I've never particularly enjoyed my job, but the pay is decent and the commute bearable. In this economy what else can you ask for? My boss—well,
former
boss—is the founder and CEO of Fultech Corporation, which he started in his basement in the eighties and built into a multi-billion dollar international company. Mike Harrow is a genuinely good man. He cares about his company and his employees, and that's what made my somewhat menial job as his executive assistant for the past five years bearable. Unfortunately, getting too comfortable is why in those five years, I never managed to snag any of the promotions that passed me by.
Look, I won't pretend I'm a super ambitious guy, but even I know that by twenty-five I should be better off than a glorified gopher. My boss has more money than god, but I'm not making much more than minimum wage, and my apartment and lifestyle reflect that. Got student loans and credit card debt up to my ears. Every woman I've dated since college has dumped me as soon as she realized that the empty pizza boxes and beer cans piled in my cheap studio apartment aren't going away anytime soon. But that never really bothered me overly much. I'm not a bad-looking guy. I do okay in the romance department.
Like I said, I was comfortable. At least until Mike retired a month ago, and his son inherited the role of CEO—and my boss. Derek Harrow was previously living abroad, heading up the company's UK operations. I'd only seen him a few times in person, at some corporate functions. I'd definitely never spoken to him. He's not exactly an approachable guy.
During five years with Mike, I never seriously considered quitting my job. I've only been working for Derek Harrow for four weeks, and I've already started typing my resignation letter on my computer. I saved it on the Desktop as "Plan B."
Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, opening the document, closing it, then opening it again. The truth is, I'm a coward. I can't really quit my job, no matter how demanding and insufferable my boss is. I'm two months behind on rent already. I've had to stop answering unknown numbers, because it's inevitably a creditor on the other end of the line. Thanks to my lack of upward ambition, my resume is pathetic. As much as I hate it, I'm stuck here.
Unfortunately, as of now, I might not have a choice. The Powers That Be have been filtering in and out of Derek's office all day. My glass cubicle shares a wall with his corner office, but I can't hear more than disgruntled murmurs. I've been told to hold all calls. No one makes eye contact with me. I'm pretty sure I'm screwed.
I forgot to pass a message on to Derek. It was a mistake anyone could have made. Except that this particular mistake resulted in a million dollar loss for one of Fultech's clients, and now that client is threatening to sue. If I were a better man, I would have already marched into Harrow's office, taken full responsibility, and resigned. But like I said, I'm a coward. So instead I'm waiting here for my fate to be determined.
The door opens, and the VPs and HR execs file out of the office. Again, no eye contact. My desk phone rings. It's Derek. I take a deep breath and answer.
"Yes sir?"
"Get in here," he says. "Now."
"Yes sir."
Click.
Believe it or not, it's one of the more polite conversations we've ever had. I lock my computer, forward my phone to voicemail, and stand up. I use my reflection in the cubicle glass to smooth my hair and straighten my tie. I know I'm stalling. I can't help it. I'm about to get the chewing out of my life, and then I'm going to be thrown out on my ass. The rest of the office floor is fairly quiet. It's six-thirty, and almost everyone has gone home by now.
I can't stall anymore. I step into Derek's office. He's in his plush leather chair with his back to the door, looking out at the stunning sunset view of the city his floor-to-ceiling windows afford him. I clear my throat as unobtrusively as possible.
"Shut the door," he snaps. I do so, and his chair spins around. His elbows are on the armrests with his fingers steepled together, like some kind of soap opera villain. He's immaculate in his typical Armani suit, with a black shirt and silk tie. His dark wavy hair is slicked back, and his gray eyes are bright beneath his brows, which seem to be perpetually furrowed in a frown. As his executive assistant, I happen to know that Derek Harrow does more than okay in the romance department. He keeps it out of the office for the most part, but just in the past thirty days I've reserved several dinners for two, flower deliveries, and even a weekend getaway. None with the same person twice. But hey, I don't judge. I just do my job and keep my head down.
Not that it matters now.
"Jack Spencer," he says, regarding me with a kind of ponderous intensity, as if he hasn't been ordering me around every day for the past month.
I wait for him to tell me to take a seat, but he doesn't. He also doesn't say anything more. Just watches me with that piercing gaze. It's more than a little unsettling. I try to bear it with equanimity, but it's not long before I'm fidgeting. I clear my throat again.
"Sir, I'm really sorry about—"
"I don't care," he says, unmoving. "Your apology isn't going to regain our client's—excuse me,
ex
-client's—money."
I wince. I wish he would just fire me and get it over with. But it's clear that Derek is just getting warmed up. He stands, nudging a pen on his desk back into place. His desk is always as immaculate as his wardrobe, with everything in neat rows and at right angles. People around the office think he's obsessive, but I know he's just a control freak. It was something I figured out about him on his first day here. He expects everything and everyone to fall into his line, no hesitation, no questions. The past four weeks working for him have only confirmed my suspicions.
If he doesn't want my apology, then I don't really know what else I'm supposed to say. I bite my lip to keep from rambling nervously.
"I'm well within my rights to fire you immediately," he says. He rounds his desk and brushes past me to the bookshelves on the opposite wall. I catch a faint whiff of a warm and spicy scent that must be his cologne. He's several inches taller than me, with an impressive swimmer's build beneath his perfectly tailored suit. (I happen to know he spends an hour every morning before work in his gym's Olympic-sized pool.) All the better for intimidating his peons. Not that I'm intimidated—much. I can't afford a fancy gym membership, but I was an athlete in college, and I've managed to keep up with my fitness routine...for the most part. (Okay, thanks to all the aforementioned pizza and beers I might not be running a marathon anytime soon, but that doesn't mean I'm a total couch potato either.)
