Hurry up, b***h. I'm hungry.
Okay, my stomach doesn't call me a b***h, but if she could talk, I'm sure she would.
She gurgles and growls again, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet portion of Vincent's floor. After a turbulent afternoon as his assistant where his mood ranged from angry to angrier, I worry at one point he'll slam open his office door and yell at me for being too loud.
I tear off a tiny chunk of my Snicker's bar and while hunched, partially hidden behind my desk, shove it in my mouth. Damn chocolate is amazing. I've been parceling out the king-sized bar since 2 p.m. It's now almost seven and if I don't feed my stomach something real, she is liable to revolt at any moment.
Nowhere in the thirteen-page contract human resources had me sign did it mention I'd have to work u
