Your Boss Says Hi (Vengeful Vixens #1) Read Online Indie Sparks

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Vengeful Vixens Series by Indie Sparks

Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)

This is a revenge story. Well, that’s my intention, anyway . . .

I, Oakley Durant, am nobody’s fool, at least not once I’ve seen photographic evidence. If my smug-faced, lying boyfriend thinks he can gaslight me out of believing that I saw who and what I saw on his phone, he’s got a wake-up call coming in hot. I recognize her and the cross-eyed squirrel on her shoulder—which should definitely have left her with more than a few RAGRETS!
But we’re at his company picnic, and I am not going to make a spectacle of myself. I’m going to have one more free margarita, and then I’m going to get the hell out of here.
This is rock-solid plan . . . until the owner of the company, Hollis Nyx, former NFL player/current Daddy Thick Thighs (ugh, don’t ask, and please do not encourage my use of this nickname – it could only end embarrassingly for me), raises his beer at me and smiles. It would be rude not to say hello and introduce myself.
You know how sometimes hello leads to a conversation, which leads to some mild flirtation, which leads to two people in the elevator headed up to the president/CEO’s impressive corner office? Yeah, it’s like that.
Listen, nobody’s looking for a happily ever after here. I know exactly what I’m doing with this man. I’m getting even, that’s all. This is just one incredibly hot, spite-fueled encounter on his huge leather couch. And up against his tinted (probably) windows. And in his private bathroom. And it only makes sense that a gentleman like Hollis Nyx would buy me dinner afterward. But that’s where it ends. This is no fairy tale. No swoon-worthy romance.
Nope, never going to happen.


Chapter one

How It Started

Christian never made it any secret he thought he was smarter than me. His accomplishments were always bigger, his job more important, his plans more logical . . . but he must take me for a complete idiot if he thinks he can gaslight me into believing I didn’t get a clear look at that image on his phone. Raw and uncensored. If he hadn’t ripped it out of my hand and hit delete faster than a politician leaving a whorehouse, I’d have that shameless shot on my own phone now as permanent evidence.

“How long have you been fucking her?”

“Oakley, come on. It was just some random girl from the internet. You know my brother sends me that shit all the time. I hadn’t even seen that one yet.”

“Right. Some random girl with the same cross-eyed squirrel inked on her shoulder and bangs so choppy they look like her busted tattoo came to life and chewed them off!” There is not enough tequila in Texas for me to have misinterpreted that picture.

“Okay, now you’re just being mean. Her tattoo is not that bad.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she has no ragrets! You cheating, sack of shit, fuck boy!”

“Jesus, will you calm down? I already told you that picture wasn’t who you think it was. Your jealousy makes you paranoid. It’s not a good look, babe.”

“Can you hear the words coming out of your mouth?” The last thing I want to do is make a scene at his company picnic, but if I don’t put some distance between us right now, he’ll be leaving this corporate circus in an ambulance. And I’ll be going out in handcuffs. It’s a good time for another trip to the margarita machine.

Carnival games line the grassy lawn of the Nyx International campus, everything from old-fashioned options like ring toss and balloon darts to electronic basketball hoops and a virtual reality quest of some sort. As I walk, I consider which ones I might want to play to occupy my time and keep me away from Christian. What’s the point? Could I actually enjoy anything right now?

Getting railed by a stranger in this sundress.

Shut up, tequila.

There is something delicious about angry sex, though. I let it play out in my mind for a moment, a revenge fuck I can throw in his face before we split the silverware . . . like it would really make me feel better to bang one of his coworkers just because he’s doing one of mine.

Anyway, the silverware all belongs to me. We won’t be splitting a damn thing from that drawer.

When I tell him I’m taking the silverware, he’ll grab the barbecue tools. I’ll say the painted champagne glasses are mine because they were a gift from my mom, and he’ll say I better not even think about taking the Waterford crystal goblets his mom gave us, or the beer steins his dad got for him in Germany. Always with the one-upmanship. So predictable. I can already see exactly how this will go: I’ll take one thing, and he’ll claim something he considers bigger and better.