy shit.

  Remember when I said I hadn’t met my boss yet?

  Here he is. Up until now, I hadn’t actually met my boss, only talked to him on the phone.

  “Paul Madsen?” I ask in a voice that isn’t very audible, it was more of a timid whisper.

  How the fuck was I going to work with him as a boss? Look at him. He’s beautiful. No way he’s my boss.

  I know. I’ll buy contacts in the wrong prescription so my vision is impaired and it’ll make him look like a shitty version of Nick Bateman.

  Yeah, that’ll work.

  Mentally, I make myself a note to call my optometrist to see if he would help my sorry ass out. I mean surely someone has thought of this before. This can’t be a new request.

  “I’m Amalie Davis.” I manage to say after he really did look at me as though something was mentally haywire. I couldn’t really blame him at this point, I was just thinking of obtaining new contacts to impair my vision.

  “Well,” he smiles softly tipping his head casually as though he was completely comfortable around me. “Zane didn’t tell me you were so pretty, sweetie.”

  “Yeah, he’s gay so that probably wouldn’t be at the forefront of his mind.”

  Holy shit. Did I just say that out loud?

  I want to hide under my desk.

  Zane comes barreling around the corner before I can reply to the compliment. “Hey, get your ass in my office. I wasn’t joking. You need to—”

  Paul turns toward Zane, amused. “She needs to do what?”

  Zane has no social civility at all and I sense he feels comfortable around Paul with what he says next. “She just needs to get her ass in there.”

  Paul doesn’t seem fazed by his rudeness at all.

  “Zane!” I flung my tape dispenser right at his head smacking him in the cheek.

  How dare he talk to this beautiful man that way.

  Zane’s hand rose to rub the bulls-eye I’d just made out of his face, glaring in my direction. “Was that fucking necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  Paul chuckles. “Welcome aboard ...” he paused with a smirk. “Amalie.”

  This is where my nicely shaded creamy complexion turned a color similar to puce. A color that clashed with every item of clothing I was wearing. It was like a neon sign pointing in my direction letting everyone know that, “hey, I just made a complete ass of myself and am secretly crushing on my boss!”

  “I hate you.” I whisper towards Zane when I stand to shake Paul’s hand and then immediately sit back down trying to calm every nerve in my body down after meeting Mr. Hottie McHot.

  Now that I’ve exposed you to the best part of my job, it’s now time to introduce to the worst part of my job. Pay attention. He’s an asshole and you’ll see why in just a minute.

  As Zane walks away, I see a head peek out from behind his computer. “Are you blushing?”

  I refuse to make eye contact and refuse to answer him.

  “Hmmm,” he says as though he’s considering something. I can see the grin even though my vision is intently focused on my computer screen.

  You know that overly attractive man I just met? He has a son. You see Mr. Paul Madsen just might have had the makings to be a great boss but when he departs behind the closed door of his office, I’m reminded of who shares that man’s DNA.

  It’s the very reason why I despise my job lately, the part that makes me sure that I just might end up in the insane asylum.

  Tathan Madsen.

  I’ll save you the trouble of getting to know him. Just listen. He’s the biggest motherfucking slut alive and he sits right in front of me. My computer faces Tathan’s.

  It fucking sucks. No really, it’s absolutely awful. There is nothing worse than having to stare at the person you despise for eight hours a day. It’s the worst kind of punishment.

  Go ahead, take a look at him and you’ll see exactly what I mean. He’s sweet-talking the receptionist. I’ve named this one Sweet Cheeks because she’s obsessively sucking on a lollipop which I’m sure is causing Tathan to squirm.

  I name all the girls pining after him with names indicative of their behaviors and looks because I apparently have nothing better to do with my time. Sure he’s hot—that’s a lie—he’s fucking delicious. But I’m not going there. I refuse to go there. I’m at a self-induced standstill with my love life thanks to my cheating ex. I won’t allow myself to contemplate a relationship with him, or anyone, because I have more dignity than these girls who basically throw themselves at him.

  My focus turns back to Tathan when I hear his laughter; it draws me in every damn time. Sweet Cheeks staggers off with weak knees to the rest of his Crush Brigade to discuss in-depth how good he is in bed, which I listen to every word, who wouldn’t? I’m bizarrely drawn to this because really, I sit in a goddamn cubicle all day and have no life outside of this office, so this is my entertainment. Silently I live vicariously through Sweet Cheeks but I know I’ll never be that type of girl, life or no life, I’d rather be alone than be the next step in the revolving door that is Tathan Madsen.

  As I sit at my desk trying to ignore this, I’m working—that’s a lie—I’m looking on Urban Dictionary right now for new slang terms to call Tathan. No new words have posted since yesterday so I stick with man-whore, it’s original and suits him just fine.

  Paul comes out of his office, hands me some plans that need to be delivered to the fourth floor. Why he can’t take him and his Armani suit up there himself is beyond me but I do it anyway because he smiles at me and it’s my job to do these things.

  It’s sad. I feel like a slave who will never be free from the ties that bind me to this place and this job. Now I know how people felt in the days of slavery. At least I have a clean place to sleep at night and food. And when I think about it, everyone usually has someone they answer to, even when you own the company you answer to your clients. We’re all slaves in some way or another.

  Swinging around in my chair, I stand and grab the plans tucking them under my arm. On my way out the door, I accidentally drop the plans right near Tathan’s desk. It seems as though he has some kind of magnetic pull on me. He manipulates the laws of gravity and I drop shit when I’m near him.

  “Hey Amalie, while you’re down there can—” Tathan begins but is cut off when a box of paperclips flying at his head quickly shuts him down.

  “Fuck off!” I yell as I walk past.

  This is our relationship. He provokes me. I attack.

  Face it—you want to attack something else and by something else I m
ean HIM.

  Sadly, yes I do, but not him.

  You’re lying to yourself again. Self-denial. Urban dictionary that shit while you’re at it.

  I walk past Tathan’s harem of women on my way out. I hear fragments of their encounters with him and I’m curious. Not because they now all have Chlamydia but because I haven’t been laid in a really long time and the juicy details they give about said man-whore are pretty fucking hot. I haven’t had any in six months ago and for good sex, it’s longer than that. I live for these details. The last time I had good sex was about eight months ago and the details are fading fast. Sadly. One Halloween party, a bottle of gin and a cat woman costume will do that to you.

  This no sex thing has me saying some fairly inappropriate things at times and confusing words. Take yesterday for example. I asked Tathan for a box of paper clips but instead I asked him for a box of paper cocks. Tathan’s immediate mouth drop, then grin had me fumbling to correct my obvious faux pas.

  Not exactly my finest moment there.

  Much to my surprise, he laughs and starts unbuttoning his pants prepared to give me a full blown cock, not the paper kind apparently.

  I’m losing my mind. Honest to God, losing my fucking mind with him around me.

  Every time I look at him, I picture him naked and more importantly, me naked with him. I can’t stop and I want to because he’s a man-whore and has Chlamydia. Of course, I don’t know this for sure but I’m pretty sure. At least I hope he does. That’s my reasoning for staying away from him.

  I’m clinging to the fact that he has Chlamydia. I need him to have Chlamydia.

  “Chlamydia ... he has Chlamydia!” I tell myself, chanting, as I walk up those plans to the fourth floor. I decide to take the stairs as opposed to the elevator. Maybe exerting some energy will exhaust me and I’ll have no energy to think of Tathan naked.

  It helps some but when I get back to my desk, I’m more annoyed than when I left because he’s smirking. It annoys me even more because he knows how to set me off.

  “What?” I ask callously as I sit back down.