Hot Boss Quotes

Ryodan doesn’t like Mac. He never has. She got between him and his best boy-bud. I give him a look. “I’ll tell you a secret, Ryodan. You mess with her, Barrons’ll kill you.” I drag a finger across my neck. “Just like that. You aren’t all that. Barrons’ll stomp your ass, hand’s down.” He smiles faintly. “I’ll be damned. You have a crush on Barrons.” “I do not have a crush—“ “You do, too. It’s all over your face. Anybody could see it.” “Sometimes, boss, you’re just wrong.” “I’m never wrong. You might as well take out a billboard. ‘Dani O’Malley thinks Jericho Barrons is hot.’ My offer to teach you is still open. Save you from future embarrassment. If I can see it on your face, he can, too. ” “He never figured it out before,” I grumble then realize I just admitted it. Ryodan has a tricky way of wording things that makes you say things you didn’t mean to say. “Maybe I’ll ask Barrons to teach me,” I mutter and turn away from the stairs, heading for his office. I run smack into his chest. “Dude, move. Trying to get somewhere here.” “No one but me is ever going to teach you, Dani.” He touches me before I see it coming, has his hand under my chin, turning my face up. My shiver is instant and uncontrollable. “That’s non-negotiable. You signed a contract with me that grants exclusivity. You won’t like it if you try to break it.

It was like he'd sprung fully-formed from my eighteen-year-old fantasies, the hot History teacher who just couldn't help himself.

Matthew fought off the urge to take a seat in his lap. He closed one of his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “You’re really cute.” Tarrick chuckled. “Am I?” “Not like Hiroto cute, he’s adorable—” “I really am,” Hiroto said, his ears flicking about. “—or like Lady Rosaline cute, she’s beautiful—” “Why thank you, Matthew,” she said. “—but like…hot. Masculine.” Prescott groaned and stood. “I think it’s time we put the big vampire to bed before he makes too much of a fool of himself.” “No, no, let him talk, boss. This is gold,” Nellis said,

First you're going to get your sweet little ass down from there and bend over the counter while I show you who the fuck is boss around here.

Dirt's a funny thing,' the Boss said. 'Come to think of it, there ain't a thing but dirt on this green God's globe except what's under water, and that's dirt too. It's dirt makes the grass grow. A diamond ain't a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a-Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?

Reading for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn't asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infititely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people. Take romans for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses. These clean, well-satisfied, perm-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he's a cool guy (or gal) who's invested in the woman's love life. Or, he's a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants. My boss cares about two things: Am I on time ? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift? And the mend in the romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes. I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I'd be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

And they beat. The women for having known them and no more, no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and so completely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcake among pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head. More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making them think the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of time would do it at last. Only when she was dead would they be safe. The successful ones--the ones who had been there enough years to have maimed, mutilated, maybe even buried her--kept watch over the others who were still in her cock-teasing hug, caring and looking forward; remembering and looking back.

Thinking and talking about love leads to Love, which is the enemy. Do not consort with the enemy. Even if those hot-ass actors in the movies make it look cuddly and nice and tempting, don’t fall for it. It’s the biggest bad in the world, the worst villain ever created by hormone-pumped pubescent morons. It’s the Joker, Lex Luthor, that one overweight guy who’s always messing with the Scooby-Doo gang. It’s the final boss in the massive joke of a video game you call your life.

He thought about going out and buying a Sunday paper but decided not to. Arnold Stockton, Jessica’s boss, a many-chinned, self-made caricature of a man, owned all the Sunday papers that Rupert Murdoch had failed to buy. His own papers talked about him, and so did the rest. Reading a Sunday paper would, Richard suspected, probably end up reminding him of the dinner had failed to attend on Friday night. So instead Richard had a long hot bath and a number of sandwiches, and several cups of tea.

Don’t let society’s labels hold you back. If you have a true passion for something whether its sports, art, science, etc…don’t believe anyone who says you can’t do it because you’re a girl. If you want to play baseball, hockey, or football, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. If you want to play with Hot Wheel cars and Legos, then do it. Only you are the boss of you

He had one of those deep voices I loved, the kind of voice I imagined would sound commanding and hot as hell when he was bossing his woman around during sex. Jesus. Get a grip, woman.

There is nothing quite as painful as a truly awkward silence. If you have fallen in love and you tell the object of your affection how you feel and she simply stares at you, the air still and empty, that's awkward. Perhaps you finally get up the nerve to ask your boss for a raise and after you master the courage to blurt out your request he lets it hang there in the open air. This can be an awkward silence as well. But for some reason both these examples pale in comparison to the kind of uncomfortable silence a person might experience when trapped in the stomach of a colossal snake, miles under ground, where there is nothing but total darkness and the sound of your own self taking your final hot breathes of musty, stale air, after you've just heard the news that the one person who you believe could save you just because he is so big and powerful is hiding out in the pocket of a friend as a . . . toothpick

entrepreneurship. Even the teenage boy in my life isn’t interested in entrepreneurship and it doesn’t surprise me. Why? Because they haven’t experienced a shitty boss, a shitty job, or a shitty commute. When you experience how much the system sucks firsthand, the desire appears. Warning people about a hot fire doesn’t work—they need to feel the burn for themselves.

The clerks at the bank who turned over our information. The fake attorney. The man who gave me free hot chocolate at Hertzoon’s fake office. I destroyed them all, one by one, brick by brick. And Rollins will be the last. These things don’t wash away with prayer, Wraith. There is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.” Inej shook her head. How could she still look at him with kindness in her eyes? “You don’t ask for forgiveness, Kaz. You earn it.” “Is that what you intend to do? By hunting slavers?” “By hunting slavers. By rooting out the merchers and Barrel bosses who profit off of them. By being something more than just the next Pekka Rollins.” It was impossible. There was nothing more. He could see the truth even if she couldn’t. Inej was stronger than he would ever be. She’d kept her faith, her goodness, even when the world tried to take it from her with greedy hands. His eyes scanned her face as they always had, closely, hungrily, snatching at the details of her like the thief he was—the even set of her dark brows, the rich brown of her eyes, the upward tilt of her lips. He didn’t deserve peace and he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but if he was going to die today, maybe the one thing he’d earned was the memory of her—brighter than anything he would ever have a right to—to take with him to the other side.

