Working with the Devil

“Here are the development papers you asked for,” I said, setting the first stack onto his desk, “and this bunch contains the finance details. I highlighted the budget surplus in yellow, just to give you a little dopamine hit.”

I handed over the blueprints and paperwork for our latest community center project, feeling that familiar spark of pride. Ramon, my boss, was in his late sixties but possessed the kind of crisp, sun-drenched vitality that made him look fifty at a stretch.

The man was healthy as a horse, a detail I appreciated because it meant he had the energy to actually teach me the ropes instead of just dumping grunt work on my desk. He treated me like a partner in crime, not a shadow.

“Thanks, Delilah,” he croaked, followed by a dry, hacking cough that instantly ruined his vibrant-older-statesman aesthetic.

“Also,” I said, dipping my hand into my pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, “here.” I set a brand-new bottle of cherry-flavored cough syrup right on top of his ledger.

“I noticed you were hacking your way through the marketing meeting. You’re brilliant, Ramon, but it’s hard to command a room when you sound like a broken radiator.”

Ramon stared at the bottle, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that familiar, proud warmth that always made me glad I took this job.

“This is exactly why you are the best assistant in the entire world. I’m giving you a glowing review. To everyone. Forever.”

“I’m holding you to that,” I smiled, cracking open my notepad just in case. He was the only boss I’d ever had who actually respected my time, which made me want to give him 110% of it.

“I’m heading out for the day, but before I leave is there anything you need me to do?”

“As of now? Not a single thing. You’ve cleared the deck,” he said, waving a dismissive, ring-clad hand toward the door with a kind smile.

“Go, escape. Enjoy the sunshine. Have a wonderful weekend, Del.”

“Don’t ignore that syrup,” I warned, closing my notebook with a satisfying snap.

“See you Monday, Ramon.” I turned around and headed out.

I decided to brave the grocery store before heading home, mostly because my fridge currently contained nothing but half a lime, some bread slices and a jar of mustard.

An hour later, I was standing in the checkout line with a cart full of actual sustenance, mentally calculating how fast I could get home and into my sweatpants.

Ten tedious minutes passed before I finally reached the conveyor belt, but just as the cashier started scanning my pasta sauce, the peace was shattered.

“Sir, your card was declined,” the cashier said, her voice dropping into that dangerously polite customer-service octave.

I glanced over. Standing at the register next to mine was a man tailored within an inch of his life, glaring down at the teenager behind the counter like she had personally personally insulted his ancestors.

“Try it again,” he growled, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “It’s impossible. It doesn’t decline.”

The poor girl’s hands were visibly shaking as she swiped the plastic again. I felt a hot spike of second-hand anxiety prickling the back of my neck. Some people, I muttered under my breath, catching my own cashier’s eye. Literally do not know how to exist in public. She gave me a look of pure, weary solidarity.

“Sir, I’m so sorry, it’s still not going through,” the teenager whimpered.

“You and your stupid, piece-of-shit machines!” the man roared. In a flash of pure, unhinged corporate rage, he grabbed the entire card terminal, ripped it from its tether, and hurled it across the front-end before storming out the automatic doors.

What an absolute, textbook ass, I thought, aggressively shoving my almond milk into a brown paper bag.

My adrenaline was still buzzing when I pushed my cart out to the parking lot, a feeling that instantly curdled into annoyance when I realized a sleek, obsidian vehicle was parked at a brutal angle, completely trapping my Honda Civic. I walked closer, and because the universe loves a theme, found the exact same asshole from the register sitting in the driver’s seat, exhaling a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Excuse me,” I said, putting on the ultra-sweet, customer-service smile I usually reserved for difficult marketing clients. I didn’t want drama; I wanted dinner.

“You’re blocking me in. Do you mind moving, please?”

He didn’t even look at me. He just blew a stream of smoke directly into my face. I choked, coughing as the ash-laden air hit my lungs.

“What exactly has got your knickers in such a spectacular twist today?” I grumbled, my sweetness evaporating instantly.

