The Accountant

"I want an expresso from next door. If the guys give you any trouble remind them who you work for."

"Yes sir."

Chris, lost in numbers and creative tax loopholes, hardly registered the distant tone in Tammy Lyn's voice. The ex-stripper incident was never far from his mind and he was bombarded with violent thoughts involving his employer. He'd experienced this before—unyielding ruminations he couldn't help but fixate on. And they all had paid off in the end, the quest for mental absolution journeying him to destinations few could envision. He was nearing something big but didn't know what, which only aggravated him more.

The front door buzzed and the security feed showed Tammy Lyn. Chris buzzed her in and watched her close the door back. He got back to his work, his head craned over a form, double-checking bogus expenses. This relaxed him, brought his mind to focus. For Chris Peters, numbers and ledgers were monotonous white noise, the equivalent of a runner's iPod, a writer's glass of wine, a porn star's—

"Shit!" he snapped, jerking upright, sending his chair scuttling back into a bank of cabinets.

Hot Italian coffee darkened his pants then sunk to the skin underneath. Scolding hot. He quickly undid his pants, holding the searing fabric off his junk. He glanced at the forms on the desk: still white, crisp, and totally bogus. That was something. He was mentally deescalating himself when he spied Tammy Lyn standing to his right, her arms crossed. The look on her face, he'd seen it on a few ex-girlfriends but never on his Blue Rose. What was wrong? What was she upset about? Did those assholes next door—

Wait a goddamn minute . . . Did she? No. No way . . . Could she?

"What the hell, Tammy!?"

No answer, but her face doubled down on fuming, raging scorn, her 130-ish voluptuous frame standing undaunted in the shadow of his thoroughly muscled 185.

Chris was livened. She was supposed to his Blue Rose, his Zen garden made flesh and blood. Why would she fuck him like this? Ungrateful little—

"Let's play a game," he said deathly calm, feeling his eyes ice over. "You tell me what's your deal and I'll decide if you can keep your job. Go."

Tammy Lyn, like a rabbit confronting a trespassing wolf, was filled with righteous rage. "You never tell me good job anymore."

Chris eyes widened as he stepped closer, putting them face to face, his anger infused with the scent of roosted coffee. "News flash, scalding your boss's cock isn't 'good job' worthy. I don't know what your—"

"I sat it down, right there," she snapped, pointing a manicured nail down at his desk, her feistiness shocking him to silence. "Just like I did for the last three days. I said 'Here's your espresso, Mr. Peters. Would you like anything else?' But you ignored me every time."

"Ignored you?!" he spat in disbelief, motioning to her big tits. "A blind man in a coma couldn't ignore you. And it's call focus. That's how I'm able to do what I do. It's the reason why you have job, which apparently you don't want anymore."

Tammy Lyn grimaced with pursed lips as her little nostrils flared. Then she turned and left, stumbling a bit in her heels as she stalked to the door.

"And where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Home!" she cried without looking back.

"Oh, the hell you are!"

Calling upon his track and field background, Chris beat her to the door, slamming it shut as she went to open it—all while holding his pants up one-handedly. They turned on each other with heated faces.

"Somewhere you got me confused for a nice guy," Chris said, his anger flaring. He slowly shook his head. "I'm not. Empathy-deficient son-of-a-bitch is my natural state. So you don't get to quit," he said, staring threatening into her blue eyes. "You work for me until I say otherwise."

He was bracing himself for a spirited rebuttal when, suddenly, Tammy Lyn's face crumbled into itself like a hurt child. Her eyes reddened so quickly it stunned him—and the tears.

"I don't wanna quit!" she cried, her raw emotion like a punch to his face. "I want to be the best secretary I can be! But you won't tell me what I'm doing wrong!" she whimpered, her eyes staring at him as if she'd been betrayed. "You act like I'm not even here—like you feel too sorry for me to fire me. I know I'm not too smart but I can do the job, Mr. Peters," she begged, looking up to him before self-doubt and a lifetime of insecurity lowered her head. "Just tell me what to do."

Comprehension and his behavior over the last three days drowned Chris like a wave. Something deep inside him ached at her tears and quivering lips—his Blue Rose.

"Oh, sweetie..."

Chris took her into his arms, tucking her into his 6'2" athletic frame. He rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. Still she wept, her little fingers clinging to his dress shirt. It was all his fault. He hadn't hugged or patted her bum since Monday and she was thought she was doing a bad job. Monday afternoon had blinded him to so much.