This was fresh, rich, heavenly, succulent, soft, creamy, kiss-my-ass, cows-gotta-die-for-this, delightfully salty, moo-ass, good old white folks cheese, cheese to die for, cheese to make you happy, cheese to beat the cheese boss, cheese for the big cheese, cheese to end the world, cheese so good it inspired a line every first Saturday of the month: mothers, daughters, fathers, grandparents, disabled in wheelchairs, kids, relatives from out of town, white folks from nearby Brooklyn Heights, and even South American workers from the garbage-processing plant on Concord Avenue, all patiently standing in a line that stretched from the interior of Hot Sausage’s boiler room to Building 17’s outer doorway, up the ramp to the sidewalk, curling around the side of the building and to the plaza near the flagpole.

You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!” said Hermione indignantly. “It’s slavery, that’s what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her bewitched so she can’t even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something about it?” “Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron said. “You heard old Winky back at the match . . . ‘House-elves is not supposed to have fun’ . . . that’s what she likes, being bossed around. . . .” “It’s people like you, Ron,” Hermione began hotly, “who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just because they’re too lazy to —

Is it weird that I think it's hot when you boss me around?" Her gaze snapped up to his, her blue eyes darkening with unmistakable hunger.... "I can take bossing you around to a whole other level if you'd like," she murmured.

The drug dealer, the ducking and diving political leader, the wife beater, the chronically “crabby” boss, the “hot shot” junior executive, the unfaithful husband, the company “yes man,” the indifferent graduate school adviser, the “holier than thou” minister, the gang member, the father who can never find the time to attend his daughter’s school programs, the coach who ridicules his star athletes, the therapist who unconsciously attacks his clients’ “shining” and seeks a kind of gray normalcy for them, the yuppie—all these men have something in common. They are all boys pretending to be men. They got that way honestly, because nobody showed them what a mature man is like. Their kind of “manhood” is a pretense to manhood that goes largely undetected as such by most of us. We are continually mistaking this man’s controlling, threatening, and hostile behaviors for strength. In reality, he is showing an underlying extreme vulnerability and weakness, the vulnerability of the wounded boy.

And they beat. The women for having known them and no more, no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and so completely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcake among pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head. More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making them think the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of time would do it at last. Only when she was dead would they be safe. The successful ones—the ones who had been there enough years to have maimed, mutilated, maybe even buried her—kept watch over the others who were still in her cock-teasing hug, caring and looking forward, remembering and looking back.

A diamond ain't a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a-Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?

I’m sorry,” I said turning to him. His clear hazel eyes met mine, and a tiny bit of humor flickered there. “You say that a lot.” Tugging at my Defense uniform (which was even uglier than I remembered; bright blue stretchy cotton was not a good look on anyone), I gave a little laugh. “Yeah, well, I feel it a lot.” Especially where you’re concerned, I wanted to add. Cal didn’t say anything to that, and after a moment, started walking toward the house. I waited a few seconds before following. There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I didn’t even know where to start. Cal, I think I love you, but I’m maybe not in love with you, even though kissing you was pretty boss was maybe one approach. Or: Cal, I love Archer, but my feelings for you are all confused because you are both awesome and smoking hot, and we’re already technically engaged to be married, which adds to the giant pot of boiling emotions and hormones I’ve become. Okay, maybe don’t say boiling… “You okay?” “Huh?” I blinked, surprised to see we’d come to the front of the house. Cal was standing with one foot on the bottom porch step, staring at me. “You have this weird look on your face,” he said. “Like you’re doing really complicated math in your head.” I couldn’t help a little snort of laughter. “I was, in a manner of speaking.” As I moved past him and into the house, I resolved to talk to Cal like a mature grown-up person. Eventually. For now, I gave him a little wave and ran away to my room.

Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron said. “You heard old Winky back at the match . . . ‘House-elves is not supposed to have fun’ . . . that’s what she likes, being bossed around. . . .” “It’s people like you, Ron,” Hermione began hotly, “who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just because they’re too lazy to —

Figure it out, Luna. I don’t wanna be sixty when you decide.” I pressed my lips together. Don’t do it, Luna. Everything is not fine and dandy. Don’t do it. Don’t— Let it go. Let it— I didn’t. “So I have… two years… before then?” I whispered, grimacing at the joke that I shouldn’t have made so that we could focus on the serious topic of our conversation. So I could hold on to the distance I was supposed to put between us because he was my boss. What I got was silence. Freaking silence. The sigh that came out of him reminded me of what I figured a hot air balloon would sound like if it deflated. “I should’ve fired you the other day.” I sucked in a breath, and my entire upper body turned to him. He was smirking. He thought he was being funny. He was… joking. These mocking, laughing eyes I had never seen before slid over to me, and the second they spotted my expression, they changed. My name came out a grumble. “I was playing.” Sure, he’d been. His mouth went so tight, it was edged in white. “I was messing with you,” he insisted, seriously. He was messing with me. Those long fingers flexed again. “You that mad at me?” he asked. “I’m not mad at you.” “Upset with me?” I didn’t look at him as I said, “No.” I wasn’t. I wasn’t. “I just…” What could I say? “You don’t ever joke around with me. I’m just surprised.” I started to crack my knuckles but stopped. “Okay, maybe I am a little upset with you, but I’m almost over it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him glance at me again, and I could barely hear his voice when he spoke again. “I joke around outside of work,” he said softly. I wasn’t going to overthink it. Did that come out defensively, or was it my imagination? “That’s good.” I was such a sucker. I really was.

Your woman's a badass, Timur,"he said. "She can't cook worth shit, but she's a badass." [...] "Don't ever cross her," Jeremiah warned. "She knows more ways to kill a man than I do. Seriously, boss, don't do it." [...]"She's inventive when it comes to killing men."He beckoned Timur closer and waited for him to bend down. He looked left and right to make certain no one would over hear him. "You're so lucky, man. She's a total babe," he whispered. "She's a mankiller, and that's hot as hell.

my phone beeped. I took it from my handbag and saw a text message from Dixie. It read: that man is sizzling HOT HOT HOT!!!! truth! I texted back. omg! his accent! his body! im in lurv i noticed! hes a bilf wtf??? boss id like 2 fuk! I snorted out loud with laughter. Heller flicked his cold eyes to me. I wrote: norty girl! ooh! does he like norty asian girls? Another involuntary snort from me. “Ms Chalmers,” he warned. gotta go. my new daddys strict, I texted. spankz for u 2nite! lolz! only if im lucky! c u soon xx - heller 1

