Page 5 of Power

She pinned me with a glare. “Come on. We can’t just sit here and sulk. It’s not good for you, and more importantly, it’s boring.”

Fair point. I was sulking harder than a teenager who just got their phone confiscated. Even worse, I had zero desire to pull myself out of it. I wanted to skydive into the sky of suckiness and let it plummet me and my bad mood all the way to earth until … splat.

“I bet he’s not even giving this a second thought,” I grumbled.

“He’s probably smirking in his evil lair right now, twirling his metaphorical mustache and practicing his villainous laugh in front of a mirror.”

“The complete and utter asshat,” I agreed, mentally addinghim to my collection ofPeople Who Deserve Painful Paper Cuts Between Their Fingers for All Eternity.

“He’s not going to let this ruin his weekend,” she pointed out, hitting me right in the pride.

I gripped my glass tighter, the condensation cool against my palm. The woman had an annoying habit of making sense tonight, making me realize I did not, in fact, want to wallow. I refused to let him ruin my entire weekend. He didn’t deserve that kind of power.

“Fine,” I said, draining my glass with the determination of someone about to make questionable life choices. “But if we’re doing this, I’m going to need another drink. Something that makes terrible ideas sound intoxicating and comes with a side dish of poor judgment.”

“That’s the spirit!” Dakota coaxed. “It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.”

Dakota was the best work friend anyone could hope for, giving up her Friday night to listen to me grumble about some guy being the world’s biggest dick. The least I could do was try to pull myself out of this mood. For her sake.

So, fine. A game.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Laxatives in his coffee,” I offered. “Extra strength.”

She wrote it down, adding, “Right before the board meeting with our mystery buyer.”

Mystery buyer. Because, apparently, work wasn’t stressful enough with handsy executives. Management decided to spice things up by a) selling the business (cue collective panic attacks and stress-eating the entire vending machine inventory), and b) keeping the new owner’s identity locked down tighter than the Pentagon’s new weapons technology. Even Dakota, with her black belt in corporate gossip, couldn’t crack this one. When Dakota couldn’t get intel, it meant someone had basically buried it in the Mariana Trench.

And now, I wondered if the sale would add an extra level of complication to this whole thing.

“Ooh, shove an ice pick into his balls,” she proclaimed with disturbing enthusiasm.

My smile dropped. “That’s … surprisingly violent. Remind me to check your basement for missing persons before I accept any more dinner invitations.”

“We’ll never actually do it.” She waved her hand dismissively before jotting it down. “And don’t criticize my fantasy revenge ideas. This is a judgment-free zone of petty vengeance.”

Okay … fair enough. Mental note: file Dakota’s fantasies underYikesand maybe suggest therapy.

“Glue his desk drawers shut,” I suggested. “With industrial-strength adhesive.”

She smiled, adding it to the list.

“Replace his hand sanitizer with superglue,” she suggested.

“What about signing him up for every embarrassing email newsletter in existence?”

“Erectile dysfunction support groups.” Dakota nodded solemnly.

“Adult bed-wetting solutions.”

“DIY hemorrhoid treatments.”

“Farm animal breeding techniques,” I countered.

Dakota almost spat out her drink. “That got weird fast.”

“So did his hand on my leg, but here we are.” I shrugged, surprising myself with a genuine laugh.