He guided them over to the couch and grabbed the box of tissue on the way. It wasn't until he felt the cool leather against his thighs that he realized his pants had slid to his ankles. He left it. His dress shirt hid his junk—most of it.

"Tammy Lyn, I owe you an apology," he began. "It's been a stressful week and I've took it out on you. I'm sorry." He rubbed her shoulder as she dabbed her eyes.

". . . What about synergy?" she asked with a small voice. "Why didn't you have me hug you?" She looked over to him with searching eyes. "You said it helped."

Ironically, that was exactly what he needed Monday afternoon. But instead of utilizing his secretary's comforting arms and soft ass, he'd used scotch.

Chris sighed. "I'm not used to having a secretary, sweetie. I didn't think."

Tammy Lyn blinked, her eyes searching his face as her own began to resemble something of its youthful, cheery self. "I would've hugged you but I thought you were mad at me."

Chris shook his head with a furrowed brow, assuring her that that was not the case. "No, sweetie. I'm mad at myself for making you think that. I wasn't mad. Whenever I'm stressed I zone out and bury myself in work."

Tammy Lyn nodded, her eyes dry but still a little red. "Well, part of my job is doing stuff you like without having to be told. So the next time you're stressed, do you want me to just walk up and hug you?"

The question, combined with her innocent expression, was the sweetest thing he ever witnessed. He nodded. "Please."

A small smile played on Tammy Lyn's lips. "Okay."

Chris gazed into her soft blue eyes. Then he slid his hand down to her waist and patted her stocking-clad thigh. It was like Christmas on her face, as if she'd finally found a present under a normally barren tree.

"You've been terrific, Tammy Lyn," Chris said, just loving being so close to her eyes. Meanwhile, his hand slid up her thigh, beneath her loose black skirt, to the ass he'd grown to covet. And if his hand on her bare ass cheek made her uncomfortable, she hid it better than an offshore bank account in the Caymans. "Absolutely perfect," he added, squeezing her plump ass cheek.

Fuck, she was wearing a thong.

His praise and validating touch rendered all past transgressions forgotten. Tammy Lyn gazed into her boss's eyes, crossing her legs to allow his evaluating hand better access. "Thank you, Mr. Peters," she said softly.

Spilt coffee notwithstanding, she was having a marked effect on his cock. She'd worn a sexy new outfit each day. Tuesday, she wore a booty-hugging pencil skirt and a low-cut blouse that showcased her spectacular cleavage. A striped, sweater dress on Wednesday that made her the perfect instrument for tracing an hourglass; while Thursday brought stylish jeans, heels and halter top. Today was the flared short skirt, sheer black stockings, and a tight maroon turtleneck shirt that showed every ounce of her gravity-defying, D-cup tits.

He wanted to push her down on the couch and savage her cunt. The temptation was too much to bear.

But bless him, he resisted. It was his reprehensible declaration that she couldn't quit that reigned him in. Mostly because he'd meant it; but he also wanted to be as honest as he could. He owed her that much, at least.

So he hugged her and offered to take her to lunch. It was here that she remembered the coffee and was beside herself with remorse. But Chris waved it off, saying it was a hidden blessing. Besides, he lived here and had a closet full of suits. Tammy Lyn breathed a little easier and tried to not stare at his "thing." Her face reddened when the phrase 'hidden blessing' came to mind.

***

After tidying themselves up from "Coffee Gate," the two locked up and jumped into Chris's BMW. Tammy Lyn was visibly impressed by its luxuriousness: the soft dark leather, the knob-heavy dashboard, the sleek moon roof, the deep vroom.

They headed north to Uptown, to a "real" Italian restaurant, located near his penthouse almost an hour away, giving them time to laugh and talk. Chris learned that Tammy Lyn lived with her mother and grandmother on the outskirts of town. He offered his heartfelt condolences upon hearing that her father died ten years ago in a worksite accident. When he reached over to pat her knee, she grasped it and gazed out of her window, saying her mom took it real hard. This was what led to her giving up "real" school for homeschool—so she could help more at home.

Through it all, she rubbed Chris's hand and seemed to prefer it on her leg than the wheel.

Chris concurred.

In Uptown, they were welcomed by tall buildings towering around them like chrome pillars while well-groomed men and stylish women walked arm-in-arm atop pristine sidewalks. Onward they cruised, to the restaurant, where Tammy Lyn was amazed by everything, from the valet parking in front of the revolving glass doors, to the pianist playing inside the low-lit restaurant. Overwhelmed, she clung defensively to Chris's side, who showed extra care to make her feel at ease, complimenting her: how he loved having his beautiful Blue Rose on his arm. Blushing was new for Tammy Lyn but she proved a natural, smiling wide and gloriously whenever her boss sneaked a squeeze. She was falling in love with her job all over again.