Yep. We’re his Lieutenants,” Day answered, picking up the largest coffee cup Furi had ever seen and taking a huge gulp. “You guys had a trying evening last night, so we thought we’d check in on you.” Syn just nodded. “Hmm. Right.” “Nice bandage.” God peeked around his paper again angling his head at Syn’s hand. “Nothing broken?” Syn looked at his hand. “Furi wrapped it up for me last night. Just a little torn skin, it’s nothing really.” “He tried to be all tough but I had to blow on it to make it feel better.” Furi’s teasing had Syn smiling. “Glad you’re okay, Syn.” Day winked mischievously. Furi looked at Syn. “You just don’t realize how awesome it is to have such great bosses. Came to check up on you, considerate enough to bring you breakfast, I mean just all around awesome guys.” “Just wait for it, Furi,” Syn cut him off. “What?” Furi’s brow creased in confusion. “All the warm compliments you’re giving God and Day ... just wait for it.” Furi looked confused. “I don’t know what you’re–” “What else did you have to blow on to make feel better?” Day said around a snort. “Really hate to have missed that show, spanky.” Day smiled broadly at Furi. Furi groaned and dropped his head as he ran both hands through his hair. “You guys watched my videos.” “Hell yeah.” Day grinned. “For evidence and research purposes only,” God chimed in. “Five times,” Day yelled, punching God in his large bicep. “Okay guys. Shut up," Syn huffed. “I’m just saying, you lucky fuck. You get to date a hot porn puppy and we can’t say anything.” Day stared at Furi, completely ignoring Syn’s fuming.

His arms folded across his chest. He stared at me without speaking, moving toward me until my back hit the driver’s side door. Leaning forward, he braced a hand on the glass beside my head. “What the fuck were you thinking? If I hadn’t been there—” He broke off, his eyes slamming shut. “I know, I know. I don’t know what would have happened.” I raised my shaking hands to his heaving chest. “Thank you for being there.” His eyes flashed open and zeroed in on me. “I’ve never been more pissed off at you.” “I wish you weren’t.” My fingers balled his T-shirt in a tight grip. “Please, Weston, don’t be mad at me.” He bent down, his nose almost brushing mine. “I’m so fucking angry, Elise. You have no idea what I want to do with you right now.” I inhaled. His hot breath hit my lips. A wild, frantic current flowed in the narrow space between us. Adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream. My mind scrambled. Then he was on me, or I was on him. There was no telling who moved first. We collided, our lips suctioning to one another, his tongue delving into my mouth. Fingers threaded through my hair, tugging my head back. He kissed me hard, violent, and I clawed at him.

At about the end of the eighteen minutes and twenty miles, I said: “But suppose I don't find anything before election day?” The Boss said, “To hell with election day. I can deliver Masters prepaid, special handling. But if it takes ten years, you find it.” We clocked off five miles more, and I said, “But suppose there isn't anything to find.” And the Boss said, “There is always something.” And I said, “Maybe not on the Judge.” And he said, “Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption and he passeth from the stink of the didie to the stench of the shroud. There is always something.” Two miles more, and he said, “And make it stick.” And that was all a good while ago. And Masters is dead now, as dead as a mackerel, but the Boss was right and he went to the Senate. And Callahan is not dead but he has wished he were, no doubt, for he used up his luck a long time back and being dead was not part of it. And Adam Stanton is dead now, too, who used to go fishing with me and who lay on the sand in the hot sunshine with me and with Anne Stanton. And Judge Irwin is dead, who leaned toward me among the stems of the tall gray marsh grass, in the gray damp wintry dawn, and said, “You ought to have led that duck more, Jack. You got to lead a duck, son.” And the Boss is dead, who said to me, “And make it stick.” Little Jackie made it stick, all right.

At about the end of the eighteen minutes and twenty miles, I said: “But suppose I don't find anything before election day?” The Boss said, “To hell with election day. I can deliver Masters prepaid, special handling. But if it takes ten years, you find it.” We clocked off five miles more, and I said, “But suppose there isn't anything to find.” And the Boss said, “There is always something.” And I said, "“Maybe not on the Judge.” And he said, “Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption and he passeth from the stink of the didie to the stench of the shroud. There is always something.” Two miles more, and he said, “And make it stick.” And that was all a good while ago. And Masters is dead now, as dead as a mackerel, but the Boss was right and he went to the Senate. And Callahan is not dead but he has wished he were, no doubt, for he used up his luck a long time back and being dead was not part of it. And Adam Stanton is dead now, too, who used to go fishing with me and who lay on the sand in the hot sunshine with me and with Anne Stanton. And Judge Irwin is dead, who leaned toward me among the stems of the tall gray marsh grass, in the gray damp wintry dawn, and said, “You ought to have led that duck more, Jack. You got to lead a duck, son.” And the Boss is dead, who said to me, “And make it stick.” Little Jackie made it stick, all right.

Vegetarians.” Cookie muttered something under his breath. “I ain’t cooking no tofu. I’ll quit first.” “Fine by me. You cook what you like. I just wanted you to know.” “Vegetarians.” Cookie washed his hands, then attacked the lettuce. Frank walked into the kitchen. “Everything’s all set, boss. Tents, saddles, supplies. Cookie’s wagon is loaded, except for the fresh stuff. We have a schedule set up. You’ll get a delivery every afternoon.” Zane nodded. “You get a look at the folks?” His second in command did his best to keep his expression neutral, but Zane saw the corner of Frank’s mouth twitch. “You mean the fact that you’ve got to deal with Maya’s mouth, some old ladies and a couple of kids?” Cookie picked up a lethal-looking knife, then reached for several tomatoes. “You left out the good part, Zane. Tell him about the damn nut eaters.” When Frank looked confused, Zane shrugged. “Vegetarians.” This time Frank’s entire mouth jerked, but he controlled his humor. “Sounds interesting.” “Tits are interesting, boy,” Cookie growled. “Vegetarians are just plain stupid. If people want to eat leaves and grubs, then they should go live in the forest. Root around with those ugly truffle pigs and get away from my table.” “What time is supper?” Zane asked. Cookie snarled something under his breath, then walked to the back door and stuck his head out. “Billy, you got that there barbecue ready yet, boy?” “Yes, sir. Coals are hot and gray. You wanted them gray, didn’t you, Cookie?” “What color gray?” There was a pause. “Sort of medium.” “Huh.” Cookie closed the back door and grinned at Zane. “I screw with him because he makes it so easy.

