Author: 1stsong4urmixt & _poetic_harlot_
Pairing: Jesse Lacey/ Adam Lazzara
Rating: A good old fashioned R
Disclaimer: I don't own them. This is all a fabrication. In other words; Fake.
Summary: He had been expecting far more from such a lucrative job. Editors were supposed to have stylish offices with skyline views. What the hell was with the window overlooking a parking garage?
I have worked at a particular company now for almost fifteen years and I recently just got a divorce from my husband of ten years. I’ve had the same boss for the entirety of my career and he and I have never gotten along, but a month after my divorce was finalized, one night when we were both staying after late, we ended up getting in a huge fight; which I might add is very typical. Well, you see, right in the middle of the fight something happened and the next thing you know, we’re getting it on, right there on his desk! The entire time we were having sex we were being so mean to one another; I went as far as to call him, “Tiny.” It has been over four months now and we are still carrying on this affair about twice a week, but seriously, there is no emotional connection, just this undying lust. Addy, do you think it’s wrong that we can’t stand one another, but seem to find one another sexually irresistible? Please help me!
I say, congratulations girl! Not only have you got a great job and survived a divorce, but you have found sexual pleasure at an age when most women are feeling less than horny. I say just stick with it, because obviously you two have had some serious pent up sexual tension for one another. I mean you guys have worked together for fifteen stinking years! And if you don’t have emotional feelings for him, then I suggest you take advantage of getting laid on the job! I think that you should go out and buy your self some skimpy skirts (yet still respectable) and sexy stilettos and walk around that office like you’ve got everyone by the balls because, girl, you deserve it! Keep me updated, honey!
The office was complete and total shit. Jesse Lacey carefully scanned his eyes across the room he stood in, his discerning gaze picking up every flaw in the paint, every bubble in the ceiling. He had been expecting far more from such a lucrative job. Editors were supposed to have stylish offices with skyline views. What the hell was with the window overlooking a parking garage?
After much deliberation about screaming and running out of the four-story building, or, even more dramatically, jumping out of a window, the twenty-six year old man opted to position himself in the generic, black office chair behind his desk. He ran his fingers, tan with short, tidy fingernails, over the cool metal surface that his computer now called home, letting out a meaningless sigh. A large ball of regret had jumbled itself inside his throat.
Before Jesse had taken this position, his previous job barely dished out large enough paychecks to even cover his rent. His eight-by-ten, standard, stream-lined cubicle was more inviting than this stark, blasé hole, though.
At least the ceiling above his cubicle wasn't threatening to fall and crack open his skull.
The new bulge in his bank account, he reminded himself, would more than cover a coat of white paint and a few scrapes at the peeling ceiling.
As Jesse's initial day played out, his odious attitude towards the job, the office, and the people began to fade. In all factuality, during his lunch hour, he sat with a few of his coworkers. They seemed to be the only men, other than him, working at the women’s magazine. The bunch of them spoke about sports and made overly thought-out jokes, most of which were directed at the previous night’s hilarious episode of "Sports Wrap." An all-female cast talking about the latest happenings in male sports seemed sacrilegious to his coworkers.
Half-way between his Italian sub and his macaroni salad, Jesse noticed a rather thin, rather loud person standing in the doorway of the staff cafeteria, arms waving frantically. This long-haired, androgynous form was addressing a girl who looked, in all honesty, petrified. Jesse didn't exactly blame her for her fear. Be the person male or female, the arms attached to his or her body were flopping and swinging at an amazingly dangerous pace, either to demonstrate some highly-important point or to draw the attention of someone willing to call an ambulance.
Jesse watched in both amazement and sheer horror as the creature walked over to the scared red-head, allowing him a better glimpse of the attention-seeking she-male. Jesse decided that this person had to be a male, simply because no woman would wear such a ghastly tight shirt, especially not if said woman was lacking in the chest department like the foreign being so clearly was.
