HIDE

EPISODE 8 - BLUE BALLZ.

Brandon stared at him, unsure how to feel about it. He actually didn't know how to help and wouldn't be pleased to be transferred to someone else like a hand down document. But looking at the bright side, the person will be nicer than Wilson. He definitely wouldn’t mind working for whosoever it was. But on the other hand, it would feel like he had suffered for nothing all these months if he switched to another job now. There were just two months to go until he won the bet. Not to mention that he had no intention of making a career as a PA. He was a Manager and administrator, and a pretty damn good one. He was a PA now because he was Wilson’s. He had a point to make. A bet to win. The most painful thing for him was watching Wilson get stripped of his hard work.

“Thanks for asking my opinion,” Brandon muttered under his breath, turning to the door and leaving quickly before Wilson could give him more tasks.

The media guys were already waiting outside the office, looking nervous and pale.

“Is he in a good mood?” one of them whispered.

Brandon shrugged. “Could have been worse.” By Wilson’s standards, he was positively in a nice mood this morning.

He walked to his desk and emailed Brenda his half-finished report. “Sorry,” he told her as he passed her desk. “He wants it as swiftly as you can.”

She just sighed, looking resigned. “Where are you going?”

“To buy him condoms,” Brandon said. “I can’t believe I have to deal with s**t like that.”

Brenda laughed, her eyes already on the report. “I can’t believe you still have the job. I think you’re setting a new record. You must have grown on him.”

Brandon laughed. Grown on him? The mere notion was bizarre. “He still treats me like a plague under his skin,” he said.

Brenda c****d her head to the side. “Does he? I’ve noticed that he’s softer with you these days.”

Brandon chuckled. “Trust me, that’s not true.”

Ha, Wilson being softer with him. What a ridiculous idea.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Brenda said, typing already. “You forgot to make his coffee yesterday, and he didn’t fire you. That’s pretty soft for him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Brandon said with a snort. “He chewed me a new one for that, so he wasn’t soft at all. It isn’t a fireable offence.”

“The PA he had before you were fired for forgetting to bring him coffee,” Brenda said.

Brandon stared at her. “Are you serious—”

A heavy hand gripped his nape. “If you’re quite done gossiping, I need you to take notes,” Wilson said, turning Brandon and giving him a push toward his office.

Brandon sighed, not even trying to shrug the touch off. He was used to this. At this point, Brandon was a little surprised that his skin didn’t have Wilson's nail's visible bruises from how many times his boss had manhandled him by his neck. He had become so used to this touch, it didn’t even register as weird anymore. He wondered if it was odd.

“What about the condoms?” he said annoyingly.

“You’ll buy them during your lunch break.”

Brandon imagined choking Wilson with his own tie. Vividly.

“Fine,” he bit out. Two months. Just two months to go.

*****

The day got hectic and Brandon had to watch Wilson work. Brandon found a new way to enjoy his awful boss, and it was somewhat funny because he loved watching him work. The man might be a terrible existence, but he was smart with a very sharp mind and equally sharp tongue. He could make grown men piss themselves with one look. It made the most dreadful business meetings somewhat entertaining. Brandon got a guilty, wicked enjoyment out of watching Wilson make other people squirm. Maybe because, for once, he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of his boss’s resentment.

“Is that all?” Wilson said quietly, his black eyes fixed on the financial manager of Louisiana Enterprises.

The poor man swallowed, so pale he looked grey, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He glanced at his co-workers helplessly, but they all had their gazes dropped, not wanting to attract the attention of the boss.

“Y-yes,” the man stammered. “But if you look at these numbers, you’ll see that the project should be—”

“Not good enough,” Wilson said impassively. “Next.”

The next unlucky person—a middle-aged, elegant woman—cleared her throat and started talking, her tone betraying her nervousness.

