by Vicky Holt
appointment, dangerous, cost, empire, kitten, mug, converter, essence, tennis, poke
“Come here, kitten,” the Senator said with a glint in his eye. “I need your help with this spreadsheet converter.”
Uh huh. I knew exactly what he needed help with, and it had nothing to do with my customized software application. But it was the price I had to pay. For now.
“What is it, Senator Blake?” I sashayed to his desk and leaned over his shoulder, staring at his laptop screen. “Blinking out on you again?”
There was nothing wrong with his software. He poked a thick finger at the touchscreen, blurring the liquid display where he pointed. I noted the numbers on the spreadsheet, just a jumble of inconsequential figures, but his hand up the back of my thigh demanded my focus.
I swallowed the razor in my throat and licked my lips.
“You’re treading dangerous waters, Senator,” I said. I leaned closer, so the essence of my perfume penetrated his nose. “These numbers don’t make any sense.”
He squeezed my thigh under my skirt and rumbled in his throat.
I continued. “Would you like me to refill your mug?”
I was a software developer intern, not a damned secretary, but I was so close to winning this tennis match.
“I’m not thirsty, kitten,” he said. “Just hungry.”
I stood up, letting my arm brush against his shoulder. “That’s too bad, because I brewed some coffee just for you.”
I presented my mug to him, the press of my red lipstick forming a crescent on the rim. “Taste it.”
His wolfish grin sent acid straight to my gut. I grinned in spite of it. He kept eye contact while placing his flappy lips on my lipstick mark.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…the mug dropped, bonking off Senator Blake’s fat thigh, and spilling black coffee all over his trousers and office chair. It rolled until the handle stopped its inertia.
“Senator Blake!” I screamed. I dialed the emergency number and shouted again, all while moving his body to the floor so that I could perform CPR.
That’s how the paramedics found me, and they took over.
“I don’t know what happened,” I cried. “He has an appointment in fifteen minutes!” My emotional blather continued until I was ushered into the HR offices.
“We’re so sorry,” the HR person told me from her desk. “We’ll move you to a different department. Do you need to take the rest of the day off?”
I sniffled and took her offered tissue. “That’s probably for the best,” I said. She told me to come back the next day and which department to report to. “Thanks.”
It could have been any department; it wasn’t important. The computer virus had already been planted, and my empire was about to triumph.
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