“Terra,” he shouts, fingers curling tightly around the mug of chamomile that sits on his desk. “Where are the files for the Bachmann account?” His useless secretary scrambles to find the files he had asked for hours ago.
“I-I’m sorry sir,” she says, meek as she continues to scramble until finally she pulls them from under a stack and hands them to him.
Briefly, he considers his life. Rhys has always tried to be controlled. He has always tried his best to hold back the fury that rested just under his skin. But sometimes, every so often one bumbling idiot would come along and make him loose his composure. When he had hired Ms. Lakely she had looked so needy, and him being the sympathetic person he was, hadn’t thought twice about the fact that though her resume was good, it was highly disorganized. Now he regrets that decision.
He slides the file over to himself, opening to the first page as he takes a sip of his tea. His desk is organized, files neatly stacked at the left corner, laptop angled perfectly at the center of his desk and to the right, his computer with its large, hulking screen resting perfectly by the end of his metal desk. The entire atmosphere exudes perfection. Rhys has never been one for having his life disorganized—that personality trait had been beaten into him very early on—but his assistant seemed to constantly be undermining his need for organizational fluency. He was so very close to telling her to quit.
Toying with his spoon, rested neatly beside the coaster under his mug, he looks over the file. Clicking his tongue he picks up a pen and begins to correct his secretary’s mistakes. Honestly. Impatience rising up inside, he stands and walks over to her. “Ms. Lakely,” he says, his voice smooth and composed as he looks down at her. “You are to send in your two weeks notice. I will write you a recommendation with the highest marks, and then I want you out of my office, am I clear?”
The girl pales and nods. “Yessir.”
At the end of the day he is without a secretary and his stomach is burning from the stress. He honestly believes it’s a shame he can’t drink, because that would be perfection right about now.
Rhys is a sensible man, however, and as he gets into his car he knows exactly where to go to relieve some of his stress. The club is called the Peppermint Hippo, and however disgusting the name; no one questions his presence there. Deciding to leave his jacket in the car, he pulls off his tie and rolls up his sleeves, ready to enjoy himself for the night.
At the bar he orders a club soda—no lime—and sips at his drink while he scans the room, searching for something interesting.