She's the Boss Read online

  she’s the boss

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  by Lisa Lim

  edited by Felicia A. Sullivan

  Copyright © 2012 Lisa Lim. All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this e-book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  THWACK! TWHACK!

  The hood of my Mini Cooper smashed into rolling tumbleweeds as I sped across the plains. Twenty minutes later, I swung my car into Lightning Speed Communication’s parking lot. After circling the lot several times, I negotiated a rather tight parking spot between two Chevy pickup trucks.

  Sandwiched between the two monster trucks, I was clambering out of my Mini Cooper when a silver Corvette flew into a reserved parking spot and came to a screeching halt.

  Show off.

  Men who drove Corvettes usually had something to prove. The door clicked open and a tallish, broad-shouldered man got out of the car and straightened himself. The smell of his cologne, co-mingled with the smell of success, clung to him like an invisible mist. He was extremely well-coiffed, clad in a gray suit, single-breasted with peak lapels. I noted the high collar and working buttons on the cuff, left unbuttoned. PHWOAR! This guy wears his suit as comfortably as most men here wore jeans. His effortlessly chic attire screamed of good tailoring and simply stated, “I am definitely not from Pocatello, Idaho.”

  “Hi.” I smiled delicately, just the right amount to accentuate my cheekbones.

  He acknowledged my presence with a nod and gave me the visual once over, up and down assessing the basics. When his steely eyes settled on my skirt, his demeanor instantly shifted. The hard set of his shoulders revealed his disapproval.

  I rarely ever felt underdressed. Nonetheless, next to Mister I-just-flew-in-from-Milan, I felt like a bedraggled beach bum in my denim mini, cotton tank top and flip flops.

  I began to quail under his considering look. Nervously, I reached for my Ray-Bans perched atop my head.

  Today, like most days, my hair was styled in a loose, wind-swept ponytail, giving me the tousled and unkempt look, which I loved because it allowed me to indulge in my inner messiness. What I didn’t love was how chunks of my hair got tangled up in the metal hinges.

  I yanked, tugged and twisted at my Ray-Bans but they refused to budge.

  “Damn it!” I uttered a low curse, tugging frantically. Finally, I made an almighty effort and yanked harder, freeing my sunglasses and snapping off chunks of hair in the process.

  Great. This is why I had unwanted bangs.

  By the time I’d emerged from my curtain of uneven bangs, Mr. Corvette had already disappeared.

  I breezed into the office, humming “Takin’ Care of Business,” punctuating the bass slide with a particularly impressive air-guitar performance. In the midst of all my head banging, I ran smack-dab into Hillary, a fellow ‘soop’ (short for supervisor).

  “The new director is here,” she hissed. “He just moved into town, all the way from Palo Alto, California.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed brightly. “What’s he like?”

  Hillary opened her mouth and seemed on the verge of saying more, but she didn’t. “I’m trying not to be an office gossip,” she said woodenly instead.

  The expression on my face indicated that I found this a very disappointing position for her to take. Let’s face it, while no one claims to like office gossip, everybody enjoys it.

  I lifted an inquiring brow. “Should I have cause for concern?”

  Hillary managed a micro-smile. “You’ll find out soon enough. We have a meeting at Conference Room Seven in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late!” With that, Hillary turned on her combat boots and stomped off.

  With a deep sigh, I started for my cubicle, passing other cubicle dwellers as I walked by. How I yearned for my very own office. It didn’t have to be anything fancy. Just something a little bigger than a coffin-sized cubicle. Really. My cubicle was so small I almost needed an oxygen mask just to sit in it.

  I had barely sat down at my desk when Rick’s head popped over my cubicle partition. “Karsynn, I have an escalation.”

  It was much too early in the day for this. “What’s it about?”

  “The caller insists that he will only speak to a supervisor.”

  “Why?”

  “He says it’s highly technical.”

  “Give me a minute.” I fired up my computer and slipped on my headset. I was looking forward to this call with all the enthusiasm I usually reserve for laundry. “Transfer him to me. Extension 488.”

  Seconds later, my phone beeped. “Good morning, sir. My name is Kars and I’m a supervisor here at Lightning Speed Communications. Now, Rick tells me that you have a very technical issue.”

  “Yes,” the caller replied haughtily, “highly technical.” Huge emphasis was placed on the word technical.

  “OK sir …” I adjusted my headset so it sat comfortably in my ear. “Tell me about this technical issue.”

  “I’m signing up for online access and it’s asking me to register. The first question is: ‘What is your name?’ So what should I do?”

  I rubbed my temples. “Err, type your name … perhaps?”

  “And the next question is: ‘What is your email address.’ So what do I put down?”

  “Your email address,” I said, steeling myself to patience.