I say, it sounds like some dangerous psychotic killer wrote this, and this buttoned-down schizophrenic could probably go over the edge at any moment in the working day and stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semiautomatic. My boss just looks at me. The guy, I say, is probably at home every night with a little rattail file, filing a cross into the tip of every one of his rounds. This way, when he shows up to work one morning and pumps a round into his nagging, ineffectual, petty, whining, butt-sucking, candy-ass boss, that one round will split along the filed grooves and spread open the way a dumdum bullet flowers inside you to blow a bushel load of your stinking guts out through your spine. Picture your gut chakra opening in a slow-motion explosion of sausage-casing small intestine. My boss takes the paper out from under my nose. Go ahead, I say, read some more. No really, I say, it sounds fascinating. The work of a totally diseased mind. And I smile. The little butthole-looking edges of the hole in my cheek are the same blue-black as a dog’s gums. The skin stretched tight across the swelling around my eyes feels varnished. My boss just looks at me. Let me help you, I say. I say, the fourth rule of fight club is one fight at a time. My boss looks at the rules and then looks at me. I say, the fifth rule is no shoes, no shirts in the fight. My boss looks at the rules and looks at me. Maybe, I say, this totally diseased fuck would use an Eagle Apache carbine because an Apache takes a thirty-shot mag and only weighs nine pounds. The Armalite only takes a five-round magazine. With thirty shots, our totally fucked hero could go the length of mahogany row and take out every vice-president with a cartridge left over for each director. Tyler’s words coming out of my mouth. I used to be such a nice person. I just look at my boss. My boss has blue, blue, pale cornflower blue eyes. The J and R 68 semiautomatic carbine also takes a thirty-shot mag, and it only weighs seven pounds. My boss just looks at me. It’s scary, I say. This is probably somebody he’s known for years. Probably this guy knows all about him, where he lives, and where his wife works and his kids go to school. This is exhausting, and all of a sudden very, very boring. And why does Tyler need ten copies of the fight club rules? What I don’t have to say is I know about the leather interiors that cause birth defects. I know about the counterfeit brake linings that looked good enough to pass the purchasing agent, but fail after two thousand miles. I know about the air-conditioning rheostat that gets so hot it sets fire to the maps in your glove compartment. I know how many people burn alive because of fuel-injector flashback. I’ve seen people’s legs cut off at the knee when turbochargers start exploding and send their vanes through the firewall and into the passenger compartment. I’ve been out in the field and seen the burned-up cars and seen the reports where CAUSE OF FAILURE is recorded as "unknown.” No, I say, the paper’s not mine. I take the paper between two fingers and jerk it out of his hand. The edge must slice his thumb because his hand flies to his mouth, and he’s sucking hard, eyes wide open. I crumble the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash can next to my desk. Maybe, I say, you shouldn’t be bringing me every little piece of trash you pick up.

Steele yanked on the pistol, but the front sight got snagged on the Frenchman’s belt. Jean-Luc’s right arm hit him in the wrist, a painful bone-on-bone collision that wrenched the Five-seven out of his grip. Steele could make out Burrows’s bodyguard posted up ahead, faithfully guarding his boss’s booth. Jean-Luc shouted a warning while trying to dodge the server who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The bodyguard turned to his left, reached into his jacket, and squared up to the threat. Steele’s instincts told him that he was too far behind the eight-ball to get the MP9 into action fast, so he improvised. He launched a kick at Jean-Luc’s ankle that would have made an NFL punter proud. His leg muscles pistoned his foot toward its target like a hot rod on a quarter-mile track. The impact snapped the fleeing Frenchman’s puny ankle, causing him to tumble into the server. Now.

Also as in natural settings, in workplaces without well-defined processes, energy minimization becomes prioritized. This is fundamental human nature: if there’s no structure surrounding how hard efforts are coordinated, we default to our instinct to not expend any more energy than is necessary. Most of us are guilty of acting on this instinct when given a chance. An email arrives that informally represents a new responsibility for you to manage; because there’s no formal process in place to assign the work or track its progress, you seek instead the easiest way to get the responsibility off your plate—even if just temporarily—so you send a quick reply asking for an ambiguous clarification. Thus unfolds a game of obligation hot potato, as messages bounce around, each temporarily shifting responsibility from one inbox to another, until a deadline or irate boss finally stops the music, leading to a last-minute scramble to churn out a barely acceptable result. This, too, is obviously a terribly inefficient way to get work done.

The woman threw him off balance, and he didn't care for it.Giving him those hot looks and intimate little strokes in the middle of the damn morning so he went through the whole of the day itchy. Worse yet the man who was paying him to work through the day,not to be distracted by his glands,was the woman's father. It was a situation,Brian though, and he'd done a great deal to bring it on himself.Still how could he have known in the beginning that he'd become so involved with her on so many levels inside himself? Falling in love had been a hard knock, but he'd taken knocks before.You got bruised and you went on.A bit of attraction was all right, a little flirtation was harmless enough.And the truth was, he'd enjoyed the risk of it.To a point. But he was well past that point now. Now he was all wrapped up in her and at the same time had become fond of her family. Travis wasn't just a good and fair boss, but was on the way to becoming a kind of friend. And here he was finding ways to make love to his friend's daughter as often as humanly possible.

I set my coffee beside me on the curb; I smell loam on the wind; I pat the puppy; I watch the mountain. My hand works automatically over the puppy’s fur, following the line of hair under his ears, down his neck, inside his forelegs, along his hot-skinned belly. Shadows lope along the mountain’s rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge’s bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its side; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like a running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillograph on the present moment. The air cools; the puppy’s skin is hot. I am more alive than all the world.

Back to Copper Cliff: on the eastern limit of the town, really not a defined edge, the town ended, and a few feet later the smelter—the the heart of Inco’s operations in the Sudbury area—rose up. Huge buildings humming and whining, acre after acre of industrial devastation, hot metal and slag cars to-ing and fro-ing. Row upon row of blast furnaces, molten metal being carried in giant ladles the size of small submarines by overhead moving cranes, with bits of white-hot crap falling out of them, and the mind-numbing hiss of mighty industrial production, punctuated by warning horns, and all viewed through a smog of sulphur dioxide so potent that it would sting your eyes, nose and throat to the point of tears. Workers wore “gas masks” that were little more than cloth nose and mouth covers, dipped in some solution intended to neutralize the paralyzing acidity of sulphur dioxide. They did not work. My dad worked here, and when he later became a shift boss in the Orford building and I was a summer student at Inco, he showed me through this inferno (not Dante’s; that’s only in fiction). This was the real deal and the guys who worked there pretty much all succumbed to some form of lung disease—emphysema, cancer, COPD, you name it—anything you can get from inhaling eight hours a day, five days a week, concentrated S02 and S03, not to mention the particulate crap that filled the air.

