"Shouldn't H.R. be handling this?" I'm not really sure what else to say.
He smiles, thinly. "Ask me again tomorrow when I'm interviewing for a new head of department."
Jesus. "Did they blow her off?"
"Well, it seems Kelly is good friends the Mr. Morgan's sister. Their kids have soccer together. And people ask me why my ultimate dream is to staff a company entirely with robots."
"If I was his sister, I'd throw him under the bus so fucking fast…" I'm scowling. "But, who knows if his family even has a clue."
Adrian's smile grows a tiny bit warmer. "I know you would," he says. "That's one of the main reasons why I keep you around here. Can you sit in in on the bloodbath?"
What he's really asking me is if I'll be comfortable. Which is a strange question, coming from him, even hidden between the lines. "It would be my pleasure," I tell him. H.R. regulations insist on a witness for firing meetings, and I've done it before in a pinch, but this one should be particularly satisfying.
I take a deep, calming breath while he buzzes for Mr. Morgan to please come to his office. Adrian sits down, cracks his knuckles, and rolls his neck.
Showtime.
"Jeeze, it's like a funeral in here." Mike looks around the room, and I can practically hear the crickets in his head. "Am I in trouble, or something?"
A beat.
"Sit down, please." Adrian's voice is as cold as a marble floor. "I heard a disturbing story about you this morning. I think you know the incident I'm referring to."
Mike goes white as a sheet. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Let me refresh your memory. It involved an intern named Ashley, and your hand." He folds his arms across his chest, and it's probably the most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my life. "Ringing any bells yet?"
"No," Mike insists, his voice getting quieter every time.
Adrian sighs, crisply. "I saw it on camera, Mike. Let's stop with this."
"What exactly did you see?" He swallows hard.
"Your hand grabbing her ass, mostly." Adrian fiddles with a pen between his fingers. "And you whispering some very sweet endearments in her ear, I'm sure. Does that jog your memory?"
Mike swallows again. "It was an accident."
Adrian gives him a look that could curdle milk.
"I was just joking around," Mike tries, his hands shaking now. "It was…just a little…"
Adrian's fingers are beating out that snare on the desk again. Somewhere, the hangman ties his noose.
"You know how they are!" Mike finally bursts out, angrily. "Always playing coy and acting like they don't want the attention, but they…"
I'm swallowing down a mouthful of bile. Adrian stands up, abruptly. His nostrils flare.
"Security will escort you to your car, Mr. Morgan," he says, softly. "And if you so much as speak to Ashley again, or make eye contact with her on the street, or get on the same subway car, I will fucking find you." He tilts his head slightly closer to the still-seated, nearly-hyperventilating man. "Don't give me a reason to remember your name."
***
My head is still swimming as I walk through the boutique. I'm picking things up without even looking at the price tags, which I didn't think I'd be able to do, but I'm so distracted it's actually not difficult at all.
This is a side to Adrian I've never seen before. I can't stop picturing the look on his face, even as I try on a few outfits, including a few that would probably impress even him.
Righteously angry. Fiercely protective. Two concepts I had never associated with my boss, until now.
I'm halfway to the checkout when a display catches my eye.
Silky underwear.
I'm pretty sure I've never owned silky underwear. Cotton - preferably whichever brand is on sale - has always served me just fine. But now that I'm clutching Adrian Risinger's black Amex in my hot little hand, it almost seems sinful not to buy some silky underwear.
I mean, how would these outfits feel with my old, worn-out Hanes underneath? Nah, that's no good. Silky underwear it is.
After picking out a handful of pairs, in red, black, and a very girly pink, I head to the register. The cashier is both gorgeous and curvy herself, which I appreciate. She compliments me on my purchases, and when I hand her Mr. Risinger's card to swipe, she glances up at me with a secretive smile.
"So…you must have liked it, huh?" she asks.
"Um." I glance at my new purchases, then back up at her. "…it?"
"The…the nightie…" Her eyes widen. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I just assumed - he bought it right before Valentine's day, I figured he must've given it to you already. I hope I didn't ruin the surprise."
My brain stutters a few times. "…he?"
"Mr. Risinger," she says, nodding at the card she's just handed back to me. "Your, uh…your boyfriend, I assume. Or, you know, whatever. I don't judge."
I make an effort to swallow, although my throat suddenly feels very dry. "He bought ah, uh, nightie here?" I manage to ask.
She nods, biting her lip nervously. "If you could call it that. I mean, it's very cute, but not exactly practical." A nervous giggle escapes her. "Jeeze, I'm really - I'm really sorry. I should've kept my mouth shut. Please don't say anything to him - my boss will kill me if she thinks I scared him off."
"It's fine, really. He must've decided to save it for another special occasion. I won't say a word." I give her a brave smile, so she relaxes a little, because she's clearly afraid that she's stumbled into some big old dramatic mess.
It's only reasonable that she should assume this credit card belongs to either my boyfriend or my sugar daddy. After all, I'm not wearing a ring. But there's the question of why Mr. Risinger was here before Valentine's day, buying a nightie.
Not a real question, actually. In fact, it's exactly none of my business. I have no idea what his love life consists of, and I greatly prefer it that way. But it never occurred to me that he'd be spending his time with, well…
Women who look like me. Buying lingerie for them, no less.
I try to hide my troubled expression until I walk out the door, because I don't want the cashier to think she's accidentally let on that he's cheating on me, or something.
So, Mr. Risinger likes them curvy.
That's…that's sure something.
Except it doesn't matter. It's irrelevant. Who cares what his sexual preferences are? It's not like I'm going to sleep with him. In all these years, he's never made a pass at me - if he wanted me, surely I'd know by now. And anyway, I would never do it. It's a terrible idea. He's so toxic, I'm pretty sure his dick probably contains some kind of Indiana Jones face-melting curse. Just being in the same room with him is bad enough.