  “That seemed to do the trick,” the caller muttered, seemingly surprised. “How did you know what to do?”

  Um, I thought cynically, I used my brains.

  I sat back and sighed heavily. This caller would have stretched the patience of a saint. Fifty million cockamamie questions and light years later, I thanked him for calling and released the call. I checked my watch. Shoot! I was late for the meeting.

  “Rick?” I called.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll be in a meeting for the next hour or so. If there are any more escalations, you can take care of it since you’re the only team lead in charge right now, OK?”

  “Got it,” said Rick, sitting in his pile of junk and yet his garbage can was curiously empty. Clearly, he was not a believer in the old adage that a tidy desk means a tidy mind. It never ceases to amaze me how he can work in such filth. I’m not that fussy, but I was brought up with certain standards of hygiene.

  I found myself staring helplessly at the ever growing mound of dust and debris. It was so thick I coul
d hardly see the surface of his desk. “Rick!” I coughed loudly as I walked past his cubicle. “Seriously. It’s like Operation Desert Storm in here.”

  “Oh.” He looked up and smiled at me benignly. “I’m not asthmatic so the dust doesn’t bother me.”

  “But it bothers your neighbors.” I sneezed into my left hand because I only really use my right. “And it bothers me.”

  “All right,” said Rick sourly, “I’ll clean my desk next week.”

  I shook my head in polite disbelief and started toward the conference room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said in a small voice and slipped into the empty chair next to Pamela. Hmm. The atmosphere became mighty frigid.

  Oh what fresh hell! My eyebrows almost collided with my bangs.

  Mr. Corvette was standing in front of the conference room.

  “Now!” he snapped. “Since some of you here are late to the meeting, allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Carter Lockwood. Dick Jones has officially resigned and as of today, I am the new site director of this call center.” He continued his sordid soliloquy and began pacing the floor, moving with the easy rolling gait of a man who spends most of his time in the boardroom.

  “Company dress code!” His deep voice carried across the room. “Why are we not enforcing it across the board?”

  His question was met with silence. I shrank in my seat and didn’t dare glance at him for fear he’d put me on the spot. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him walk up to Pamela. “Please pass these out.” His tone was brisk as he handed her a stack of papers. Pamela took a copy and handed the stack over to me. I helped myself to a copy and passed the stack along to Jewel. Then I quietly skimmed the memo.

  Unacceptable business attire:

  * Miniskirts (skirts shorter than 3 inches above the knee)

  * Underwear as outerwear

  * Tank tops, tube tops, halter tops with spaghetti straps (straps must be at least 3 inches wide)

  * Beach wear, and that includes flip flops

  * Midriff length tops

  * Provocative attire (lace or sheer clothing)

  * Off-the-shoulder tops, sleeveless tops or dresses (worn without a cardigan or blazer)

  * Workout clothes or shoes

  * Evening wear

  * Torn, dirty or frayed clothing

  * Anything too short, too tight, or low-cut

  Department managers and supervisors must enforce the Company Dress Code.

  1. If an obvious policy violation occurs, the department supervisor will hold a discussion with the employee and ask the employee to go home and change his/her attire immediately.

  2. Repeated policy violations will result in disciplinary action, up to and including termination.

  A sudden loud voice made me jump. “Karsynn Higginbotham! Pamela Pornero! Jewel De’Nyle!” Carter commanded to all and sundry, “The three of you, please come up to the front of the room.”

  Pamela and I exchanged identical raised eyebrow expressions and traipsed to the front.

  Jewel sidled up to me. “What’s going on?”

  I shrugged weakly. “No idea.”

  Carter stood before us and I tried to remain quiet and confident under his open appraisal. To avoid his glowering gaze, I found myself staring at his mouth. It was practically another presence in the room.

  If loose lips sink ships, then Carter Lockwood’s lips would sink an entire fleet.

  I summoned up a smile when I realized Carter’s eyes had rested on me.

  “You’re Karsynn, right?” he asked, nostrils flaring.

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re a supervisor, am I right?” There was an uncomfortable hard edge to his voice as he said this.

  “Uh-huh.” I squared my shoulder blades.

  “Then why are you dressed like that?”

  “Like what?” I stared at him nonplussed.

  Was it wrong to dress like a surfer girl when I don’t actually surf?

  “Like that!” he barked.

  Humph. It’s a good thing he refrained from using any derogatory names. I’ve always wanted to say, “YOU BETTER LAWYER UP BECAUSE I’LL SEE YOU IN COURT!”

  Not that I’d ever follow through with my threat. It just sounded so cool.

  “What sort of example are you setting?” Carter demanded, making no effort to hide his smug contempt.