Ah, Lina Cerullo, you are beyond correction. Why did you make that list? You don’t want to be exploited? You want to improve your condition and the condition of these people? You’re convinced that you, and they, starting from here, from what you are now, will join the victorious march of the proletariat of the whole world? No way. March to become what? Now and forever workers? Workers who slave from morning to night but are empowered? Nonsense. Hot air to sweeten the pill of toil. You know that it’s a terrible condition, it shouldn’t be improved but eliminated, you’ve known it since you were a child. Improve, improve yourself? You, for example, are you improved, have you become like Nadia or Isabella? Is your brother improved, has he become like Armando? And your son, is he like Marco? No, we remain us and they are they. So why don’t you resign yourself? Blame the mind that can’t settle down, that is constantly seeking a way to function. Designing shoes. Getting busy setting up a shoe factory. Rewriting Nino’s articles, tormenting him until he did as you said. Using for your own purposes the installments from Zurich, with Enzo. And now demonstrating to Nadia that if she is making the revolution, you are even more. The mind, ah yes, the evil is there, it’s the mind’s discontent that causes the body to get sick. I’ve had it with myself, with everything. I’ve even had it with Gennaro: his fate, if all goes well, is to end up in a place like this, crawling to some boss for another five lire. So? So, Cerullo, take up your responsibilities and do what you have always had in mind: frighten Soccavo, eliminate his habit of fucking the workers in the drying room. Show the student with the wolf face what you’ve prepared...

Bell resisted selling Texas Instruments a license. “This business is not for you,” the firm was told. “We don’t think you can do it.”38 In the spring of 1952, Haggerty was finally able to convince Bell Labs to let Texas Instruments buy a license to manufacture transistors. He also hired away Gordon Teal, a chemical researcher who worked on one of Bell Labs’ long corridors near the semiconductor team. Teal was an expert at manipulating germanium, but by the time he joined Texas Instruments he had shifted his interest to silicon, a more plentiful element that could perform better at high temperatures. By May 1954 he was able to fabricate a silicon transistor that used the n-p-n junction architecture developed by Shockley. Speaking at a conference that month, near the end of reading a thirty-one-page paper that almost put listeners to sleep, Teal shocked the audience by declaring, “Contrary to what my colleagues have told you about the bleak prospects for silicon transistors, I happen to have a few of them here in my pocket.” He proceeded to dunk a germanium transistor connected to a record player into a beaker of hot oil, causing it to die, and then did the same with one of his silicon transistors, during which Artie Shaw’s “Summit Ridge Drive” continued to blare undiminished. “Before the session ended,” Teal later said, “the astounded audience was scrambling for copies of the talk, which we just happened to bring along.”39 Innovation happens in stages. In the case of the transistor, first there was the invention, led by Shockley, Bardeen, and Brattain. Next came the production, led by engineers such as Teal. Finally, and equally important, there were the entrepreneurs who figured out how to conjure up new markets. Teal’s plucky boss Pat Haggerty was a colorful case study of this third step in the innovation process.

Eastern Standard Time Poetry speaks to all people, it is said, but here I would like to address only those in my own time zone, this proper slice of longitude that runs from pole to snowy pole down the globe through Montreal to Bogota. Oh, fellow inhabitants of this singular band, sitting up in your many beds this morning— the sun falling through the windows and casting a shadow on the sundial— consider those in other zones who cannot hear these words. They are not slipping into a bathrobe as we are, or following the smell of coffee in a timely fashion. Rather, they are at work already, leaning on copy machines, hammering nails into a house-frame. They are not swallowing a vitamin like us; rather they are smoking a cigarette under a half moon, even jumping around on a dance floor, or just now sliding under the covers, pulling down the little chains on their bed lamps. But we are not like these others, for at this very moment on the face of the earth, we are standing under a hot shower, or we are eating our breakfast, considered by people of all zones to be the most important meal of the day. Later, when the time is right, we might sit down with the boss, wash the car, or linger at a candle-lit table, but now is the hour for pouring the juice and flipping the eggs with one eye on the toaster. So let us slice a banana and uncap the jam, lift our brimming spoons of milk, and leave it to the others to lower a flag or spin absurdly in a barber's chair— those antipodal oddballs, always early or late. Let us praise Sir Stanford Fleming the Canadian genius who first scored with these lines the length of the spinning earth. Let us move together through the rest of this day passing in unison from light to shadow, coasting over the crest of noon into the valley of the evening and then, holding hands, slip into the deeper valley of night.

We came to the city because we wished to live haphazardly, to reach for only the least realistic of our desires, and to see if we could not learn what our failures had to teach, and not, when we came to live, discover that we had never died. We wanted to dig deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to be overworked and reduced to our last wit. And if our bosses proved mean, why then we’d evoke their whole and genuine meanness afterward over vodka cranberries and small batch bourbons. And if our drinking companions proved to be sublime then we would stagger home at dawn over the Old City cobblestones, into hot showers and clean shirts, and press onward until dusk fell again. For the rest of the world, it seemed to us, had somewhat hastily concluded that it was the chief end of man to thank God it was Friday and pray that Netflix would never forsake them. Still we lived frantically, like hummingbirds; though our HR departments told us that our commitments were valuable and our feedback was appreciated, our raises would be held back another year. Like gnats we pestered Management— who didn’t know how to use the Internet, whose only use for us was to set up Facebook accounts so they could spy on their children, or to sync their iPhones to their Outlooks, or to explain what tweets were and more importantly, why— which even we didn’t know. Retire! we wanted to shout. We ha Get out of the way with your big thumbs and your senior moments and your nostalgia for 1976! We hated them; we wanted them to love us. We wanted to be them; we wanted to never, ever become them. Complexity, complexity, complexity! We said let our affairs be endless and convoluted; let our bank accounts be overdrawn and our benefits be reduced. Take our Social Security contributions and let it go bankrupt. We’d been bankrupt since we’d left home: we’d secure our own society. Retirement was an afterlife we didn’t believe in and that we expected yesterday. Instead of three meals a day, we’d drink coffee for breakfast and scavenge from empty conference rooms for lunch. We had plans for dinner. We’d go out and buy gummy pad thai and throat-scorching chicken vindaloo and bento boxes in chintzy, dark restaurants that were always about to go out of business. Those who were a little flush would cover those who were a little short, and we would promise them coffees in repayment. We still owed someone for a movie ticket last summer; they hadn’t forgotten. Complexity, complexity. In holiday seasons we gave each other spider plants in badly decoupaged pots and scarves we’d just learned how to knit and cuff links purchased with employee discounts. We followed the instructions on food and wine Web sites, but our soufflés sank and our baked bries burned and our basil ice creams froze solid. We called our mothers to get recipes for old favorites, but they never came out the same. We missed our families; we were sad to be rid of them. Why shouldn’t we live with such hurry and waste of life? We were determined to be starved before we were hungry. We were determined to be starved before we were hungry. We were determined to decrypt our neighbors’ Wi-Fi passwords and to never turn on the air-conditioning. We vowed to fall in love: headboard-clutching, desperate-texting, hearts-in-esophagi love. On the subways and at the park and on our fire escapes and in the break rooms, we turned pages, resolved to get to the ends of whatever we were reading. A couple of minutes were the day’s most valuable commodity. If only we could make more time, more money, more patience; have better sex, better coffee, boots that didn’t leak, umbrellas that didn’t involute at the slightest gust of wind. We were determined to make stupid bets. We were determined to be promoted or else to set the building on fire on our way out. We were determined to be out of our minds.