I don't turn, but I can see his reflection in the windows. Derek is running one hand along the book spines, his other hand tucked into his pocket. The picture of nonchalance. Despite the stress he must be under, he actually seems relaxed—not like someone about to start yelling and throwing things anyway. I bite my lip harder to fight the urge to apologize again. I just wish he'd fucking say something. All this silence is unbearable.
It feels like minutes before he speaks again, though it was probably only thirty seconds.
"The board wants me to fire you, but I consider myself a reasonable man. Mistakes happen."
I swallow hard. He's facing me now, and I stare at the dark outline of his reflection in the window. Is it possible I'll get out of this with my job intact?
"So I'm going to give you a choice, Jack. I think it's only fair."
"A choice?" My mouth is dry. He's only a couple feet away, and I can feel his presence bearing down on me, feel his gaze like heat on my back. Why are my hands trembling so much? I squeeze them into fists, hoping he hasn't noticed.
"You can accept your immediate termination. Keep in mind there are no severance pay provisions in your contract, and we have no intention of giving you any."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Or," Derek goes on, and I force myself to breathe, "you can accept the punishment for your mistake, and we can move on from this unpleasant business."
"Punishment?" I echo. My voice is trembling as hard as my hands, and I take a couple seconds to compose myself and try again. "What's the punishment?"
He moves past me and sits on the edge of his desk, arms folded, long legs crossed at the ankles. He's smirking at me.
"You won't know unless you choose."
I hesitate. This is stupid. I should just quit. Surely I can convince someone to hire me as a waiter or a janitor or something. But in enough time to prevent eviction from my apartment? Or to satisfy the debt collectors? I'm not sure about that.
How bad could this punishment be anyway? I'd probably have to organize a file room or lose some vacation days or something. I could deal with that.
"Well?" He raises an eyebrow.
"I'll...take the punishment," I say. Saying it feels ridiculous, like I'm a schoolchild about to be scolded by the principal.
His lips twitch in something that resembles a smile. For some reason a chill runs down my back.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Very well then." He straightens up and steps to the side. He gestures to the desk. "Rest your forearms on the desk, palms down."
"What?" I blink at him.
"You heard me." He crosses his arms again. "Bend. Over."
My heart is thumping so hard I can feel it in my ears. What the fuck is happening? Is this some kind of sick prank? I glance toward the closed door, half-expecting a gaggle of employees to be standing there, trying not to laugh.
"You can leave if you want," Derek says, noticing my look. "If you do, I'll assume you've chosen termination."
I almost do it. I almost turn right then and walk out the door. But I just keep thinking about the stack of bills piled on my coffee table and in my email inbox. Whatever game Derek Harrow is playing at, I can go along with it long enough to keep my job.
Slowly, I bend over and put my forearms on the desk, palms down as instructed. The cool mahogany on my skin sends another shiver down my spine. Despite that, I'm sweating. I can feel it trickling down the back of my neck. The heat of Derek's gaze on me only makes it worse. I hope it doesn't show through my white shirt. I wish desperately I could loosen my tie.
"Good boy," says Derek. Despite the condescension dripping from his words, I feel a small, heady rush at the praise. Talk about humiliating.
I try to focus on keeping my breathing steady. If this
is
a sick joke, I'm not going to embarrass myself any more than absolutely necessary.
Derek has moved behind me. From my position the chair is blocking the window, so I can't see his reflection. I listen to the muted sound of his footsteps on the thin carpet, ears pricked for any clue of what he's doing back there. Despite my heightened awareness, when he rests his hand on my back I nearly jump out of my skin. I try to straighten up, but he increases the pressure, forcing me back down.
"Now, Jack," he says in a calmly chiding voice. "Have you made your choice or not?"
I'm shaking. The warmth of his hand is seeping through my shirt and into my skin. His touch is so unexpected, so...unfamiliar...that adrenaline is flooding my veins. Up until this moment, despite being his PA for a month, I wasn't even sure that Derek Harrow knew my name. The thought of him ever touching me was beyond comprehension. Now I'm bent over his massive desk with his hand resting on my back, and he's close enough I can feel his hip brushing against mine.
I don't trust myself to speak, so I just close my eyes and try to relax.
"That's better." He gives me a pat, and again I experience that odd little thrill at his praise. Goddammit, what's wrong with me? The man is an arrogant asshole of the highest degree. I shouldn't give a flying fuck what he thinks of me.
He removes his hand and steps back. I have no idea what's about to happen, and it's sending my blood pressure through the roof. I know I should get the fuck out of here, but I'm frozen in place. I don't know if it's due to fear of losing my job or fear of the man standing behind me. Or both.
I hear a whisper-hiss sound, and it takes me a few seconds to place it. He's taken off his belt. This can't really be happening. Any second now, the door is going to burst open and the guys in sales are going to pile in, snapping photos and laughing their asses off.
"You're going to count the strokes," says Derek. "I think fifty is more than fair, don't you?"
My mouth works soundlessly like a gaping fish. How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? But I suppose he's not really looking for an answer, because a moment later comes the whack of the belt on my ass. I jerk from the impact, but it doesn't hurt too bad. It's more surprise, really. The shock keeps me from reacting right away.
"I told you to count," he says mildly. Another strike. I jolt again, and this time my brain catches up. I straighten up. No way in hell am I going to stand here and let this egomaniac
