How to Kill Your Boss (3 page)

I’d never been to Franklin’s apartment. Hadn’t entertained the idea either, assuming it’d be spotless, like his desk, and frequented by supermodels. At the office, he kept everything neat and tidy, perfectly organized, nothing out of place, nothing personal on display. When we entered the apartment, I was dumbfounded. It was bare. No pictures or furniture, save a leather couch and a fifty-inch flat screen. Brick walls, wood floors, stainless steel appliances in the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner. Other than that, empty.

“Dude. Where’s all your stuff?” I asked, surveying the small space.

He smiled and tossed his keys onto the bar-top partition that separated the dining room from the living room. He walked to the other side and carried two barstools around the corner.

“Don’t need much. A place to eat, a place to watch the tube.” He grabbed a remote from the counter and the television buzzed to life. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the couch before disappearing. “I’ll be right back.”

I did as told and nestled into the buttery soft leather, tucking my legs under myself. The voice coming from the jumbo box hanging on his wall announced the
Banshee
season finale was coming up next. I laughed. Damn, the man was good.

He returned wearing faded jeans that hung low on his waist and a gray, trim-fitted Henley that opened to a deep V at the collar, revealing a sneak peak of bare chest. I wanted to jump his bones. Seriously, I did. I wasn’t a slut or anything, but with the beer in my gut, the electricity in his eyes, and the shirt that clung like plastic wrap to his skin, I feared I could easily become one.

Franklin plopped his glorious ass on the cushion, leaving less than an inch between us. Tremors pulsed through my lower abdomen. What was he doing? What the hell was I doing? I should’ve never come to his apartment. Should’ve stopped at one beer and gone home. It was way too close for colleagues to sit together. Way too close.

“Franklin, I should head ho—”

He pinched my lips together with his thumb and forefinger. “Shush. It’s starting. You’re not allowed to talk for the next sixty minutes, got it?” He freed my lips and I started to protest until he flashed me a
don
’
t-you-dare
scowl.

“Relax and enjoy, Tate.” He leaned back, extended his legs in front of him and stretched his arms wide before clasping his hands behind his head.

I couldn’t pay attention to the ex-con-turned-small-town-sheriff on the big screen. It took serious concentration to keep my breaths steady, my heart rate normal, my hands to myself. Franklin was too warm and all-consuming next to me. So close, so male. My skin tingled with the need to either jump him or get the heck out of there.

The first commercial in, on his trot to the refrigerator, Franklin blessed me with a long hard gander at his round firm rear. I’d caught a glimpse or two, or three thousand, of his ass at work. How could I not? The way he filled out his slacks was nothing short of divine, but holy freaking cow, what he did to a pair of jeans—downright illicit. I couldn’t peel my eyes away. It was just—bam—there, accented by the slight curve of his small waist that spread into broad, muscled shoulders. He glanced at me before disappearing behind the wall.

Oops, busted.

I’m pretty sure he smirked, but the light was dim and I was buzzed, so I couldn’t be certain.

He returned with two glasses of ice water and placed them on the floor between us. I squealed when he sat down and grabbed my legs from under me, placing them over his own.

“Were you staring at my ass, Tate?” he asked, voice huskier than normal.

Gulp. “Yes.” Why lie? I couldn’t find the courage to look at him.

With strong sure hands, Franklin massaged my left foot.

“Why?” he asked, leaning toward me.

Why? What did he mean,
why
? Because it was effin’ perfect. Because I wanted to peel his jeans off and unwrap that derriere like a Christmas present. Rub it, hold it, leave claw marks. Gnaw on it like a piece of jerky. I found my voice again, along with the courage to meet him square in the eye. “You have a smoking hot ass, Mr. Reed. It begs to be ogled.”

“You’re blushing,” he half whispered, half moaned.

If he’d intended to ruffle my feathers, it worked. Lucky for me, enough liquid courage remained in my belly and flowed through my veins to meet his challenge head-on.

I shifted and wiggled my toes. “As a matter of fact, Frankie, I check out your rump at least three hundred and twenty-five times a day. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wearing your suit jacket at work. It covers that fine tush of yours, and when it’s hidden, it puts me in a foul mood.”

