Hate Notes: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy, page 4
I folded my arms, waiting for the woman to get it over with.
Ember smiled a little again. I could practically feel the vultures eating this up, and it pissed me off.
She flipped her blank notecard to the back and read the next one.
"You get this wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're mad," she said. "And your tie is boring."
I snatched the notecard off the top of the pile. It was blank again. "I don't have time for this bullshit," I snapped.
Ember grinned. "Sorry. I must've put two blank ones in here by mistake. I was just rolling with it." She watched me briefly, eyes narrowing as if something was on my face.
"What?" I snapped.
"Your nostrils flare when you're mad, too."
"I'm done with this," I said, storming up the stairs.
"Hey," Remmy said. "You're not even going to say bye?"
"Bye," I snapped.
Ember jogged after me. "Miss Rosh said you might storm off. She said I can follow you into the office, though. I guess I just have to finish reading before we reach your floor. So... speed reading time!"
She started reading a Hate Note as we walked in through the lobby.
I glared hard, scattering nosy employees standing around, hoping to listen in.
Didn't they have work to do?
Ember read the note in an annoying loud voice. I was pretty sure the entire lobby could hear.
"Dear Mr. Foster,
Remember when your chair kept breaking? It was because I loosened the screws every day when you went to get lunch. You deserved it. Maybe next time someone asks you for a replacement chair, you'll have a little more sympathy. Prick bag.
Oh, I also bought the screwdriver on my company card.
Hatefully yours,
A former employee"
"Wow," Ember said. "Too cheap to buy people new chairs, but you'll pay thousands so you don't have to hear these notes? That's kind of sad, isn't it?"
I jammed the elevator button, hoping it would come quickly today. Like most of these notes, the employee sending it was delusional. If they needed a new chair, I would have certainly seen to it. They probably didn’t send their complaint through the proper channels and it never reached me.
"We're not making small talk," I said.
"No? You prefer big talk?"
"I prefer no talk."
"That's fine. You can just use your listening ears, then." Ember lifted another note.
"Mr. Foster,
“I hate working here. I hate you. I hate the tie you wear every second Thursday of the month. It looks like mustard, and I like to pretend it's a big, stupid mustard stain you got on yourself from eating hotdogs during your lunch break like a weirdo. You like that? Hm? You like knowing I'm thinking that? Bet you don't. GOOD. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the mornings is knowing that humans are mortal. So if you're actually a human and not a robot with no soul, one day, you'll die. That brings me happiness.
“Sincerely, one angry human being"
"Okay," Ember said. "That one got kind of dark. What the hell do you do to people, anyway?"
"I require them to work hard every day, and I don't coddle them. Some people can't handle that."
The elevator finally dinged, and the doors slid open. I stepped inside and jammed the close door button, but Ember slipped in beside me.
The woman smelled like lavender soap. She positioned herself in front of me as if planning to keep me from leaving the elevator when I reached my floor. I'd like to see all five foot nothing of her try. I turned my head to the side, trying to pretend she didn't exist.
"So you really wear the same tie every second Thursday of the month? That's... a little strange, isn't it? Do you have OCD or something? Or are you just one of those people who says you have OCD, but you actually prefer things to be neat or have one little quirk that's vaguely reminiscent of OCD but totally not actual, clinically defined OCD."
I stared at her. "Is there something wrong with you?"
"Nope," she said cheerily. "But it's okay. We can work on this whole small talk, big talk thing. We'll get there with time."
"We're not going to get anywhere," I said, voice cold.
She glanced at the elevator number, which was steadily increasing. "I'd say we're going up. You and me, Mr. Foster. We're on the way up. Together," she whispered dramatically.
Nobody talked to me like this. They were too scared to fuck with me. Something had to be wrong with Ember. Was her ability to feel fear broken? How the hell did she survive? Did she also walk in front of moving cars, pet lions, and swim with sharks?