Brandon masked his concentration, focusing solely on 'Crazy boss,' as he worked. He studied the change in expression. It was entertaining. His favourite game during these boring meetings: was to guess what his horrible boss was feeling. Impatience, displeasure, and irritation were easy enough to see if one paid attention to the corners of Wilson’s mouth. But there was also something else that day. Tension. Wilson seemed agitated, his fingers tapping on the armrest and then fiddling with his dark blue tie, his eyes scanning the room aimlessly. Every so often they stopped on Brandon—like now—and Brandon quickly looked down until the danger passed. But this time Wilson didn’t look away.

Brandon could feel his gaze on him, heavy and intent, demanding his attention.

Brandon stared back. What?

Wilson simply gazed at him for a long moment before looking back at the woman.

Brandon twitched, his anxiety spiking. He knew he had developed some kind of unhealthy concentration for everything his asshole of a boss did or thought. That awareness had been born out of necessity—in order to keep his job and not lose the bet, he had learned to be aware of the smallest signs of Wilson’s displeasure, so he could anticipate his orders. Not understanding what dickhead wanted always put him on edge. Maybe… Maybe he was horny. It was a possibility. Brandon had noticed that Wilson tended to become snappish—more snappish—if he hadn’t gotten laid in a few days. Wilson had an enormous appetite for s*x if the number of condoms he had Brandon buy was any indication.

Frowning, Brandon tried to remember the last time Wilson had gotten laid. He had him book a ridiculously five-star hotel for an anonymous date. Well, he tends to keep all his dates private. For once, Brandon had never seen the people Wilson went out with, and he would pay anything to see the supermodels, actresses, or high-profiled businesswomen that got under his pants. But for over a week, they have been so busy that he hadn't gone on his fancy dates. Since the threat came from his father, he has doubled his working efforts. He has had two more expansions of the company. Because of the busy schedule, Brandon diverted the calls of horny women that called Wilson and made sure none got to him. Unless Wilson had one that Brandon didn't know about. It was possible. The man is a sly fox. But if Brandon could say that he knew him too well, Wilson had never given anyone his private number. That phone barely rang except family and his mysterious informant. Going this long without s*x was brain wrecking for Wilson. It was practically an eternity. Normally, he got laid every few days at the least.

Relieved that he’d found a probable reason for his boss’s tension, Brandon relaxed a little. It was a non-issue. Easy to handle. When the meeting finally ended, Brandon silently followed Wilson out of the conference room, trying to think of how to bring it up. After all, it was a little awkward to ask his employer if he was aggressive because he hasn't gotten a release.

As soon as the door of Wilson’s office clicked shut behind them, Wilson said, “were you supposed to pay attention to every little detail or study me during the meeting?”

Brandon’s heart skipped a beat. He wondered frantically if the meeting was supposed to be about something important. “Was I supposed to?” he said. “All of those meetings are basically the same: you make hurtful comments, people shake and sweat, and you never commend them.”

Wilson cast him an irritated look, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “I should fire you for your insolence.”

Brandon's heart almost jumped into his hands. Was Wilson being serious? He tried to get a reading of his emotions to know what he was thinking, but to his disappointment, his face was blank as ever. “I was being analytical,” he said. “Sir.”

His hands loosening his tie, Wilson shot him a look. “You’ve been working for me for months now. Do I still need to remind you to watch your tone?”

“Apparently,” Brandon grumbled, opening the closet and looking at the row of expensive, perfectly ironed shirts. White shirt, he decided after a moment. By the time he turned around, Wilson had already unbuttoned his pale blue shirt. Shrugging out of it, he dropped it onto the floor.

Brandon scowled at it. “I can't believe you make me do this. Try taking care of this because of the cost of my four months salary put together. It is a shame that you handle them with disrespect. Sir,” he added hastily at Ferrara’s hard look.

He still didn’t understand why Wilson needed to change his shirts in-between meetings. Becky had mentioned that their boss was very sensitive to smells and didn’t like even a hint of sweat on his clothes—which was why Brandon also kept a change of clothes at work—but it still seemed ridiculous to him.

