Page 14 of Bastard In A Suit, Vol. 3

He sips his coffee and scowls. “Too much cream. Make me another.”

I make a face of disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

He isn’t. I yank his cup off the desk, and a drop of coffee spills over the edge. He stares at it. I ignore the expression of disproval, grab a new mug from the coffee station and pour a fresh cup. I also snag a piece of paper towel. Wordless, fuming, I put the coffee on his desk and wipe up what spilled.

He hands me a stack of paperwork. “These items need to be filed.”

Again, I blink. “I don’t file.”

The dick doesn’t even bother to look up. “If I’m paying you a hundred grand a year, you’ll do whatever I ask.”

I’m so close to flipping him the bird but I rein it in. I flash back to the nightmare, the sheer panic on his face. It’s possible these night terrors linger with him for a few hours, even the next day. I decide to cut him some slack, and begin filing.

It takes almost an hour, and by the time I finish, my stomach growls in hunger. “Should we get some lunch?”

Duke doesn’t look up from his paperwork, and now I’m starting to get pissed.

“Have something ordered in,” he says. “Something light. I have a dinner meeting this evening.”

“With who?”

Damn it. The question came out without warning and now I sound like a jealous teen. I shake my head. “Forgive me. That’s none of my business.”

In fact, now that the MicroTracker is gone, nothing here is my business.

For the next two hours I perform menial tasks—I take notes, type up letters, serve him coffee and then scotch. Each task is assigned with a tone that lacks warmth, and the colder his voice, the bitterer I become. Finally, I snap.

“You know I have a degree, right?”

Duke looks up. “Is there a point you’re trying to make?”

I blow out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, the point is you’re wasting my skills.”

He taps his pen against a notepad. “As far as I’m concerned, you seem to think your best asset is telling me how to run my company.”

Fine. He wants to push? I’m up for the challenge. “If that were the case, I’d advise you not to waste your best IT girl on shit jobs like getting you coffee.”

“That’s quite an arrogant thing to say,” he says.

“Only if it’s not true,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I’m learning confidence from the best.”

He scoffs. “A quick study…in this case.”

A flash in his eyes tells me I’ve scored a point. I let go of some bitterness and try a different tact. “Duke, come on. Can you give me something to work on? A project that lets me prove…”

“Today, you will continue doing as I ask,” he says. “And in this building, you will address me as Mr. Kingston.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “As you wish.”

I go back to my desk and fire up my laptop, scrolling through emails. There’s a message from Duke that reads: Do a search for any news pertaining to Kingston Enterprises. Compile a report of headlines by end of day.

I spin around. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re in the same room. You couldn’t ask me to do this in person?”

Duke’s phone rings and he answers it instead of responding. Argh. Why is he being such a jerk? I type KINGSTON INDUSTRIES into the search engine and a dozen or more links immediately pop up. But at the top of the list is a breaking news story.

I click on the headline unease rumbling in my stomach.

The headline on the Guardian newspaper reads: Kingston Industries employee uses secret tracking technology to follow…and murder…ex-girlfriend

My blood turns to ice.

I scroll down the page, scanning for my name. It’s there, alongside Forrest’s and Duke’s—the story claims we’re all implicated. And while the news isn’t quite accurate, the accusation is true. A chill settles deep into my bones.

I turn to wait for Duke to get off the phone, but I’m already too late. His email pings with an incoming message. His jaw tenses, eyes go dark. By the expression on his face, I know exactly what the email says.