The day-to-day horror of writing gave me a notion of tournament time. Writing novels is tedious. When will this book be finished, when will it reveal its bright and shining true self? it takes freakin’ years. At the poker table, you’re only playing a fraction of the hands, waiting for your shot. If you keep your wits, can keep from flying apart while those around you are self-destructing, devouring each other, you’re halfway there. … Let them flame out while you develop a new relationship with time, and they drift away from the table. 86-7 Coach Helen’s mantra: It’s OK to be scared, but don’t play scared. 90 [During a young adult trip to Los Vegas] I was contemplating the nickel in my hand. Before we pushed open the glass doors, what the heck, I dropped it into a one-armed bandit and won two dollars. In a dank utility room deep in the subbasements of my personality, a little man wiped his hands on his overalls and pulled the switch: More. Remembering it now, I hear a sizzling sound, like meat being thrown into a hot skillet. I didn't do risk, generally. So I thought. But I see now I'd been testing the House Rules the last few years. I'd always been a goody-goody. Study hard, obey your parents, hut-hut-hut through the training exercises of Decent Society. Then in college, now that no one was around, I started to push the boundaries, a little more each semester. I was an empty seat in lecture halls, slept late in a depressive funk, handed in term papers later and later to see how much I could get away with before the House swatted me down. Push it some more. We go to casinos to tell the everyday world that we will not submit. There are rules and codes and institutions, yes, but for a few hours in this temple of pure chaos, of random cards and inscrutable dice, we are in control of our fates. My little gambles were a way of pretending that no one was the boss of me. … The nickels poured into the basin, sweet music. If it worked once, it will work again. We hit the street. 106-8 [Matt Matros, 3x bracelet winner; wrote The Making of a Poker Player]: “One way or another you’re going to have a read, and you’re going to do something that you didn’t expect you were going to do before, right or wrong. Obviously it’s better if you’re right, but even if you’re wrong, it can be really satisfying to just have a read, a feeling, and go with it. Your gut.” I could play it safe, or I could really play. 180 Early on, you wanted to stay cool and keep out of expensive confrontations, but you also needed to feed the stack. The stack is hungry. 187 The awful knowledge that you did what you set out to do, and you would never, ever top it. It was gone the instant you put your hands on it. It was gambling. 224

The opponent seemed to shift slightly in the seat. His index finger tapped a card, just a couple strokes. There it was the card that ruined his hand. Her hazel eyes release the player across from her to steal a glance registering the emotion of observers around the table then to her best friend. Sophie looks like a Nervous Nelly-she, always worries. She knows the girl will put too much emphasis on a lost hand. The striking man with his lusty brown eyes tries to draw Sophie closer. Now that he has folded and left the game, he is unnecessary, and the seasoned flirt easily escapes his reach. He leaves with a scowl; Sophie turns and issues knowing wink. Ell’s focus is now unfettered, freeing her again to bring down the last player. When she wins this hand, she will smile sweetly, thank the boys for their indulgence, and walk away $700 ahead. The men never suspected her; she’s no high roller. She realizes she and Sophie will have to stay just a bit. Mill around and pay homage to the boy’s egos. The real trick will be leaving this joint alone without one of them trying to tag along. Her opponent is taking his time; he is still undecided as to what card to keep—tap, tap. He may not know, but she has an idea which one he will choose. He attempts to appear nonchalant, but she knows she has him cornered. She makes a quick glance for Mr. Lusty Brown-eyes; he has found a new dame who is much more receptive than Sophie had been. Good, that small problem resolved itself for them. She returns her focuses on the cards once more and notes, her opponent’s eyes have dilated a bit. She has him, but she cannot let the gathering of onlookers know. She wants them to believe this was just a lucky night for a pretty girl. Her mirth finds her eyes as she accepts his bid. From a back table, there is a ruckus indicating the crowd’s appreciation of a well-played game as it ends. Reggie knew a table was freeing up, and just in time, he did not want to waste this evening on the painted and perfumed blonde dish vying for his attention. He glances the way of the table that slowly broke up. He recognizes most of the players and searches out the winner amongst them. He likes to take on the victor, and through the crowd, he catches a glimpse of his goal, surprised that he had not noticed her before. The women who frequent the back poker rooms in speakeasies all dress to compete – loud colors, low bodices, jewelry which flashes in the low light. This dame faded into the backdrop nicely, wearing a deep gray understated yet flirty gown. The minx deliberately blended into the room filled with dark men’s suits. He chuckles, thinking she is just as unassuming as can be playing the room as she just played those patsies at the table. He bet she had sat down all wide-eyed with some story about how she always wanted to play cards. He imagined she offered up a stake that wouldn’t be large but at the same time, substantial enough. Gauging her demeanor, she would have been bold enough to have the money tucked in her bodice. Those boys would be eager after she teased them by retrieving her stake. He smiled a slow smile; he would not mind watching that himself. He knew gamblers; this one was careful not to call in the hard players, just a couple of marks, which would keep the pit bosses off her. He wants to play her; however, before he can reach his goal, the skirt slips away again, using her gray camouflage to aid her. Hell, it is just as well, Reggie considered she would only serve as a distraction and what he really needs is the mental challenge of the game not the hot release of some dame–good or not. Off in a corner, the pit boss takes out a worn notepad, his meaty hands deftly use a stub of a pencil to enter the notation. The date and short description of the two broads quickly jotted down for his boss Mr. Deluca. He has seen the pair before, and they are winning too often for it to be accidental or to be healthy.

I love you but you were a boring mother fucker until Mister-Pussy-Eating-Like-a-Boss, Hot-as-Hell, Sex-on-a-Stick came into your life.