"We're not going to have time to work on anything," I clarified. "Because today or tomorrow, I'll name a price, and you'll take it. Because you're apparently desperate enough to take this ridiculous job instead of contributing to society. Because I have something you want, and you'll happily take it once I offer you enough."
Something flickered in Ember's eyes. Defiance? Anger? Excitement? "Okay," she said sweetly.
"Okay?" I asked.
"What's the point in arguing with you, Mr. Foster? Why don't we just let things happen and see if they play out how you think they will? It sounds fun."
I felt my nostrils flaring and noticed her eyes focus on them. I tried to will them to stop it, along with the tension I felt between my eyebrows.
Ember's full lips twitched at the corners. "This is a long elevator ride, isn't it? Long and tense... Just how I like it."
Was this woman seriously...
The door dinged.
I had to use the back of my hand on Ember's shoulder to nudge her out of my way.
I turned and raised a palm to stop her from stepping off the elevator.
"You're not allowed on this floor," I said.
"See you tomorrow. Meet out front like this morning again? It's a date," she said, twinkling her fingers.
Once the doors closed, I let out a heavy breath and ran my hand through my hair.
Ember... The image of her haughtily confident smile was burned into my unfortunately picture-perfect memory.
What was she angling for? There had to be something. Anybody desperate enough to work a shit job like being a Hate Notes employee would jump at the chance for a few thousand dollars to not do their job. I knew because I watched dozens of them get fired for smaller bribes.
Ember was different somehow. I supposed it didn't really matter. She would have a price, and I would find it. They all had a price.
7
EMBER
Kora sipped her coffee across from me, eyebrows sky high. "Four thousand dollars? And you said no?"
"Dude," I whispered, leaning close and trying to ignore the looks my silly little "Hate Notes" uniform drew when I was out in public. The company's reputation was somewhere between "door-to-door vacuum salesmen" and "people who dress up as singing telegrams." "Cole is still paying my salary. I haven't been in the building for two weeks and am still on the payroll. And I'm getting paid by Hate Notes. Yes, it's minimum wage, but it's extra money I wasn't earning before.”
"Okay, but four grand? Wouldn’t that cover your rent for a couple months?" Kora asked, voice expectant.
“You’re not thinking big enough. Cole is a greedy, cheap bastard who hardly pays us a livable wage. Orion's employees are terrified of him, but he pays them well. Really well. If he offers me a job, I'll be rolling in cash, especially when Cole keeps paying my salary."
Kora pursed her lips in thought, then smiled. "I love the thought of Cole finding out you played him. Like, what's he going to do, go to the police? 'Hello, Police? My employee lied about the illegal espionage mission I sent her on and has been collecting two paychecks!'"
"We don't know it is illegal," I conceded.
"Okay, but at the very least, it's scummy."
"Agreed. Speaking of scum..." I sighed. "I have a few Hate Notes to read to this guy who runs a laundromat a few blocks from here. Compared to Orion, his Hate Notes are like love notes. This guy’s note for today is from somebody who is mad because the detergent gives him a rash. I mean… come on. That’s worth five bucks to complain about? Hasn’t this guy heard of just leaving a review online?”
"How is Orion, by the way?" Kora asked, stopping me as I was about to stand. Her tone was way too innocent.
I paused, giving her a curious look. "Fine."
"You just tucked your hair behind your ear," she said. A slightly predatory smile began to spread across her face like a cat who just caught the canary wearing a sign that said "Please Eat Me."
"Sometimes hair needs tucked."
"That hair didn't need tucked."
"You can't prove that."
"It was perfectly fine where it was. That was an unnecessary tuck, Em."
"You're policing my hair tucks, now?" I asked, voice slightly higher pitched than it should be.
"You and I both know you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're horny. I asked you about Orion, and you tucked. That means you're horny. He makes you—"
I reached across the table, planting my palm over her lips and smiling awkwardly at a scandalized mom and her little daughter who were passing our table.
"Mommy, I don't see horns on that girl. Why did—" The little girl and mother passed out of earshot.
