Boss Me Read online

  BOSS ME

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Claire Adams

  Get Each of My Newly Released Books for 99 Cents By Clicking Here

  Like me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Claire-Adams/547513332025338

  Newsletter: – Click here to get an email as soon as the next book in the series is available.

  Click here to get my book Swipe for free

  Chapter One

  Christian

  The smell of stale coffee and overcooked bagels filled the air around me as I stepped into the coffee shop. Todd, my best friend, had worked here for as long as I could remember. Every time I made a step forward in life, I tried to push him to do so too. He couldn’t be a fucking barista the rest of his life, but he seemed content nonetheless. Every time I saw him, he was all smiles and filled with good stories, and I figured he had something going for him. He was creating memories that made him the life of parties wherever we went, and that was all that mattered.

  To him, at least.

  “Christian, my man. What brings you around?” Todd asked with a sly smile on his face.

  “Hey there, man,” I said, reaching around and patting his back. “The usual, and the interesting weekend you texted me about.”

  “Oh. Dude. Alright, let me get your cold brew real quick. This will be a doozy. You’ll love it. Promise.”

  Todd was effortless behind a coffee bar, and part of me wondered why he didn’t open his own place. It would be easy for him, especially since he’d been in this industry for almost a decade. He could put all these skills to good use and make himself a nice paycheck in the long run.

  “Sounds good, but if it tastes like shit, you’re going to lose some credit over here.”

  He snorted. “As if.”

  I smiled and watched him in his element. The smell of coffee filled my senses, leaving my shoulders relaxing and my mind clearing some.

  “One cold brew with enough room to top it off with cream,” he said and handed me the coffee.

  “Thanks. Now, get me the good shit you guys use and tell me about this damn weekend,” I said and took his offering.

  “Ah, the sweet cream stuff. Made it myself this morning,” he said.

  “Which is why you really should open your own place. I’m sure you could patent this shit or something,” I said, filling my coffee cup. “You know you could make a killing. Why don’t you get after it?”

  “Eh, I’m good where I am,” he said.

  “You’re comfortable where you are,” I said.

  “Coming from the master of not doing anything that makes him uncomfortable, that’s a shocking statement,” he said.

  “I just don’t think intelligence automatically makes someone better than anyone else. I know a bunch of useless shit, but nothing that would make me successful in any kind of industry. You, on the other hand, could make a mint selling your coffee concoctions.”

  “Shut up and let me tell you about this weekend,” he said, grinning.

  “Alright, alright. How was that party you tried to get me to go to at 2 in the morning last Saturday?” I asked.

  “It was awesome. The women were gorgeous, and since they’d already been bar-hopping, they were ready to make hasty decisions with their lives.”

  “Of course, that’s what you would go for first,” I said.

  “There was free booze and loud music. Some dude went all out for his 21st birthday. Rich bitch and all, I guess,” he said.

  “Ah, so you crashed a party you knew about, not one you were invited to,” I said.

  “Is there any other way I do things?” he asked, smirking.

  “So, give me the nasty details. Who did you take home, what did she look like, and will you see her again before you lose her number?” I asked.

  “I didn’t end up taking anyone home from that party,” he said.

  “Which means you got found and kicked out,” I said, chuckling.

  “They were sore losers. Apparently, people can’t dance shirtless on the tables. Who knew?”

  “We all know, Todd. We all know,” I said.

  I took the first sip of my coffee and couldn’t help but shiver. It’s absolutely idiotic for a man to have that kind of reaction to coffee, but anyone who has tasted Todd’s cold brew has done it. The man fucking needed to open his own place, pronto. The coffee shop he worked at was using him for all his ideas and paying him slim-to-none for them, and there was a part of me that was enraged by the situation.

  “You need to fucking open your own place,” I said.

  “Obviously. You just sucked down half that cup. I take it you’ll need two?” he asked.

  “Probably,” I said before shrugging my shoulders. I was slowly crawling back into my shell. It was easier to live life from there.

  “Alright, I’m asking since you’re not offering. How you doin’ since your mom’s death, Christian?” His expression tightened a little. I knew the conversation would head that way. He was too good to me not to ask about it.

  I shrugged while my mind threw me back to last weekend. I had gotten his invite to the party just as my stepsister and I were unhooking our parents from their ventilators. They’d been in a major car accident, and neither my sister nor I even knew they were traveling out of town until the police called us.

  Well, they called Stella. They showed up on my doorstep.

  “It’s your mom, dude. I know there’s more there than a shrug,” Todd said.

  “It is what it is. Nothing I can do about it. We buried them yesterday. The nightmare is over,” I said.

  “Wait, you buried them yesterday? As in, Thursday yesterday? The fuck didn’t you tell me, man? I would’ve been there!”

  “It was just a small gathering. You know my mother and her husband kept to themselves. Plus, my mom thought you were annoying,” I said.

  “She just had the hots for me, that’s all,” he said, grinning.