Hold. On.” I said with excitement, “Can you see the future?” “Not down here I can’t,” she muttered, running her hand through her already frightening hair. “My boss... that would be GOD to you... much to my great disgust gave you imbeciles free will. So even if I could see the future, it can change on a dime because you idiots are as flighty as gnats.

Good night, then.” He brushes past me and leaves, closing the door behind him. Jerk. Oh God, my boss is a hot jerk. My stomach sinks as I sit down on the bed. What in the world have I gotten myself into?

So your slave master sent you down to the fields.” I could feel his hot dragon breath on me.

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Everyone seemed to have more to do than was possible in a forty-hour week. This was by design. “Microsoft’s theory is if it takes two people to do a job, hire one,” Shannon explained. “It’s a stated policy. I’ve seen it in memos. It’s called the N-minus-one policy.” In the abstract, the approach made good sense. For all the complaints about workers lacking initiative, most bosses disliked employees who did too much or broke with tradition or set their own priorities. At Microsoft most managers, finding themselves shorthanded, had no choice but to let their people run away from them. Smaller numbers of people, especially on a huge project such as NT, made communications between teammates easier. And it helped the bottom line. Microsoft earned twenty-five cents on every dollar of sales mainly because it offered hot products in a growing market, but the company also knew how to pinch pennies.

You don’t think crush velvet is a good fabric for a suit, do you?

Yes, the hermitage is underground--miles beneath the surface of Antarctica. And yes, Ike refers to it as unten--literally 'under' or 'below.' But, hello, it's 'hyperborean'--of or relating to the arctic, frigid, very cold. The opposite of infernally hot. Well, what if it's WAY underground down near the inner core of the earth, where it's like 10,000 degrees? Well, what if it's up your ass where it's like 10,000,000 degrees? Well, what if you're a cocksucking dwarf racist retard midget dickwad? Well, what if you're a fucking scatological-bakery urinal-cake-boss motherfucking fist-fucked cow-pie anal-fissureman motherfucker?

We all have a something, boss, only most people's somethings are boring to anyone but them." She crossed her arms behind her head. "A guy like that, there's no way he was nothing." The steam from his coffee tickled his nose as it curled through the air, and he watched it dissipate into thin air, just like his friendship with Damien. "Sometimes somethings turn out to be nothing after all," he said.

He was HOT. I sometimes forgot that since I'd been careful to shove him in the "boss box".

The associate dean of libraries was talking about “innovation” again, tossing around terms like “digital humanities,” “digital transformation,” and “virtual reality.” The library staff had grown numb to these speeches, in no small part because the talks were usually accompanied by a lack of follow-through. The associate dean would get all hot and bothered when some new project came around, only to stop giving it attention and resources when he got bored and hopped onto the next new thing. The library had completed three strategic plans in about as many years. The staff eventually realized that performing being innovative was the way to reach their boss and started keeping a lexicon of terms that would be more likely to sway him. Wouldn’t your project be better with virtual reality? they would suggest. Meanwhile, the work of keeping the library going and providing services was often ignored. This library tale—an amalgam of stories we’ve heard from professional librarians around the country—highlights how maintenance work can be overlooked and under-resourced in professional settings.

Hail coffee, full of caffeine, blessed are you among beverages hot and iced. Pray for me now in my hour of waking the hell up, which I hope is soon. Amen.

Wake ‘n’ Bake Corpse Reviver Got that nasty hangover from dropping it like it’s hot at the club a li’l too long last night? Well then, Tha Dogg’s got this hair of the dogg to get you back up and at ‘em. The money ain’t sitting around waiting; you need to get up, get out, and get something.

I have hazarded into a new corner of the world, an unknown spot, a Brigadoon. Before me extends a low hill trembling in yellow brome, and behind the hill, filling the sky, rises an enormous mountain ridge, forested, alive and awesome with brilliant blown lights. I have never seen anything so tremulous and live. Overhead, great strips and chunks of cloud dash to the northwest in a gold rush. At my back the sun is setting- how can I have not noticed before that the sun is setting? My mind has been a blank slab of black asphalt for hours, but that doesn’t stop the sun’s wild wheel. I set my coffee on the curb; I smell loam on the wind; I pat the puppy; I watch the mountain. Shadows lope along the mountain’s rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter, and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge’s bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its sides; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like a running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillography on the present moment. The air cools; the puppy’s skin is hot. I am more alive than all the world. This is it, I think, this is it, right now, the present, this empty gas station, here, this western wind, this tang of coffee on the tongue, and I am patting the puppy, I am watching the mountain. Version 1 (joy)

You know what you were and it wasn’t a job.” His words taunted me, offering a glimmer of hope. Yet, his words on the driveway less than two months ago lingered in my thoughts. “Why are you bothering me?” “You’re not to go around Mac again. Do you understand?” “I don’t have to listen to you.” Judd narrowed his eyes at me. “Fine. I’ll tell him to stay away from you. He’ll listen if he wants to keep both eyes.” “Whatever. He’s one guy and the college is full of them. Bailey and I are going to a frat party this weekend. Can’t take all of those guys’ eyes.” “Is that a challenge?” “You got me here safe,” I said, trying to look away, but unable to. “You did your job and I’m sure you got paid. What more do you want?” Judd glanced at approaching Harleys then focused on me. When he erased the space between us again, I shivered at the feel of his breath on my cheek. “You know what I want.” “To fuck me because I’m hot.” Judd stared in my eyes and I saw the walls come down. Even staring into those pained baby blues, I remembered how coldly he discarded me. Over a month passed with no word from him. Yet, one guy sniffed around me and Judd was suddenly interested. “Is your birthday present to me to make me a woman?” I whispered, holding his gaze. “You have to know I’m not a virgin and you’d do nothing someone hasn’t done before. There’s no prize between my legs. Maybe you outta stop threatening random men and go find yourself a real woman.” Judd opened his mouth to speak until he heard Cooper’s voice from inside the house. When the arriving guests called back to their boss, Judd stepped away from me. Sighing, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. “I see a prize when I look at you,” he said softly as he walked past, “but it’s not between your legs.” He pressed a little wrapped box into my hand. “Happy birthday, angel.” Appearing on the porch, Cooper lost his smile when he saw Judd and me. The men gave each other a little nod before Judd stepped off the porch and past the men who also did their male hello gestures. The men disappeared inside, but Cooper remained next to me as I watched Judd drive away on a black Harley.

She had kissed plenty of frogs who after the kiss were still frogs.

