Those versions are always kind to me.
(Er, well, not always— some of them have particularly filthy mouths and domination kinks that you can't really call "kind"—but the point is, they'd never bark at me like this.)
"To my, uh, desk?"
He points that broad, tattooed, expert oyster-shucking hand toward the conference room.
"Get in there. Now."
I frown. I'm not senior team, technically speaking.
That belongs to people with a "Chief" in front of their title, and despite the many zeroes on the contract salary I agreed to, no one is calling me "Chief" any time soon.
I glance. My coworkers are all suddenly deeply engrossed in their keyboards and/or cuticles. No help is coming from there.
So, with a resigned sigh, I leave my coffee thermos on my desk and herd myself into the glass-walled conference room along with the rest of the senior team.
It feels like a fish bowl with all of us crammed in here. I take a seat at the far end of the table.