I bulged my eyes at Kora. "Do you mind? I get enough nasty looks as it is in this outfit."
"Red is a good color on you," Kora said. "Maybe people are just admiring. I'm sure Orion is. I bet he loves seeing you every morning."
I snorted. "Doubtful. I read him some of the most vile notes every morning. If anything, he probably has an aversion to me by now."
"Aversion is just French for erection, you know."
"Uh," I said. "I'm pretty sure aversion isn't even French..."
"Agree to disagree," Kora said, which was what she said when she knew she was wrong but didn't want to admit it. "All I'm saying is if he gets you so hot and bothered, maybe you could try to... squeeze a little more out of this deal." As if her meaning wasn't clear enough, she raised a hand and pretended to fondle an imaginary pair of balls. A very large pair, by the looks of it. Like, medically concerning large.
"He doesn't, and I won't. I have something called integrity. And what are those you’re fondling? Softballs?"
“Most balls are soft in my experience,” Kora said. “And wow,” she waved her palms around in a show of mock amazement. “I forgot I was talking to Ember, the queen of integrity. Weren't you the one who borrowed Cole's stapler, rubbed it on Catman, and returned it to his desk the following day because you know he's slightly allergic to cats?"
"If that vile story was true, which I won't admit it was, I would just point out it was a very small allergy. He gets a runny nose and his eyes itch. So, frankly, I don't see your point."
"I love you, Ember. But you are hilariously ruthless. You'll do whatever it takes, and you don't let shit stand in your way. I'm pretty sure you would happily rock his world if you wanted it badly enough, ethics be damned."
I sat up straighter. "This assault on my character has gone on long enough. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go deliver hateful messages to terrible people. You know, like an upstanding citizen."
Kora rolled her eyes, stood, and gave me a hug. "I can't watch Mr. Wrong until tomorrow morning. So, if you text me spoilers again, I'm going to end you. Just a warning."
Mr. Wrong was a show we obsessively watched and talked about when I still worked in the office. Producers purposefully set a group of women up with a man they thought was as wrong as possible for them, stranded them on a deserted island, and waited to see who ended up falling for him. It was peak trash TV, and I loved every second of it.
"Text you when Jenna slips in his tent after dark and takes him for a ride on the bang train? Got it. You'll be the first to know."
Kora punched me, then raised a finger. "It'll be the end of you. So make sure your affairs are in order. Oh, and you've got a little coffee on your lip." She licked her thumb and gripped me as I tried to squirm away, rubbing it off of my face like an overbearing grandmother.
"There," Kora said. "Now you look pretty as ever for your little CEO crush. Good luck."
I made it one step toward the door before Kora slapped my ass hard enough to let out an audible pop.
Or maybe she was more like a creepy uncle.
I paused, straightened myself, and left with the remaining scraps of my dignity, already planning which Hate Note I would read to Orion first today. Maybe the one about his tie collection. He seemed especially sensitive about his ties.
8
ORION
Isat in the executive conference room on the 31st floor of Foster Real Estate. The table was an impressive single slab of walnut I had commissioned a few years ago, and it was far too large for our small group of four, but I hardly cared.
People often made the mistake of thinking good business was about decisions and deals. Those were part of it, but only just. Often, good business was about selling yourself. The way I dressed, the state of my building, the size of my conference tables, and even the look on my face—those could close deals through the sheer force of suggestion.
Good business was about having a wide and varied toolkit, along with the ability to choose the appropriate tool for the appropriate job.
The three employees I invited to this meeting were like tools in my toolkit, and each was here for a specific purpose today.
There was Roman, my cutthroat chief of acquisitions, who had been openly angling to fill the currently nonexistent roll of Vice President of Operations. Roman was lean and sharp-featured with dark wavy hair always pushed carefully back from his face. He dressed like old money in tailored Italian suits despite his middle-class background, and regularly proved to be one of my most valuable employees. His ability to consistently provide useful insights baffled me, because I knew the man was regularly out late after work distracting himself with women and parties.