***

It was a little after four when boss and secretary returned to the office. Tammy Lyn was in full bloom. The food had been unbelievable, flooring her; and she was floored again when he suggested they eat there every Friday until she'd tried the whole menu. The ride back had been memorable as well. At Mr. Peters' urging, she played with the radio and pressed the abundant button that populated the opulent dashboard. Her smile was joyful and touched something deep within Chris as the two cruised down the highway, him rubbing her thigh and she his hand.

In his office, Chris was relaxing on the couch, watching Tammy Lyn bending over the bar. His eyes locked on her sheer stockings, the dark seam that ran the length of her sexy legs. She was like that for a while, bent over at the waist, pouring a splash at a time. Her skirt had ridden up—an inch more and he would see the lace stockings tops. Christ, her thighs looked good. They had a ripe, plumpness to them. His cock swelled as he imagined how they'd feel wrapped around his neck and waist. He reverted back to his nerd days of high school, calling on the Force to lift her skirt. There is no try; only do. Wise fucking words.

The glass finally full, Tammy Lyn strutted back to the couch. She was in no hurry, wanting to show off her pretty new clothes. Chris was transfixed. His eyes never wavered from the sauntering steps of her legs or the voluminous sway of her hips and breasts. Mesmerized, he made a mental note to put in flooring that'd make her heels clack.

Standing in front of him, she bent at the waist and presented the amber-filled crystal tumbler. "Your drink, Mr. Peters," she said, with the seductive subtlety of a cocktail waitress. He would've be able to look down her top if it wasn't a turtleneck. Still, the angle offered a gawk-worthy view of her lumbering globes—and he did gawk, was no longer hesitant not too. Such was their rapport.

"Thank you, Ms. Davidson," he said, staring now into her eyes. He took a sip, studying her chest again as she slowly bent upright, her rising skirt stopping mid-thigh, tempting him to call upon the Force again.

Standing with hands clasped demurely over her lap, Tammy Lyn turned to sit next to him on the couch.

"Wait a sec," he said, grasping her just above the knee. She stopped, leaning into his touch, receptive. He raked her profile with his eyes. "You look amazing in that—you've looked amazing all week."

She smiled and stepped over into the gap between his legs, preening the bottom of the skirt with her fingers. "Which outfit did you like more?" she asked, trying not to smile from ear-to-ear.

Sitting back with a glass of scotch—like a boss—while his curvy secretary stood before him like a stripper, Chris admired her with hooded eyes. "I haven't seen all of this one yet," he said, bringing the tumbler to his lips. He looked up to her and sucked a draught of smooth amber pass his lips, and twirled his finger in the air.

Yes, Tammy Lyn was receptive, eager to please her boss. Sara's mom said that a secretary's first and last job was keeping her boss happy. You'll make more money, she said. But while Tammy Lyn could use the extra money, she loved being Mr. Peters' secretary. Making him happy made her happy.

So she gave a small giggle, feeling her nipples harden inside bra, as his sexy eyes lowered in a way that made her insides squirm. She turned slowly, trying not to trip in her tall heels, swiveling her head to watch his expression. Presenting her side profile, Tammy Lyn grew a little anxious. She thought her bum was too big. But when she spied a look at Mr. Peters, she saw him take a big gulp, his eyes glued to her backside. Maybe he . . . Could he? Did he actually like her big fat butt?

"Mr. Peters?" she asked, softly, turning her back him, averting her gaze.

". . . Yes, sweetie?"

She turned until she could barely see him over her shoulder. "Do you think my butt's too big?" She saw him shaking his head, vehemently, even before he answered, saying her butt was perfect—F-ing perfect—that he could look at it all day, that it relaxed him as much as her hugs.

Finally turning to face him, Tammy Lyn smiled and said, "So which outfit you liked more?"

Chris smiled, looking her up and down, his face contradicting the thoughts in his head. "'More'? That's a hard one," Chris said, eyeing the budding nipples beneath her maroon top. "I like skirts, but I liked how your ass and legs looked in those pants you wore on Monday."

He blanched at his words, after the fact, but if Tammy Lyn was offended by the blatant objectification she was the worst feminist he'd ever seen. Staring up into her eyes, he reached for her hand, which she readily offered. Hers were small and soft in his, as he rubbed her knuckle.

