Trish nearly bludgeons her boss to death for voicing his desires, but somehow she fights past the urge to beat him with her stapler and simply gets even, then quits. Just before her grand exit, she gathers her meager possessions and leaves the accounting firm without a backward glance. A block from the office, as she drops yet another stack of papers, she realizes she needs something to carry everything in. She ducks into Madam Periwinkle’s Erotic Delights, where the gracious proprietor gives her a cardboard box with the promise that everything from her shop comes with a little something “extra.” If only she’d known…
Markham Woods can’t believe his luck! Ten years since he’d last seen Trish and now he’s nearly mowed her down on a city sidewalk. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mark charms his way into spending the afternoon with the lusciously curved Trish. Mark has spent the last ten years wondering if only…
Tomorrow’s headline: Man Bludgeoned to Death with Stapler.
Trish glared at her boss, the only man in the world who managed to hit on and insult her in the same breath. Clunk, click. She stapled another stack of financial statements together in preparation for her two o’clock meeting. Clunk, click. The two pounds of steel and aluminum teased her palm, begging her to whack the smug smile off the man’s face. Clunk, click. She took a deep breath. Cool air filled her lungs and became heated with her growing anger.
Man, I’d like a ride on the two-ton Trish train, he’d said. Two. Clunk. Ton. Click. Trish. Clunk. Train. Click.
She slammed the Swingline 747 business stapler on her desk. The rubber bottom collided with her Formica-clad desk with a satisfying thud and all eyes turned to her. The know-it-all admin who teased Trish mercilessly poked her head above her mauve cubicle wall and stared at her from behind blue-rimmed glasses. So eighties. The evil woman’s partner in crime, and the office’s token gay guy, stuck his head into the hallway, his too-tight shirt straining at the buttons. Just get “twink” tattooed on your forehead, asshole.
She straightened the pile of reports she’d compiled, pretending not to notice the stares and whispers. This was not her usual behavior. Not at all. Her usual response to her boss’s scathing yet suggestive remarks was to lock herself in her office or run home, claiming some sort of illness. Never, not ever, had she rolled her eyes, ignored him and then sat calmly preparing for her afternoon meeting. Well, calm was a tad of an overstatement. Possibly more than a tad.
At precisely two in the afternoon, she gathered the company’s financial statements, five copies in total for the bigwigs and herself, and proceeded to the conference room. Her boss wouldn’t know what hit him. She smiled all the way to her eyes, and she knew without looking that her dimples could be seen. Oh yeah, this was going to be good.
She entered the conference room first, plush carpeting silencing her arrival. Without pausing, she circled the table and placed the financials in front of each of the partner’s regular seats. In moments it would be her, three partners from the firm and her boss. She took her seat, or rather, her boss’s seat. The partners, with her boss in tow, arrived shortly thereafter and the man didn’t say a word about her seating choice. He just glared at her, the promise of retribution in his eyes. Ha!
Just wait, asswipe.
The meeting began quietly as the meetings did each and every month. The partners always took a few minutes to review the firm’s financial statements in utter silence before questioning Trish on expenses and the firm’s performance. While she worked with a few select clients throughout the year and during tax season, her main focus was on the financial performance of the accounting firm, Johnson, Wales & O’Megan.
It didn’t take the partners long to discover her little “addition” or would that be “subtraction” from the financial statements.
Mr. Johnson was the first to speak up. “What! What’s this here above Payroll, Trish? Explain this… this expense.”
“Certainly.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “I’ve been working for Johnson, Wales & O’Megan for eight years. For six of those years, I’ve been supervised by Jeff. While working under his supervision I have been subjected to more lewd comments, innuendo and derisive attitude than I care to mention or detail to you three at this point in time.”
Her boss tried to cut her off. “What? She’s –“
“Shut it, Jeffrey,” Johnson interjected.
“As I was saying, Jeff has made my life a living, breathing hell. Today, he asked me what it would cost to take a ride on the two-ton Trish train and indicated that the company would pay for it. I decided to take him up on the offer, calculated my worth and accrued the expense on the financial statement. Obviously, the final number will have to be negotiated with my lawyer, but I feel five million dollars is a good starting point for what I’ve had to endure.” She flipped through the pages in front of her. “And as you can see, I’ve accrued the estimated attorney’s fees for your representation as well as mine here in this section.” She pointed to the area of contention. There, on the operating statements, printed on the company letterhead, was a new section they’d never seen before. Just below General & Administrative Expenses and above Payroll was a new area: Two-ton Trish Train.
Damn, she’d gotten Jeff but good.
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