There was Julian, the somewhat air-headed but surprisingly ambitious senior chief of marketing, who really only wanted a "fancier title, because he loves cool titles."
Last but not least, there was Moira, my senior client relations consultant. She wanted to graduate from delegating tasks among my employees to a more direct, hands-on role. Moira wanted to land deals, deal with clients herself, and, of course, collect the subsequent bonuses.
Knowing the aspirations of my employees was yet another tool. It was the carrot on the stick to drive them toward higher levels of productivity. Part of my job was pushing them until they found potential within themselves they didn't even know they had.
And what would I say to myself if I was my own boss? What would I think of Orion Foster, the employee, and his behavior the past few weeks?
The thought curled my lip in annoyance. I would say he's distracted by a needless cat and mouse game with a Hate Notes employee—that he's letting the irritating little woman infiltrate his thoughts and distract him from work. Worse, I would say he's in a critical period of potential growth for the company while his competitors are angling to get an edge, and his lack of focus shows a complete disregard for the good of the company.
The annoyingly accurate self-reflection didn’t help my growing headache. Worse, I hardly ever suffered from headaches—at least, I hadn’t before the damn woman in red entered my life. I was allergic to her and the bullshit she put me through each and every morning, from her made-up personalized notes she read from blank cards to the way she had begun using voices and delivering hate notes to me like she was auditioning for a role on Broadway.
I pulled my focus to the table, dimly aware that I hadn't even been listening to the chatter of my employees thus far.
"Alright," I said softly as I studied the map Roman had laid out on the table. He was to my right, while Julian and Moira sat to my left. "I see the old industrial park here is highlighted in green. Tell me more." I said.
"I've uncovered some information about these lots. Information that leads me to believe there may be an opportunity for Foster Real Estate to acquire all three."
That was enough to spike my heart rate. I didn't let my excitement show, but I lifted my eyes to meet his. "You're certain?"
Roman threaded his fingers and leaned forward, brow cocked dramatically. "Do old people love Bingo?"
"What?" Julian asked. "We were just talking about real estate. What do old people have to do with anything?"
"I'm trying to make a—" Roman began.
"And," Julian continued. "You really shouldn't call them 'old people.' That's so insensitive, man. Call them like... generously seasoned individuals." Julian spread his hands as if he was visualizing this in bright letters on a billboard somewhere. "Or maybe chronologically over-qualified? No... that's not good. Geriatric gladiators? Hmm. I'll workshop it with the team later."
"Anyway," Roman said with a sigh. "It's a saying.”
"That's a stupid saying," Moira said. Moira was twenty-eight, tall and imposing with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cut in a severe bob that matched her personality. Her entire wardrobe was made from shades of black and gray with the occasional touch of purple if she was feeling festive, and she wore the kind of stilettos that could double as weapons. The overall effect made her look like she'd be equally comfortable in a boardroom or a vampire coven.
Despite her dry, often grim sense of humor, I had to admit I appreciated her blunt approach. She was head of client relations, which was mostly an organizational role focused on assigning the right agents to communicate with clients. "Just like 'Roman makes milk curdle' isn't a saying."
Roman folded his arms and cocked his head in amusement. "Aww, upset that I never invite you out, Moira? All you have to do is ask. I could look online to see if there are any bars that allow vampires and ghouls before we get there. I'd hate for you to get turned away at the door."
"Cute," Moira said.
"You know," Julian tapped his chin as he frowned in thought. "I think Roman might be on to something. My grandma loves Bingo, and so does her best friend. That’s two out of three geriatric gladiators I know who love Bingo. Suspicious." Even though Julian was by all accounts a marketing genius, he was honestly an airhead in most other areas of life and business. He looked the part too—tall and naturally athletic with thick blonde hair that fell to his chin, perpetually rumpled designer clothes, and the easy, white-toothed smiles of somebody who grew up surfing. The type who'd definitely been in a frat and still had the photos to prove it.