  “You think every cougar has the hots for you,” I said.

  “Because they do. You should see the way some of these women stare at me when they come in. They’re all about it, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Anyway, the reading of their wills is on Monday,” I said.

  “Ooooh, nice. Expecting anything fun? Exciting? Lucrative?” he asked.

  “It’s really not a big deal,” I said. “I’ll sit there and listen to them leave everything to Stella, then I’ll go get a drink and go home.”

  “Speaking of Stella, how’s your sister holding up?” he asked.

  “Stepsister, and we don’t talk much,” I said.

  “You just lost your mother, and she just lost her father. You mean to tell me you guys haven’t talked at all?” he asked. The look on his face was almost comical. Almost.

  “I mean, we didn’t get along growing up,” I said, leaning against the counter. “She was the bright and shining star, and I was the kid who always needed to be like her. It wasn’t exactly a love-hate relationship, but it was pretty fucking close. Nothing like standing in the shadow of someone who did nothing wrong, ever.”

  “But, isn’t she younger than you? Isn’t the shadow supposed to be cast on the younger kid?” he asked and lifted an eyebrow. He had to think I was being an idiot.

  “You’d think. But, no. Plus, she was a massive brat.” I glanced down at my hands before looking back up at him. “A major pain in the ass. To everyone.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “Picky about everything: her
food, the way she looked, the people she hung out with. She was one of those ‘mean girls’ without ever intentionally being a bitch to their face. Always played it innocent with her light green eyes,” I said.

  “So, you didn’t get along with her because she was manipulative and spoiled?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get along with her because she was the favorite. Even with my mother, she treated her differently. It was odd. I don’t know how to explain it,” I said.

  “Well, try,” he said.

  “Could you do that after you take my order?” a masculine voice resounded from beside us. The aggravation in it wasn’t hidden in the slightest.

  We both turned our heads and looked at the frustrated customer standing at the register. He was drumming his fingers on the counter and sticking his tongue in his cheek, and I saw Todd put on his best customer service smile before he went over to work.

  “Forgive me; my friend just lost his mother. Can I help you?” Todd asked, giving the guy a look that could be kind or a warning, depending on if you knew him.

  “I don’t know, can you?” the man asked, his shoulders pulled back, his grimace growing by the minute. Asshole.

  “I most certainly can. It’s why I’m behind the counter,” Todd said, still smiling. “What would you like this morning?”

  “Someone who’s smart enough to give me some options,” he said.

  “That’s what the menu behind my head is for, sir,” Todd said, keeping his cool far better than I would have been able to.

  “I never look at menus; it never showcases a coffee house's best options. What are your specialties? Or signature drinks?” the man asked.

  “We have a town favorite that consists of white chocolate mocha and raspberry syrup. Or, we have a grapefruit and elderberry coffee we’re about to phase out before the pumpkin spice hits the shelves. Either of those sound appealing?” Todd asked.

  “No, and now I’m running behind because you and your friend couldn’t stop talking. Just give me a large coffee with room for sugar. I’m late for my dissertation,” the man said.

  “Coming right up. What are you getting your doctorate in?” Todd asked the man.

  “Surprised someone with your lack of degree cares,” the man mumbled.

  “Actually, sir, degrees don’t quantify intelligence,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Degrees don’t quantify intelligence. Degrees are simply a measure of how an individual persevered through enough schooling to obtain years of instruction in a particular field. Just as an IQ score does not accurately quantify overall intelligence, neither does a degree. Your doctorate doesn’t hold a weight against how smart you are; it only informs individuals you were willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money to receive further instruction in a specific field. Whether it’s a two-year degree or a doctorate.”

  I heard Todd snicker as he was putting the cap on the man’s large cup of coffee while I held the gaze of a very angry, tired doctoral student.

  “Just because my friend here doesn’t have a doctorate like you are attempting to achieve does not mean he isn’t intelligent. It’s no more plausible for someone to swim in a pool and call themselves a fish than it is to receive a doctorate and call themselves smart,” I said.

  “That’ll be $3.26, please,” Todd said. I never could have dealt with some of the dicks he had to deal with on a regular basis.

  The man, huffing with anger and red in the face, threw a $5 bill onto the counter, grabbed his coffee, and stormed out. No matter how many times I stepped out into the public, it never ceased to amaze me just how fucking entitled people felt because they got degrees in some specialized area. Even people with simple two-year degrees held their heads higher just because they had some piece of paper on their wall stating they knew some shit.

  It was fucking insane.

  “I think that man would’ve really benefitted from the elderberry. It’s known to naturally lower blood sugars, help out if you have seasonal allergies, and stop you from being a massive pain in the dick,” Todd said.

  I chuckled at the counter, thankful that he was now free to continue talking. Mid-mornings on Fridays were slow, so I always made it a point to come in and catch up with him whenever I was free.

  “Was all that shit you said true?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That shit about the degrees and IQ scores. Did you pull that out of your ass or what?”