  Under his scrutinizing gaze, my skin began to prickle and my confidence waned. He made me feel horribly self-conscious about my short skirt that was showing acres of bare thigh. How I longed for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

  “I-I …” It came out like a frog’s croak. I found myself become correspondingly more tongue tied.

  Then Carter turned his attention to Pamela and Jewel. “And I understand that the two of you are team leads.”

  “Yessssireee,” was their sassy reply.

  “Then act and dress like you’re team leads!” Then he turned and fixed me with an eagle glare as if I was equally culpable for their decision to dress like hookers.

  I was not.

  If Pamela and Jewel wanted to dress like that, so be it.

  Let it rest. That is the Buddhist way.

  Yes. I am sometimes a Buddhist. And achieving Zen is no mean feat. It takes a helluva lot of effort to attain nothingness. And then what do you have?

  Nothing. Nada. Zilch. But that is the goal of enlightenment, I guess.

  Taking a deep breath, I began silently meditating like a Tibetan monk.

  OHM … OHM … OHM … SABBE … SATTA … SUKHI … HONTU …

  It means: May all beings be happy.

  It didn’t seem to be working. Carter was far from happy. Far, far, far from it. He wheeled around and addressed the entire room. “Everyone, listen up! This is a fine example of how you should not dress. And because Karsynn, Pamela and Jewel have clearly violated our company dress code …” He left a pause so dramatic everyone tensed. “I am sending them home to change.”

  There was a collective snort of laughter and I found myself blushing in shame at being spoken to like that in public. I held my head up high and practically split my face into two, pretending that it didn’t faze me.

  Face like thunder, Carter’s voice descended to a single ominous note. “Capisce?”

  “Capisce,” I replied through gritted teeth, taking a break from being Buddhist.

  “Good.” Carter gave me a short, tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Forget all this attaining enlightenment! Forget all this pseudo-profound Zen teachings! I glared at Carter with blistering scorn, taking a silent inventory of the countless ways I could exact my revenge.

  God and Gautama Buddha! How I hated this man.

  His bluntness set me on edge.

  What did he think we were? Cattle at a livestock auction?

  “For now, the three of you can return to your seats.” His tone was harsh, an order rather than a request. “After this meeting, I expect you to go home and change into something more appropriate.”

  Pamela and Jewel returned to their seats, giggling like a pair of giddy schoolgirls. Still reeling, I walked back to my chair and sat down with a huff. “Excuse me?” I raised my hand. “There seems to be a double standard here. How come you have a problem with how we’re dressed and yet it’s OK for men to swan around the office in their Spandex cycling shorts and Lycra bodysuits?”

  Carter folded his arms across his chest. “You have a problem with that?”

  Feeling rather like Wonder Woman, the purveyor of truth and justice, I bravely said, “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” I began, “the front view can be somewhat off-putting, but the back view with the butt padding …” I stopped myself just in time.

  The back view made men look as if they were wearing Always Maxi Wings pads. Nonetheless, I didn’t think it was appropriate to discuss menstrual pads at a business meeting.

  “Actually,” said Hillary with a note of faint-heart
edness, “those Lycra cycling shorts scare the living daylights out of me. It forces me to look where I don’t want to … like at a bad car accident, know what I mean?”

  “Yep.” I nodded energetically. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s hard to watch it but it’s impossible to pull your eyes away.”

  Encouraged, Hillary continued, “Truthfully, those shorts leave little to the imagination. If you ask me, private parts should remain private.”

  Hillary had a point. Those skintight spandexy shorts shrink-wrapped men’s genitalia, reducing them to store-bought, Saran-wrapped Concord grapes. What’s worse is some men take it to the extreme. Take for instance, Seymour Lewis, a fellow supervisor, who walks around in a full-bodied unitard—the sort of unitard that can only be purchased at a dance supply shop, likely intended for women only but labeled “unisex.”

  Seriously? Grown men at the office all trussed up in shiny Technicolor Lycra unitards?

  How sad is that?

  Sensationally sad I tell you!

  Carter surveyed the room. “Anyone else have a problem with Lycra cycling shorts?”

  Seymour stood up with an air of defiance. “I don’t!”

  I cast a swift glance at Seymour in his sad, sad, unitard. “Moose knuckles.” The word just slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  What the hell made me say that?

  I had an unnerving talent for putting my foot in my mouth. And not just my foot, mind you, but my whole leg.

  “What did you just say?” Seymour demanded.

  How I wish my mouth had a ‘Backspace’ key. “Oh,” I said inanely, “nothing.”

  “I heard you! Level with me, Kars!” Seymour sent me daggers. “Why did you just say moose knuckles?”

  I smiled wanly with a turn of my head that indicated the topic was inappropriate, but Seymour simply refused to let it drop.