The random stranger chatted to the woman for a moment and Jesse couldn't help but stare at the interaction between the two; first loud words and dramatic hand gestures along with pained expressions and then, oddly enough, familiar hugs and those fancy cheek to cheek kisses.
"What the fuck is with this place?" he muttered, more to himself than to his coworkers at the lunch table. One of them had heard him though, which was something of merit, given the circumstances. The topic had turned from sports to the surfing conditions. It was far beyond Jesse to understand how a heated discussion could arise from waves.
"That's Adam," Attentive Boy said. His real name was John No-something.
He was a bit too mousy to really ring bells and capture audiences with his introductions. "He writes the sex column."
Jesse, recognizing some shyness that he had once possessed (in his ugly teenage days when he had braces and hand-me-down sweats and t-shirts from his older sister), decided to ignore his near-mute tone and acknowledge him pleasantly. He merely nodded his head at the derelict man at his table; his pristine blue eyes finding their way back to watching this Adam character.
The only thing he wasn't expecting was this waiflike guy looking back, before, even more shockingly, making his way over to Jesse.
Adam stormed over to the table with his hand on his hip, glancing at the swatch watch on his wrist, so 1980’s it was cool again. "Um…you." he began, pointing directly at Jesse's face. "Intern. Your lunch break isn't supposed to be until all the people who actually get paychecks are finished."
Naturally, a look of sheer disbelief washed over Jesse's cool, near-always collected features. Was this kid high? Was he fucking delusional? What kind of intern ate lunch with fellow employees?
One eyebrow arched in elegant condescendence as his cerulean gaze met the muddy brown of the malnourished bastard in front of him. He could have given Adam the benefit of the doubt, assumed he was, perhaps, on some sort of medication that he had forgotten to take today, but Christ, he didn't even look like an intern. Interns looked like injured gazelle surrounded by circling lions. They also had the tendency to wear hideous ties.
The fuchsia and teal disaster hanging around Jesse's neck was a sheer mistake, not a sign of vulnerability. "I'm not quite sure if you know a word this big," Jesse began, not forgetting a single drop of derision in his tone, "but "Editor" usually entails a bit more prestige than, say, the resident blowjob expert"
Adam’s face paled considerably before turning a brilliant shade of red, going from embarrassed to enraged. This embarrassment greatly pleased Jesse, ever the sadist, but it truly pissed him off when Adam wagged a manicured finger in the most annoying manor fathomable. “Oh don’t you try pulling that shit on me, intern. I wasn’t born yesterday,” he stated with a smirk on his face as he shook his head. “Listen, why don’t you run off and get me a cup of coffee and we’ll pretend this little incident never happened, okay, Hun?” The sugary infliction that caked his southern tone only added insult to injury.
Being as he was beyond the point of sugary coatings, Jesse decided it best to simply go in for the kill. This malnourished, uneducated twit had the nerve to offend him, his boss, more or less. There was no reason, neither fathomable nor merely conceived out of kindness, that this beanpole anorexic deserved mercy.
A fleeting thought of how very pale this Adam fellow's skin was passed through his head as Jesse smacked said hand unnecessarily fiercely away from his face.
"Believe me, Hun, I'm not going to forget this little incident all that easily. I really hope you enjoy writing columns about knitting."
The waiflike figure scoffed at Jesse, rolling his honey-colored eyes in the editor’s direction. “Listen to me, asshole. I am the star writer for this magazine and no little intern playing a fucking joke is going to get me in a tizzy. I suggest you go to your little cubicle and start packing up your nerdy shit and leave. So with that, I say to you, fuck off and goodbye,” he screeched out before turning and walking out of the room, swaying his hips in the most sexual fashion imaginable, causing Jesse’s blood to boil even more.
He was not about to be shown up by some half-brained prepubescent boy who fell into his sister's jean drawer. For fuck's sake, this was his job and some guy, probably versed only in the pages of Karma Sutra books, was not going to make him appear like a jackass in front of his coworkers.