That something, dark and promising, flashed in his eyes again. A new wave of heat landed on my cheeks. He laughed and turned toward me, propping one knee on the couch. “Is that so, Miss Wood? I happen to appreciate your ass on a regular basis as well. This skirt you’re wearing now is by far my favorite. Hugs those curves of yours perfectly. Made me drool on more than one occasion.”

Oh, he was good. I should have stopped there. We worked together. Nothing about this conversation was appropriate for coworkers.

My unruly mouth and I continued, “If I could, I’d frame your ass and hang it on my wall.”

Shut up, Tate. Shut up
.

I threw a challenging smile his way but lost my gumption when his warm hands slid up my leg and rested just below my knee. No longer massaging, he trailed lazy fingers over my skin, up and down, back and forth. He held my gaze, stopping time and space with the smolder in his eyes.

“Tate.” His voice deepened. “Someday, very soon, I will hang you on my wall, but not in a frame.” With that, he leaned forward, straddled my legs and kissed the holy living heck out of me, shutting me up real fast.

Oh, I’d been kissed before. Not often, but that didn’t matter anymore. No way in hell would I remember any previous smooches after Franklin Reed’s assault on my lips. It wasn’t slow and romantic. It definitely wasn’t awkward or stymied by shyness. It was a full on,
you’re mine, I’m gonna eat you alive
kind of kiss.

I melted. I liquefied beneath him, and with one swift move, his heavy body covered me from chest to knees. His arousal was evident, like a steel rod between us. If it weren’t for the damned pencil skirt, my legs would have opened for him. They tried. Lordy, Lordy, they tried. Poor babies didn’t have any room to move.

He released me for a brief moment. “You taste better than I imagined,” he moaned, breathless and husky. I nearly shattered to pieces beneath him and groped the very thing that started the romp—his ass. It was every bit as glorious beneath my fingers as it was on the eyes. Rock hard, round and flexing with every roll of his hips against me.

He nuzzled my breasts and then, with agile fingers, unhooked the buttons on my blouse. Panic stole my breath when he tugged the cups of my bra and freed me from its binds. As if sensing my trepidation he slid a hand under my chin and tilted my face to meet his. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”

His lips commanded mine, giving and taking, prompting me to move just the way he wanted. I committed to memory the sounds he produced while he trailed kisses along my neck, nipped at my chest, pulled my nipple between his teeth. When his tongue brushed across the hypersensitive flesh, I lost my bearings and grabbed his head, pulling him against my bosom. He licked, sucked, and nibbled, and I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming. Holy shit, I’d never known such pleasure, never felt so alive. I was out of my mind already. If this went any further, if I gave in to this need, I’d fall hard and never recover.

Franklin’s phone vibrated against my thigh nanoseconds before it announced a caller with “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak. With a final flick of his tongue across my hardened nipple, he cussed and pushed himself off me, dug his phone out of his pocket, and disappeared around the corner. I righted my bra and scooted upright to button my blouse. It took several deep breaths to clear my head.

God, what was I thinking coming to his apartment? How could I face him at work? I needed to make a clean getaway. If our make-out session continued, I wouldn’t have the strength to say no. How could any woman say no to that man?

I tiptoed on rubber legs across the shiny wood floor and grabbed my shoes. Whispers that sounded heated and angry carried through the hall. Praying for well-oiled door hinges, I slowly made my escape. I scuttled down the stairs and back around the corner of the building, ignoring the rocks that dug into my bare feet. It wasn’t until I pulled out of the parking lot that I remembered to breathe. Through my rearview mirror, I watched him skid around the corner and rub the top of his head.

* * * *

Okay. Maybe my exit was a bit overdramatic, but I needed distance. Not mere miles, more like a state or two. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected someone like Franklin to be attracted to me, let alone have fantasized a scene like the one we’d just acted out.

One-Date Tate.

Was it the alcohol? He seemed into me from the second I entered the bar. Or was that my imagination? The past few months, we’d teased and flirted at work. According to Nan, I was the only woman in the building he paid attention to. We’d never crossed the line, though. At least, it didn’t seem that way. Then again, what did I know?