He finally cut his eyes toward me, dusting his ash out the window.

“You got some guy waiting on you, or are you just naturally this desperate?”

My brain stalled. “Wha—me? Desperate?” I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“What about you? Are you always a textbook dick, or is today a special occasion? Because based on the very brief, highly traumatic window of time I’ve known you, you seem like a wildly entitled asshole.”

Before he could respond, I marched to my door, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and slammed it so hard the frame rattled.

Breathe in, Delilah. In for four, out for four.

I gripped the steering wheel, trying to de-escalate my own nervous system. There was no point in getting riled up over a man who clearly needed an anger management seminar and a lesson in basic human decency. In the rearview mirror, I watched his car finally grunt into reverse, clearing just enough space for me to back out.

I threw the car into drive and hit the main road, a wave of pure relief washing over me. Five minutes. I was five minutes away from safety, sweatpants, and sanity.

Then I looked in the rearview mirror again.

The sleek black Range Rover was right behind me.

A cold, heavy drop of dread pooled in my stomach. Coincidence, I told myself. It’s just a main road. To test the theory, I took a sudden, sharp left into a residential neighborhood.

The SUV swung left, too. I took an immediate right. It followed. Another left. Still there. My heart was suddenly hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, suffocatingly loud in the quiet cabin of my car.

I hit the speed dial for Lila, my roommate and best friend.

“Hey, Lils,” I squeaked, my voice betraying the sheer panic coursing through me.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?” I could practically hear her bolts of intuition firing through the line; she knew my baseline, and this wasn’t it.

“I think some actual psycho is following me from the grocery store,” I said, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What?” There was a frantic rustling sound on her end, the unmistakable noise of her pacing our living room.

“Okay, look at me—well, don’t look at me, you’re driving—how far away are you?”

“Two minutes. I’m practically there.”

“Okay, I’m coming down to the curb. Stay on the line.” More chaotic ruffling ensued.

“Lila, what are you doing?” I asked, checking the mirror again. He was still riding my bumper.

“Arming myself for a tactical defense operation,” her voice muffled as if she’d set the phone down to rummage through a closet.

“I just passed The Autumn Pot,” I reported, my voice shaking.

“I’m on the stairs,” she fired back, the heavy echo of our apartment stairwell confirming her descent.

“Okay, I’m pulling up to the curb now. Oh god, Lila, he’s still right there.”

There was a brief pause on the line.

“Are you referring to the incredibly expensive, midnight-black Range Rover?” I could hear the immediate, deeply inappropriate shift to judgment in her voice.

“Yes!”

“Okay, well, a very wealthy psycho is following you,” she teased, her voice bleeding through both the phone and the open air as I pulled up to our building.

“This is literally the inciting incident of a dark romance novel, Del.”

“Or I’m about to become a cautionary tale in a true-crime documentary ten years from now,” I shot back, throwing the car into park.

“I’m coming up on your side,” she said, and the line went dead.

Through my windshield, I watched the Range Rover slow to a crawl, creeping toward my rear bumper like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Take this, you creepy, boundary-violating stalker!”

Suddenly, Lila materialized from the shadows of our awning like a chaotic, avenging angel. With precision form that would make an MLB pitcher weep, she began hurling raw eggs at the Range Rover’s pristine windshield.

Splat. Splat. Splat. Yellow yolk exploded across his line of sight.

I threw my door open, locked the car, and stared at her, utterly flabbergasted.

“This? This was the tactical defense operation?!”

“The knife is in my back pocket, take it out!” she yelled, aggressively thrusting her hip in my direction while searching her own coat.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around something metallic in her side pocket.

“Lila, this is a taser.”

“The other pocket!” she screamed.

Inside the Range Rover, the wiper blades swiped frantically, smearing raw egg into a blinding, opaque sheet of yellow goo. Through the messy glass, I saw the driver catch sight of me wielding a taser in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other, flanked by a woman who clearly had no regard for the price of groceries.

With a screech of tires that echoed down the block, the Range Rover slammed into reverse and sped away into the night.