I spent five minutes staring at the exclamation point at the end of the sentence. Would Craig be the type to use one? Or maybe he was more the laid-back, chill guy on social media. How was this my job to worry about expressive punctuation? I felt like I’d just unlocked some sort of life achievement.
Deleting it and adding a period instead, I then attached a picture of Craig crowd-surfing at the Houston concert, the spotlights shining on his sweat-soaked face. Anything was better than focusing on the dozens of ways I’d made an ass out of myself in front of Brogan during my brief employment. If I was going to make it for the long haul? I really needed to shape up with this whole interaction with the boss thing.
Within minutes, thousands of people had favorited the post. One of the rules from Brogan’s book stated that it was our job to like or favorite all replies to the posts. Something about boosting signals and hitting more people. Social media had algorithms that I couldn’t even begin to fathom.
By the time lunch hit, I’d spent my morning on tasks pertaining to one tweet. No wonder Craig hired our company. It was a full-time job just to keep up with social media.
Jackson sauntered over from his desk with a stack of files cradled in his arms. A couple of weeks into the job and I was beginning to distinguish between the different arches in his brows. So far, I’d identified three definitive angles:
1. The Cartoon Character: Ohh, girl, I have so much work I’m passing off on you.
2. The Squiggle: Your ignorance amuses me.
3. The One Brow Shooting up Face While the Other is Aimed Down: I pity you for making an ass out of yourself.
I’d only seen the third arch once, after the elevator incident. The second happened whenever I opened my mouth to ask a question. This was definitely the cartoonish, over-exaggerated arch that was only be attained by villains and Jim Carrey.
“How’s it going, Lenny?”
I looked down at the computer screen, attempting to quell the urge to roll my eyes. He didn’t need any more ammunition. I didn’t get why he had it out for me. I’d made it longer than most of the previous assistants, so the hazing should eventually come to an end. Right?
“Lainey,” I said, keeping my tone light. He knew this. I’d corrected him for weeks. But I would not let a dude with a comb over and receding hairline get under my skin. Not to mention I was at least four inches taller than him, and I was only five four on a good day.
Last I checked, my big girl panties were securely in place. I had more pressing things to focus on, like not getting fired before my next paycheck could go toward Mom’s chemo.
“I need you to address these envelopes.” He threw half the manila folders down on my desk. “And file these in the storage room.” He dropped the rest of the files on the other side of my desk, papers spilling out across the surface. “Oh, and I need you to walk Bruce tonight. Here’s the key to Starr’s condo.” He slid the key across the part of my desk not littered with paper he’d just thrown down.
The latte I’d been sipping sputtered across my screen. “Excuse me?” Me. Going to Brogan’s place? That sounded like a recipe for disaster. The dude already thought I was a grade A stalker. No need to give him any more ammunition.
“Here’s how it works, Lenny. I’m Brogan’s assistant. You’re second assistant. Brogan commands me. I command you. You comply.” He gave brow arch number two and said, “If you have a problem with the pecking order, I can make sure to mention it to Brogan, and you’ll be canned before tomorrow’s meeting.”
A knot formed deep in my stomach. I was essentially being blackmailed into walking a dog, but that didn’t mean I was stupid enough to try and defy him this early in my career here. I had zero leverage and my mom to think about. And damned if I’d let Jackson succeed in his attempt to bully me out of the company. I was stronger than the masses of second assistants that came before me. “Fine.” I grabbed the leash from his manicured hand.
Brogan was scheduled for meetings until ten tonight, anyway. He wouldn’t know I’d even set foot in his condo. I bet he didn’t even sleep there half the time, because he was in his office before I came in and left long after I went home.
Jackson smirked and swaggered back to his desk, turning to me before he reached his chair. “Oh, and word of advice: stay in front of Bruce at all times. He has a major flatulence problem.”
A dog with fart issues. Jesus, what had I gotten myself into? I clutched the leash a little harder.
“He gets two scoops of kibble and seventeen squares of wet food. You must chop them up in one inch by one inch chunks or else he won’t eat it.”
My gaze flicked to his. This had to be a sick joke, one that was followed by a “ha ha, just shitting you, loser who now has this horrible responsibility of walking a gassy dog.” Except Jackson didn’t look like he was joking. His normal air of superiority dissipated, and he looked very serious for once.