  “Oh, no. It’s true. Read it in some science and medicine journal a few weeks back,” I said.

  Todd stared at me blankly before he huffed and shook his head. The smell of burnt bagels had died down, replacing itself with a warm sweetness I couldn’t place. I figured it was probably one of Todd’s latest concoctions he was working on in the back, and I made a mental note to ask him about it later.

  “The hell you doin’ man?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m about to ask you for another delicious cold brew,” I said.

  “No, no, no. With your life, Christian. I mean, listen to yourself. You read that kind of shit for fun. You don’t take people down with anger; you do it with your intelligence. You’ve really got somethin’ goin’ for you. Much more than I’ve got,” he said.

  “Don’t start down this road. You and I both know that if you left this coffee shop and took your ideas and creations elsewhere, they’d shut their doors within a month. You single-handedly keep this place alive, and I know it’s why you stay,” I said.

  “I stay because I've got a good thing going here. Why fix what ain’t broke?” he asked.

  “And I’ve got a good thing going, too. I’ve got no plans to get some dumbass job that puts me in an office 24/7 and makes me rub my intelligence in people’s faces. Not my thing, and never will be,” I said.

  “So, you admit you’re smart,” he said.

  “I admit I know useless shit that is sometimes helpful in some areas,” I said.

  “Uh huh,” he said, smirking. “You keep tellin’ yourself that, Christian.”

  “Besides, those types of people are the kind I hate. People who think their degrees and specialties and internships make them experts in fields they have no actual work experience in. They come in to do interviews with years of schooling but no hands-on experience, and they’re automatically hired over other people who do have experience, and for what? They’re fucking spoiled,” I said.

  “Like your stepsister?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Like my fucking stepsister,” I said.

  “That why you guys didn’t get along? Because she did something with her intelligence and you didn’t?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “We didn’t get along because everyone assumed she was intelligent.”

  “Why’d they do that?” he asked.

  “Because Stella was always the girl with her nose in a book underneath the tree,” I said.

  “Wow. You hate your stepsister because she read instead of sucked dicks all through high school,” he said, chuckling. “What a bitch.”

  “Are you going to keep telling me about this weekend or not?” I asked.

  “Actually, I got somethin’ goin’ in the back I need to check on. Raincheck for the stories?” he asked.

  “Remind me to ask you what the hell it is you’re working on. It smells very sweet,” I said.

  “Will do. Listen, if I were you—”

  “Here we go,” I said, sighing.

  “If I were you, I’d recognize the fact that Stella just lost her father. You play it off with your jokes and distractions, but I know you’re in pain. And you know I’m here for you. But, she just lost her dad. Go see her,” he said.

  “And do what? Take her out for food and act like we’ve been talking for the past nine years?” I asked.

  “That’d be a nice start. Good luck, man!”

  “I’m not going and seeing my stepsister, Todd,” I said.

  “Let me know how it goes!” he yelled back at me.

  Ch
apter Two

  Stella

  Walking into the house made my hands shake. Even though my father built and owned his own medical supplies company, Harte To Heart, he still lived a very modest life. I was thankful he found a woman like my stepmother. Someone who enjoyed him instead of the money his company brought in, and it afforded him the ability to jet them off anywhere and everywhere they wished. They didn’t spend a lot of money on houses or cars or property taxes, and it gave him the ability to show me how a relationship really worked.

  My father and birth mother divorced when I was young. I don’t remember any of the fighting or the breakup, but I do remember the moment my father won sole custody of me. For the life of me, I couldn't understand why I couldn’t go with my mother. I remember kicking and screaming in court, begging and reaching out for my mom while my father held me close and walked out. I could remember the lifeless pain in my mother’s eyes — how sunken in they were and how pale her skin was.

  For all my young life, I’d convinced myself that taking me away from her killed my mother. She died when I was 12, and I cursed my father for taking me from her. I told him if he would’ve let me stay with her, she would’ve been just fine.

  Being a girl, I needed a mother more than I needed my father. I felt the loss of my mom acutely. So, when he married my stepmother, I grew very close to her. Closer than most stepchildren probably get to their stepparent.

  It wasn’t until I was 18 that my father sat me down and told me everything. He shared about my mother’s drug addiction. How she was diagnosed with postpartum depression and was too proud to get help for it. She sought solace in the bottoms of bottles of booze, and in the pills she convinced the doctor to keep prescribing for her cesarean section pain. He told me she was a wonderful woman until the drugs and alcohol took over. She allowed her pride to step so far into the way that it resulted in my neglect.

  I’d never cried so hard in my father’s arms until that day when I apologized for how I treated him as a child.

  Now, I was walking through their meager little home. I left the door open to air out the musky smell wafting around my head, but soon the walls of the home drew me in. Its three bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths brought back memories of my stepmother and I cooking in the kitchen while my father worked in his office. Memories of my father surprising me with another book I could read under the massive weeping willow that sat next to the lake on our property.