That’s fucked up, but at the same time takes some serious fucking guts. This guy’s balls must be the size of New Hampshire. How the fuck is he even getting away with that screen name? HR filters names and make sure they’re appropriate for the site. What the fuck? We go through the pleasantries, but I’m impatient. I want to know who this asshole thinks he is. Where do you live? I type the words into the chat box not long after I say hello, expecting Mr. BadBoy to respond with a vague answer like ‘SoHo.’ But to my surprise, he gives an actual address. I live at 35 Houston Street in a brownstone. No fucking way. Is this guy for real giving out his address to a stranger so early? I need to fucking find out more about him. You’re bold, giving out your address like that. The pause is extended, but finally, I see the prompt pop up that notifies me that the other person is currently typing. I don’t have anything to hide. This guy is giving me a run for my money, but I have to remember that I’m posing as a female and that I have to mask my real animosity towards him. There’s nothing wrong with a little mystery every now and then, I type into the chat box. You’ll just have to wait and see what I have to offer, Mr. BadBoy replies. Yeah, you bet I fucking will, you fucking creep. I want to tell him I find him sketchy, but I can’t exactly write that if I want to keep up appearances. I audibly scoff at my screen, thinking that I have the brainpower and intelligence to top this guy at this game. At my game. No fucking doubt. I didn’t work my ass off for nothing just to lose. I’d love to hear what you have to offer, I mildly throw that out there to tread the flirtatious waters. My prime purpose for Ms. Winters is interviewing these billionaire freaks to make sure they’re not doing any seedy shit. That they aren’t going to tarnish the rep I’ve built for my site.
My goal is to get in their heads and wrap them around my finger. It’s not hard, because most of them are so fucking lonely they’ll fuck a piece of cabbage if it will spread its legs for them. Anytime, sweetheart, he writes back. I heave a hefty sigh and glance out the window of my Manhattan penthouse. The view is fucking glorious. The city skyline isn’t a view one often forgets to appreciate. It’s mid-morning by now, but the heavy fog is still dense, as if I were in the fucking moors of England or some shit. I guess today isn’t going to be sunshine and blue skies, but that’s okay; my mood is fit for a king, anyway. I crack my knuckles and contentedly lean back in my desk chair, thinking of the best way to hook, line, and sinker this prick. Are you still there? The cursor blinks on my screen. I let this guy keep hanging for a few minutes before I answer. I’m wherever you need me to be, baby. There, take that asshole. I get up to stretch and trudge back to my kitchen, feeling a chill in the air that’s probably just a reflection of the bleak and dreary sky outside. Plus, it’s a Monday. Who fucking likes Mondays? I drum my fingers against the countertop and blow out a puff of air. I need to take this Mr. BadBoy on. I’m fucking pissed and offended at his sheer audacity to use the same username as the name of the site. It’s probably a lapse on the part of my otherwise brilliant HR team. But I don’t want to bring this to their attention just yet. I want to get a feel for this new guy first. I stare at my liquor cabinet, thinking I might need to add some refreshment to my coffee cup if I’m going to up the ante. It’s going to be a long fucking day.
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