My cheeks ached by the time I pulled into my space in the parking garage, and I forced the smile from my face. I’d been ravished by Franklin Reed. Holy crap. Could I ever look him in the eye again? On Monday, I would return to work and pretend like nothing happened. Simple. In a few weeks or months, Franklin and I would laugh about our meaningless tryst.

I entered the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor. My neighbor, Jacob Smart, greeted me when the doors slid open and I stepped out.

“Hey, Tatum. Come here you gorgeous thing, give me a squeeze.” I obliged and enjoyed the familiarity of his arms.

“How was your day, Jacob?” I kissed his cheek and brushed a piece of white hair off his forehead.

“Great day, today. I’m exhausted. Headed to bed.” He patted my shoulder and turned to enter his apartment.

“Goodnight then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jacob and I had shared a hallway for three years now. I moved into the building shortly after my father died. Jacob bought the neighboring unit a week after I moved in. For a sixty-something retired bookstore owner and widower, the guy was as spry as a toddler on a sugar high. We had become fast friends and he’d always been there for me, like a favorite blanket or comfort food. Wise, gentle, and patient, he called me on any bullshit I might have been idiotic enough to feed him.

I became obscenely wealthy on my twenty-first birthday. Turned out my father acquired quite a fortune after his great aunt died and kept it a secret from my mother and me. Upon his death, the money came to me. My mother wanted nothing to do with it. She’d said, “Without Antonio, I wouldn’t enjoy it.” Although I’d never desired material things, I did splurge and buy a condo on Alki Beach, overlooking Seattle and the Puget Sound. I had invested the rest of the cash and hadn’t touched it since.

It was a good feeling to know I was set for life, but I liked working. I enjoyed getting up in the morning and having a place to go. I relished the office camaraderie.

I ended up at Cruse Investigations because Wallace Cruse was a kiss-ass mooch. He grew up with Dad, harbored some weird man-crush on him, and followed him around like a lost puppy. My father started the company when I was three, got bored, and sold it to Wallace. When I debated college, Wallace offered me a job with a cushy salary. I was nowhere near qualified, and I know he hired me to satisfy his weird need to please the man he coveted. I took the job only because I still didn’t know what I wanted to do when I grew up.

As the receptionist, I spent most of my day answering phones, directing calls, scheduling appointments.

The majority of our cases? Infidelity. The majority of our clients? The upper echelon of the Seattle social scene. I’d learned over the past four years that absurd wealth didn’t protect people from stupidity. It just made it easier to cover up their imprudence. After Wallace took over, Cruse Investigations quickly became the place to call when someone suspected a cheating spouse or significant other. We’d become the Jerry Springer of the private investigation world.

Wallace was the king when it came to schmoozing. King of Kiss-Ass that is. Lied through his teeth most of the time to land clients, but for some crazy reason, it worked, and he’d built himself a mini empire with my father’s company.

I didn’t love my job. Just didn’t hate it enough to move on. Dad’s aura permeated the walls. Some days, it seemed he was right there working alongside me. Did that make me crazy? Perhaps. It also gave me reason to stay. As much as I despised Wallace, I could deal with his insane personality, less than honorable business practices, and flamboyant lifestyle. He’d been part of my family for as long as I could remember. I’d never known him to be anything other than the putz he was. Didn’t mean I was obligated to like him, though.

The gray Seattle sky I’d come to love gave way to black, thunderous promises of a torrential downpour. I wiped salty water from my face and waved to Jacob Smart, who passed on the sidewalk just beyond the short stretch of beach. Wallace thrashed and struggled in vain to dislodge the hand that held his face below the surface of the water.

Seaweed tangled around his neck. With eyes bulged and glossy, he screamed, silent and ineffective.

I laughed. “No one will help you.” I looked up to the gathering crowd on the shoreline. Some applauded. Some guffawed along with me.

“This is what happens when you make practice of screwing with people, Mr. Cruse.”

His thrashing ceased. My audience cheered with whoops and hollers. I released his throat and watched the lifeless, bloated body bob away in the darkening water.

I awoke refreshed and spunkier than my norm. Did I feel guilty for killing Wallace on a regular basis, be it in daydreams or real dreams? Not a chance. Maybe it was my body’s way of purging the pent-up repulsion towards him.