"God your eyes are beautiful," he blurted out in a whisper.

Not a word from her, but her chest heaved rapidly under her tight turtleneck while his gaze melted her insides like chocolate. They stared deeply into each other's eyes—she standing, he sitting—suspended together at a moment that few pe—

The phone rang.

Chris blinked and reluctantly released Tammy Lyn's hand, who stepped back, hesitantly, before teetering to the door. Chris smiled at the clumsy heel display and rose to his feet. He approached his desk just as the intercom buzzed.

"Mr. Peters, there's a, Bobby Sit-on-my . . . F-ing Face, for you," Tammy Lyn said, revealing a latent vulnerability to assholes.

A muscle in Chris's jaw flexed as he clopped the tumbler down on his desk. He buzzed back. "Thank you, Ms. Davidson, I'll take it." Then he grabbed the receiver to his ear and, before the fat bastard could speak, spat, "Don't you ever dribble your filth to my secretary. Ever! She's not one of your whores."

"Jeez, calm down, man," a boisterous voice drawled on the other line. "Just shootin' the shit with the help. Have a drink why don't you . . . Or I could send a topping over." A high pitch cackle erupted, that of a twenty-something man who was aging too fast. "Yeah, like a pizza delivery, but with pussy!" he said, following the anecdote with another cackle.

Bobby "Jabba" Blankenship, amateur pimp, professional druggie, manager and proprietor of Jabba's Cat Trap, and longtime . . . buddy of Chris Peters.

Chris rolled his eyes and reclined in his seat. "Call here with a respect," he said over the continuous laughter. He saw Tammy Lyn approach his door and pull it open then stick her head inside. He smiled and waved her in.

The fat blowhard droned on, saying the "delivery" would be free of charge—they were boys.

"No thanks, Bobby," Chris said, watching the sway of Tammy Lyn's hips as she walked to his desk. She slowed as she reached his desk, eyeing him, her hand reaching tentatively for one of the chairs.

Chris shook his head at her then pointed at a spot on the desk, just to the right of a stack of forms. Bypassing the chairs, Tammy Lyn came around, her head down in an attempt to conceal her wide smile. She failed.

"... And speaking of shit toppings," Bobby continued, jovially. "I just got the total damage of that hot little pepper you saved from the garbage bin..."

Meanwhile, Tammy Lyn was scooting her juicy bum back onto the desk. She crossed her stocking-clad legs.

"Jesus," Chris whispered after hearing an unmercifully long list. He closed his eyes and sighed, amazed by the resilience of the human body. His hand was beside Tammy Lyn's thigh, tapping a legal pad incessantly. He was about to reach for his scotch when she grasped his hand and placed it over her crossed knee. He looked up her.

Smiling, she mouthed: Synergy.

His grin was instant. That was when Bobby laid another deuce in his ear.

At hearing it, Chris swiveled away from Tammy Lyn, his eyes and mouth open in disbelief. But his hand didn't leave her knee.

"What the—!? Pay her own medical..." He stopped himself, working his jaw in agitation. Then he grabbed the tumbler and threw it back, letting the slick ball of ice roll at his lips, clopping the empty glass down. Tammy Lyn took it in hand and held it up in silent query. He thought a moment then gave a quick nod. Uncrossing her legs, she slid off the desk, the carpet catching her heels with a muted thud. Chris watched her cross the room to the bar, her short black skirt flaring as she went.

"We're boys but I have to ask it, man," Bobby said, tone sobering. "No disrespect, you know? But this is business, man, and I have—"

"Spit it out, Bobby," Chris said flatly, taking the glass from Tammy Lyn, who managed to fill it in record time. She immediately took her spot back on the desk, an inch or two, closer. Chris sipped then sat the glass down. He swiveled away then reached back blindly for his secretary's leg. His hand grasped a stocking-clad calf and rubbed its entire length.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not making a play on your piece. I'm not a pim—. I'm a numbers guy. You know that..."—He rubbed the length of Tammy Lyn's leg, wrapping his hand around her slender ankle before sliding it back up to her calf. She scooted closer.

"Impressed? With me? Jabba, slow down. Think this through. He could've taken offense just as easily. Then it would've been me laying..." Chris moved his hand to Tammy Lyn's knee, gave it a little nudge, then rubbed her thigh after she'd dutifully uncrossed her legs. "My 'masterplan'? Jesus, Bobby, listen to yourself. I'm smart but not a fucking Jedi..."