You're Not My Boss
The sound of the bedroom door slamming was like a gunshot in the silence.
Yeah. She was gone.
Good.
At least that’s what I told myself.
I exhaled through my nose and stripped the towel from my waist, stepping into the shower without a second thought. The spray hit my skin in sharp bursts, steam curling up around me until the mirror on the wall was a fogged blur.
I scrubbed at my skin harder than necessary, like I could wash off the argument, the look in her eyes, the way her voice had cracked just enough to wedge itself into my head.
Love.
That word again. That impossible, poisonous, damn near mythical thing people threw around like it was as easy as breathing. I didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t give it. End of story.
Because if I did deserve love… my parents wouldn’t have left me in that orphanage.
The thought came sharp, the way it always did, like a jagged piece of glass in my chest. I tilted my head back under the water, letting it burn against my scalp.
They’d left me. That was the first truth I ever learned in life.
And yet, part of me still needed to see them again—needed to look them in the eyes and tell them I survived. That I didn’t just curl up and die in that place like maybe they expected. That I made something of myself without them.
And then, maybe, ask the one question that rotted at the core of me.
Why?
Why the hell did they leave?
My hands found my hair, fingers pressing into my scalp in frustration until my knuckles ached. The urge to punch something rose like bile in my throat. I shut off the water before I could give in to it, stepping out into the cool air.
I wrapped a towel around my waist, grabbed a random pair of sweats and a T-shirt, and pulled them on.
I didn’t bother sleeping in my bedroom. I couldn’t.
The scent of sex lingered in the air, in the sheets, in my head. And for some reason, it made me feel cornered, like the walls were pushing in.
Instead, I went down the hall, into the spare room, and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to pull the blanket over me. Sleep came fast and hard, the kind that’s not peaceful—just a blackout.
***
The morning light cut through the blinds, stabbing straight into my eyes. I woke with that kind of heavy, gritty feeling in my head that came from too much thinking before sleep.
I showered again, this time quick and cold, dressed for work, and headed downstairs.
The maid had already laid out breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee. I sat down, pulling out my phone to review the day.
I had a lead on the runaway teenager—sixteen years old, gone for three days. Parents were losing their minds. The kind of case that could turn ugly fast if she fell into the wrong hands. I needed to see them, go over the timeline again, push harder.
Halfway through my coffee, my phone lit up with an unknown number.
I knew who it was before I even picked up.
The misery woman.
That’s what I called her in my head—like she carried misery around in a damn briefcase and handed it out for free.
I let it ring out.
Then again.
And again.
By the fourth call, my patience snapped. I swiped to answer. “What?”
Silence for a heartbeat.
Then—laughter.
Not the kind that was light or embarrassed. The calm, measured laugh of someone who already knew they had you exactly where they wanted you.
It set my teeth on edge.
“What the hell is so funny?” I bit out.
“Ronny,” she said, like we were old friends. “We need to meet up and discuss our contract.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “What contract?”
“You’ll find out when we meet.”
That smug tone was gasoline on a fire. “No. You’ll tell me now, or you can shove whatever job you’re peddling straight to hell.”
“You’ll want to hear this in person,” she replied, like I hadn’t spoken at all.
I stood up from the table, pulse starting to climb. “I’m not playing your stupid games. You think you can call me up like I work for you? You think I’m just going to jump when you snap your fingers? Try again.”
I hung up before she could say anything else.
The satisfaction lasted all of two seconds before the anger came back twice as hard.
I set my phone down on the counter a little too fast, the clatter echoing in the empty room. My appetite was gone, my coffee cold.
Who the hell was she? Always calling like she was the boss of me, talking in riddles, dangling words like bait.
I grabbed my keys, walked out of the house, and slid into my car—black, low, fast, and mine. The kind of car that growled when you hit the gas.
I had more important things to do than entertain some faceless voice on the other end of a line. The runaway girl’s trail wasn’t going to get warmer by sitting in my kitchen.
I shoved her out of my mind.
For maybe thirty seconds.
The engine’s roar filled the air as I pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road. I was already thinking through my next steps, my next moves—
—and then it happened.
A flash of black ahead. A sudden screech of tires.
The G-Wagon came out of nowhere.
It swerved across both lanes like it owned the asphalt and slid to a stop directly in front of me, angled just enough to block every possible path forward.
I slammed my foot down on the brake, the seatbelt cutting into my shoulder as my car jolted to a halt inches from its bumper. The sound of rubber burning on pavement tore through the air.
My pulse spiked.
My hands were still on the wheel, tight enough to make my knuckles pale.
The G-Wagon’s paint was glossy, flawless—expensive as hell. Tinted windows so dark I couldn’t see inside.
No movement. No one getting out.
Just sitting there.
Waiting.
My eyes narrowed.
Who the fuck was that?
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