The appropriate term for what Jesse did would most likely be "storming." Babies screamed, dogs barked, car horns most likely sounded. He noticed none of it, though. He was intent on catching up to Adam and that was exactly what he did. With an outstretched hand, Jesse gripped the asshole's shoulder, purposely rough, and spun his skinny little form around. "Listen up, moron. You might've gotten this job by sucking off the last editor, but your disease-ridden mouth isn't going to get you anywhere at this magazine anymore." With eyes tactfully narrowing, Jesse held up his employee ID card, the word "EDITOR" printed bold and neat on the piece of plastic, right beside his (less than flattering) photo.
The expression on Adam’s face screamed “horror,” causing Jesse to beam with a manly pride similar to that of watching football and drinking beer.
The boy’s eyes grew wide as he peeled his shoulder from the proven editor’s grasp, stepping back a bit in a way that indeed proved that his obnoxiously tight jeans allowed him to move occasionally. “So sorry Mister Lacey…I was informed that the new editor was old. You didn’t look that old…” Adam begged, his lips trembling in a sweet, pouty sort of way, acting as though Jesse possessed some horrible infection like the plague or leprosy.
He didn't buy it for a second. Jesse was fully aware of the tricks held up the nonexistent sleeves of Anorexic Boy. He'd known kids just like him all his life. The pretty, popular, snobby types that shoved you into your own locker one minute, then bat their eyelashes the second they could potentially get in trouble. "I really, truly hope you've got a hidden passion for knitting and nursing homes, Adam."
“You’ve got to be kidding me Lacey,” the loudmouthed brat spat out with unadulterated antagonism and repulsion. “Do you fucking realize who I am? I’m Adam Lazzara, number one sex columnist in the United States. This magazine would go down the toilet and you know it if you take away my column. If you take it away, I’ll fucking leave!” He screamed, eyes piercing right through Jesse’s skull in a method that had to have been taught by Mrs. Lacey; Jesse hadn’t been stared down with such a cold gaze since he was eighteen years old and attempting to sneak a cookie at midnight.
Never one to show pure terror, especially not in front of women (or "men") on their period, Jesse merely stared right back, relying on the piercing baby blues he knew he possessed. "Maybe your juvenile threats have worked here in the past, Lazzara, but they aren't going to now. You'd best do a whole lot of ass kissing if you want anything of yours approved for print at this place.”
The undernourished writer’s fists clenched into two tight balls as he continued to glower at his boss, shaking his head, “You obviously haven’t reviewed my contract. I still have two years and twenty-four sex columns to write or the magazine faces a lawsuit that would surely leave the entire magazine bankrupt. “Lips and Hips” will go broke if you get rid of me, in any way shape or form, so why don’t you run on to your little fucked-up office and review my contract before you make unattainable threats, sweetie.” Adam slowly unclenched his fists, resting his hands on the lower portions of his well-defined hips; the kind of hips that Jesse’s sisters wished for.
It irked him, just a tad, to have noticed the definition of the waif's hips, and this only served to fuel his perhaps illogical tirade, "Don't test me, sweetie. That contract says it has to be a sex column. I'm fairly sure even your sick, deluded little mind wouldn't enjoy a sex column based off of interviews conducted at nursing homes," Jesse glared, as though to challenge Adam. He had, in fact, read the contracts of all the permanent writers on the staff. At least this threat wasn't an empty one.
"What the fuck ever, Lacey. I dare you to fuck with me. Ask anyone here; ask anyone. If it weren't for me and my columns, this place would go under. I'm sure you don't want your first big job to go down with bankruptcy now do you?" Adam's voice rang through Jesse's ears as that one guy, the overly nerdy No-something, came out into the hall, looking like a poor deer caught in headlights; literally cowering as he spoke.
"Um…Adam…” he started, stuttering a bit too much for it to be overlooked, “some reporter woman from the "Los Angeles Times” wants to talk to you about being listed as 2005's number one sex expert in “People” magazine."
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