Until her. Until Noelle Davis.
Yeah, I just had to hire her. She had been the most qualified and competent applicant, had excellent references from her former job and had passed my “military-style harassment” test with flying colors. God knows I look forward to my daily dose of verbal sparring with her, even though I’m certain she tolerates me because I’m the one who signs off on her paycheck.
And, okay, the woman runs this place like a well-oiled machine. I have to admit that much.
But I should have known there’d be an issue.
I should have known she would be nothing but trouble. Even during the interview, I swear I knew. Like a fucking omen or something. I knew—and let’s be honest, my buddy down below really knew—she was trouble.
Trouble. The kind of trouble you want to get yourself into. Pun intended. Also, the kind of trouble you knew you couldn’t afford getting mixed up in.
I know what you’re probably going to ask; Then why the hell did you hire her, Foster?
And I only have one really shitty answer for you.
Evidently I’m one sick, sadistic fucker.
Noelle Davis
“Annie Wilkes. I can’t find the file on…” My boss spouts off his newest lovely nickname for me as he asks me for a file I’ve likely already placed on his desk.
Yeah, we call each other names. Which is just too freaking ridiculous, I know. But it’s kind of our … thing. It’s what we do. We fling jabs, insults, barbs back and forth all. The. Time. The crazy thing?
It started before day one.
“Are you planning on wearing clothing like that all the time, Marilyn?” The brazenness was evident in his tone as we went over my employment contract. As if I hadn’t accurately understood what he meant earlier by the whole, “You’ll be working around former military. Which means we dish out harassment in mass quantities.”
That day I had been wearing a dress similar to the famed white dress Marilyn Monroe had worn in the, “Oops! Is that air blowing up my dress?” movie scene. Mine was yellow and I had paired it with a white button down cardigan. Trust me, it was suitable for the office, knee-length and not showing any bits of flesh in any scandalous manner. Nothing over the top. I was decidedly not attempting to be the sex symbol Ms. Marilyn had been.
“Not sure, Shrek,” I had shot back without thinking. “Are you planning on being surly all the time?”
For a split second, I damned my mouth and my lack of filter. It had gotten me into trouble before, I’m not going to lie. People had referred to it as being “spunky.” But, let’s be real here. It’s just a nice way of saying I have no filter and I give as good as I get.
However, it didn’t seem to faze Foster. At all. Commence the spewing of banter back and forth. And the rest, as they say, was history.
I knew he had done a more thorough background check than most employers do simply because of the job itself. I would have access to a buttload of information—some of it classified, perhaps. So, he had to make sure I was on the up and up. And I was—er, am.
Kind of.
Okay, so I may have lied to him at the time of my interview. And I’m pretty certain he knew as soon as it spewed forth from my lips—as soon as I had answered his probing question, “What made you move from Destin to Fernandina Beach?”
I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t want to get into it with who I hoped was to be my new boss. Instead, I had given the nonchalant answer of, “I needed a change of scenery, wanted a job where I had more responsibility, and really love the quiet beach town of Fernandina Beach.” I also didn’t tell Foster the entire truth because a part of me didn’t want to jinx anything. Didn’t want to tempt fate and have my past, what I was running from—no, moving on from—rear its ugly head.
And, let me tell you. Its head is ugly. Actually, more like fugly.
Now, my boss is currently referring to me as the evil woman, Annie Wilkes, from the movie Misery. I should also mention that my boss, alpha male galore, also happens to have a body so fine and well-honed, you could ping quarters off of him.
Anywhere. Seriously. A-ny-where. Those quarters would ping off of him and probably take out someone’s eye.
And when the man smiles, one of those genuine smiles, and not the mischievous ones reserved for when he and I are trading insults, it’s like Fourth of July-style fireworks have erupted. Beautiful. Wondrous. Enough to make even Mother Teresa’s lady parts tingle.
I know, I know. Shame on me and my blasphemous thoughts.