Brandon picked up the discarded shirt and sniffed it. It smelled perfectly nice: of skin and Wilson’s subtle cologne or aftershave—Brandon still wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled really good. Way to be picky.

“It smells fine,” he said.

Wilson ignored him.

A ringtone broke the silence.

Brandon twitched before realizing it was Wilson’s personal phone.

Answering it, he said something in Italian.

Brandon handed him the fresh shirt, trying not to eye his boss’s muscular torso enviously. Man, it just wasn’t fair. He wished he had a body that good. Not that Brandon didn’t have some decent muscles, but Wilson’s muscle definition was just… yeah. Brandon glanced enviously at those broad shoulders, thick biceps, well-defined chest and a perfect six-pack. Maybe he should hit the gym more often. And go to the beach from time to time, though he could only dream of a warm skin tone like that.

Wilson shrugged into the offered shirt, but he seemed distracted by the conversation, speaking fast in Italian.

After a moment’s hesitation, Brandon stepped closer and started buttoning up the shirt, knowing how much Wilson hated inefficiency.

The man stood still, allowing him to do it, a deep furrow appearing between his brows as he continued his conversation in Italian.

Christ, his privileged upbringing was so obvious at times like this. Wilson accepted help dressing him without even noticing it as if it was normal. Now Brandon understood what Brenda had meant when she said that Wilson had a different mentality and was raised differently. Power, superiority, and privilege oozed from his every pore. It felt like this man had been born to be served, and everyone around him seemed to sense it, submitting to his iron will as if it was only right. It was utterly disgusting and Brandon hated himself a little, but he was no different from others in that regard. He should be ashamed of himself for what he did to the others, who acted like houseflies following around a corpse on that faithful day when his interview was delayed. Now he knew what spell Wilson cast on them.

These days, Wilson often didn’t even need to give him orders verbally—Brandon was doing things for him before being ordered to. It was bizarre and more than a little strange, to be honest. He creeped himself out occasionally.

When he was done with the shirt, he paused, watching Wilson’s fingers tuck the shirt into his trousers and tighten his belt. Stepping closer again, Brandon fixed his boss’s tie and then stroked it, marvelling at its pleasant texture. He used to think that overpaying for brand-name products was stupid, but sometimes expensive stuff was nice. Then he reached for Wilson’s discarded suit jacket and helped him shrug back into it. And just in time. Wilson hung up, his expression was vaguely irritated, his broad shoulders tense under the jacket. Yep, definitely, he needs to get laid.

“Do you want me to call one of your… girlfriends?” Brandon offered.

Black eyes shifted to him. “My girlfriends?”

Brandon tried not to fidget. “You know, the women who call you constantly? I don’t know what you call them.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Brandon forced himself to hold his heavy gaze. “I’m just trying to help. You seem tense. Sir. You always act like a d**k when you haven’t gotten laid in a while.”

“I act like a d**k,” Wilson repeated slowly, sitting down in his customized black chair behind his desk.

Brandon looked at him warily. “Notice that I didn’t say you were a d**k. I said you act like a d**k. There’s a difference. I didn’t call you a d**k. So, you can’t fire me over that.”

Wilson simply regarded him for a moment. “I should fire you right now. I should have fired you months ago. You’re the most useless, insolent, disrespectful assistant I’ve ever had.”

Rolling his eyes, Brandon smiled. “You say it all the time, but I have it on a good note that I’ve lasted longer than any of your previous assistants.”

“Only because you would accuse me of purposely setting you up to lose your ridiculous bet if I were to fire you.”

Brandon laughed a little. “Please. As if you haven’t been setting me up to fail.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re delusional if you think I have nothing better to do with my time—or that you would still be here if I really put my mind to it. I wouldn’t even need to fire you. You’d quit yourself. Oh, I can let hell loose.”

“Let's see you try,” Brandon challenged, giving him a crooked smile.