"So what happened to your last personal assistant?" I asked as we moved on to the kitchen.
Mr Pinkman waved his hand, which looked more like he was selling five very undercooked sausages.
"She just couldn't take a joke," he explained. "You know those sensitive types."
"But she is alive?" I asked.
"What's that?"
"So this is the kitchen then?"
Mr Pinkman explained that his favourite barbeque place was thirty-five minutes across town, and by the time I got back with it each day, it would be a little cold so I'd need to reheat it. It was with a sort of morbid curiosity that I pushed the button to open the microwave. It was a horror show of what looked like rusted blood but was probably just smeared barbeque sauce. Probably…
"I get a full rack each day, which doesn't quite fit," Mr Pinkman explained, "so you just kind of have to shove it in."
I grimaced.
"No problem," I said with a shiver.
There wasn't much more to show me around the office after that. My main responsibilities seemed to consist of feeding Mr Pinkman's appetite, both physically and sexually. It was perhaps the most demeaning, belittling, unstimulating (for me) job I'd ever held. But as I settled into my desk and pulled out the framed picture of Zara, I remembered why I was doing this.
Mr Pinkman didn't pay enough to cover all my bills, but with a couple nights at the convenience store and maybe a weekend or two a month, I'd make it. That was all that mattered. I was doing what I had to for my daughter.
As I googled how to fix a broken desk chair, I consoled myself with the fact that at least I wasn't working for Michael Fucking O'Sullivan. I shook my head, remembering the call I received from Patty yesterday.
"He what?" I had said, choking on my coffee.
Patty had laughed. "Just remember I'm just the messenger here, Abbi. But, yeah, he said he wants you back."
I had pounded at my chest till I could breathe again. "Well, you know my answer, don't you?"
I had heard Patty sigh. "I suspect I do."
I had felt bad for Patty, who must have been dealing with Michael all day, but there was no way I was going back.
"Sorry, Patty, but no."
Before Patty could say anything, I spoke again. "No, not 'no'. Fuck no."
"Fuck no?" Patty had asked. "Is that your official response?"
I considered it before shaking my head. "No, no," I said, "tell him I said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.'"
Sure, Mr Pinkman was a pig and a piece of shit all rolled up into one, but at least he left me alone when I ended work at five sharp. He didn't follow me around in my head the rest of the day. He most certainly didn’t chase me into my dreams and awaken me with his name on my lips.
This new job sucked, there was no doubt about it. I'd have to force myself to come into work every day. I'd have to practically glue myself to my chair to keep myself from walking out each and every hour.
But I wouldn't be working for Michael.
In fact, I wouldn't even be seeing him.
He was out of my life. Once and for all.
And I was happy about that.
I was.
Michael would go his way and I would go mine. And that was that.
Except it wasn't.
Because just as I was declaring myself free for good of Michael O'Sullivan, Michael O'Sullivan came crashing through the office door, shoving it open so hard that it rattled on its hinges and the glass quivered. His sharp green eyes found mine, and he grinned so wickedly that I got goosebumps all along my spine.
"Hello there, Abbi," he said. "Maybe you didn't know this about me, but I'm not great with no's."
Abbi
I clutched the edges of my glass desk and glared up at Michael, who loomed above me.
"I think you've been misinformed," I said through gritted teeth. "I didn't say, 'No.' I said, 'There're better ways to get fucked in the ass than—"
"Yes, yes," Michael said, dismissing me with an irritated wave of his hand. "'Than working a single minute for Michael O'Sullivan.' Vivid."
"Apparently not vivid enough."
Just then Mr Pinkman came over and extended his greasy sausage fingers toward Michael. "Hello, sir, are you interested in some life insurance?"
Michael warily eyed Mr Pinkman's hand and clearly did not dare to touch it. "No," he said. "But I am very interested in your little personal assistant here."
Michael's eyes slid toward me, the motion as smooth and dangerous as a rattlesnake across hot sands.
"Ms Miller," he said, "I'm going to need you to leave this shitehole—"
"Hey!" Mr Pinkman protested. "Excuse me, sir, but this is a fine establishment and I won't have its name smeared through the mud by no foreigner."
Michael's eyes darted toward Mr Pinkman in disgust. Then he focused back on me, moving closer and leaning over to plant his palms on my desk, sharp green eyes flashing.
"Abbi, I'm going to need you to leave this dirt-infested, grease-stained, lard-reeking, piss-coloured shitehole and come back to work for me."
Michael finished this off, like a cherry atop a cyanide sundae, with a charming, beaming smile.
Mr Pinkman sputtered and stomped his foot, sending ripples through his pork belly. "She's…but she's…" Mr Pinkman tripped over his words.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I glared up at Michael. "She is not going anywhere."
I turned in my chair to face my computer and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Firstly, to indicate to Michael that this
