Chapter 17: Fatso! Who?
(Arata)
The next few days proved to be extremely exhilarating and I was being frank. Miranda was on two days leave which made the situation even worse.
It was the third time I was taking his coffee to his office. The walk from the kitchen to his office seemed like a coffee of shame saunter brewed in caffeine crawl.
The first one wasn't black enough.
The second one wasn't scalding hot to burn his damn tongue.
"Please! God, let this one burn his whole mouth," I pleaded, raising my head towards the concrete ceiling.
The urge to spit into it was real and I had to exercise all the control I possessed not to do it.
Entering his office I confidently strolled towards his heavy black desk.
Mr Stuck-up had a shirt on matching his coal-shaded eyes. The jet-black pants snuggled against his shapely thighs as he stood with his palms flat against the polished surface. A few wayward raven tendrils hung loosely against his wrinkled forehead, his blazing onyx eyes concentrating on the file open before him.
"The port mafia is getting out of hand, I am going to put them in their place." His teeth clenched together making his jaw taut like a wire ready to snap.
His COO, Ranold Whittle, was present in the office today as well, and there seemed to be a misplaced shipment issue that they were discussing.