The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.
That’s being nice.
And nice isn’t something I do.
Give me something in return, and maybe I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with a made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can’t forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.
I get what I want because I don’t give a damn.
About anyone or anything.
I just want to have fun, but even now, that game is fast becoming old.
I am bored and need a new challenge—something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place by accident, of course.
Our office is one giant playground. I dub myself the school bully, and the Ice Queen is my target. It’s her own fault, though. I’ve never met a woman so fucking uptight where you’d need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.
It is one juicy ass, though—perky, with that round bounce that you just know will make a terrific sound when you slap it with your palm.
But that is beside the point—way beside the point.
I don’t like her stubbornness, nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathe the way she answers every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wears which makes her look like a schoolgirl. All right, perhaps there are benefits to that skirt if you picture her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through, but it is not appropriate office attire.
What irks me most is the way she parades around the office with her nose stuck up in the air—Miss I’m-Too-Good-For-All-You-Juveniles-So-I’m-Going-To-Act-Like-A-Fucking-Grandma.
Yeah, she thinks she is fucking all that. I don’t like women like her, especially when they parade that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her because he had a small dick and knew he’d hit the jackpot. Yeah, well, I’ve got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me.
The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The Ice Queen didn’t even look sad. I don’t even think she shed a tear, and probably Mr. Small Dick found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.
It is exactly the challenge I need.
And I don’t intend to play nice.
Nice is for chumps.
It wasn’t a payback, and it wasn’t vindictive.
It was clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that… it was dirty fun.
There is only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I exist. I have to make her life in the office a living hell and push all the right fucking buttons. She is vying for a promotion, and perhaps—so am I. The same very role.
According to her, if it walks and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.
But I understand the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently—to be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
From a very early age, I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn’t shy about telling me I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn’t consider it a bad thing as my grammy was the most beautiful lady who ever existed, next to my mother, of course.
It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center position.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well, dear Mother, other girls had Barbies with godawful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
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