If bad was spilling a piping hot latte over a laptop, subsequently frying thirty new designs without backing them up, and if very bad was ordering fifty grand’s worth of the wrong marble slabs, then very, very bad was letting my boss go down on me in his sister’s bathroom. As

For Hillary, gangsterism is not merely a matter of means; it is also her end. Hillary wants to be the crime boss of America. That is the only way to satisfy her unquenchable desire for money, power, and social control. As we will see in this book, Hillary is a criminal who found the criminal practices of Saul Alinsky to be too weak-kneed for her taste, and Alinsky was a gangster who found the criminal practices of the Al Capone gang to be a tad sentimental. In short, Hillary is the true Democrat, the gangster par excellence. I suspect this is why the Democratic establishment lined up so quickly behind her. While the Republicans had a real primary, hotly contested, the Democrats had a primary in which Bernie seemed to win again and again but never seemed to make a dent in Hillary’s lead. That’s because the Democratic super-delegates were uniformly in her camp, even though there was throughout the campaign the risk that she would be indicted.

A light brown eyebrow rose, followed by a deep, easy chuckle. “You like what you see?” “Yes. I’m not blind. But I prefer a stronger jaw, someone a little darker.” Furi smirked right back. Where the hell had he gotten all this bravado from? He usually wasn’t so blunt, but it felt good. He was finally coming into his own. The way his dad had urged him to before he’d passed. “Stronger and darker, huh? No shit.” The man looked behind him into the one-way mirror, smiling broadly, making Furi wonder who was behind it. “I’m Detective Ronowski. I’m the First Officer of a narcotics task force based in this precinct. Thank you for coming down tonight.” “Well it wasn’t by choice. I will say your errand boys could use a refresher course in charm and courtesy,” Furi said with little venom. “Errand boys? Oh, you mean Green and Ruxs.” Ronowski laughed again. It was a melodic sound that had Furi leaning back and enjoying it. “Those errand boys are very skilled men, maybe not in charm, but definitely in hand-to-hand combat. Just in case someone doesn’t want to come willingly. But I’m sure you didn’t give them any trouble.” “No, I didn’t. Anyway, how long is this going to take?” Furi asked, checking his watch again. Damnit. “Got a hot date?” Ronowski smiled, looking at the window again. “Something like that. Who’s behind that glass?” “My boss.” Ronowski shot him that sexy grin again. “Well this is fun, but can we move it along?” “Of course.

Before you go hot footing it in search of a solution, get a feel for the scope of the problem. Is it something you and your team can solve in the time allotted? If not, either get more time or, even better, sit down with your boss and break the problem down into bite-size chunks. Figure out what the end product of each chunk will be: a recommendation, an implementation plan, a new product design, and so forth. Figure out what resources you will need to reach your goal and get a commitment from your boss that you will have them. Doing all this ahead of time can save you a lot of grief a few months down the road. Structuring your project properly at the beginning may not guarantee your success, but it at least gets you off to the right start.

Stay, Sophie. Looking at you makes me feel better." Cody shot a more energetic grin at his employer and friend. "Why?" she asked. "You're hot, babe." Cody shot a wicked smirk at his boss. "Cody, find your own hot woman to drool over." A war of looks began between the two men, half sneers and mockingly threatening scowls. "Can't. Stuck in this damn bed. So I'll borrow yours.

Countries with hot climates suffer higher murder rates and more political violence; more violent crimes occur in hot years;

Carlin closed her eyes, rolled onto her side, and took a long, deep breath. Maybe she should just stop fighting it and arguing with herself, and deal with reality. So, she had the hots for her boss. It wasn’t as if she could act on the attraction. The tingles and the butterfly stomach and the twitches in a place she’d thought would be twitch-free forever should serve as a reminder that her life wasn’t over. He’d tried, but Brad hadn’t taken everything from her. On the other hand, because of him she couldn’t act on the attraction, and she hoped he burned in hell.

Oh, my,” she breathed. “She’s here?” he asked unnecessarily, refusing to look. Resisting temptation. “I’m assuming it must be her; I pretty much know everyone else in the room.” There was a short silence as she inspected the newcomer thoroughly. “My heavens, I didn’t realize scientists came like this. She’s simply . . . magnificent.” “There’s not one thing that’s simple about Lily Banyon.” Evelyn’s eyes were still focused on the other end of the room. “Hmm, I think I see what you mean.” A smile played over her lips. “How utterly refreshing and fascinating—you’ll have your work cut out for you. Come, Mayor McDermott, duty calls.” “I don’t need to meet her. I already know her. Too well.” Evelyn made a tsking sound. “My, my, don’t we sound like we’ve missed our afternoon nap?” she murmured as she brushed by him, assuming the role of Coral Beach’s welcome wagon, fully equipped with bells, whistles, and highlighters. His secretary had abandoned him for the enemy. How much worse could things get? A clause should be inserted into their contracts prohibiting secretaries from treating their bosses as though they were three-year-olds. Had there been dirt instead of mocha-colored industrial carpeting underfoot, he’d have kicked it. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his if he refused to rush over and blurt, Hey, Lily, long time no see! So, tell me, what’ve you been up to since Rome, when you slammed the door in my face so hard you almost broke my nose for the second time? He was the mayor. He could do as he liked. And what he most wanted, right after making Lily Banyon disappear from his life as suddenly as she’d reappeared, was an armed guard. Then maybe he could confront her and walk away in one piece. Reluctantly, Sean turned and looked. Three seconds was all he permitted himself. Lily Banyon wasn’t going to catch him staring like some hormone-crazed adolescent. Three seconds was more than enough, though. Lily’s image burned, a brilliant flame behind his retinas. She looked good. No, make that great, incredible . . . yes, magnificent. She’d chopped off her hair, about a foot and a half of it. Her wheat-blonde locks fell in a casual, tousled style, framing her face, accentuating those startling, ice-crystal blue eyes. She looked even better than he remembered, a memory hot enough to make him lie awake at night, aching.

the buzz is that the general shape of the car is dead-on.” So wrote Hot Rod editor (and my former boss) David Freiburger in the March 2003 issue. His words supported a “sneak peek” cover story on the 2005 Mustang. Looking back, we now know the prototypes shown

It’s hot as fuck watching you boss people around like that.

Ka pao te tōrea,” he says. It’s his motto, of a sort, at his business club; it means ‘as the tide recedes, the oystercatcher strikes.’ We might say ‘strike while the iron is hot.

I like this side of her. It’s hot watching her boss the guys around, and I find I don’t mind it when she directs it at me either.

Damn, bud. If I’d known you were hot for redheads, I would’ve done a better job at staggering our showers all these years.

I thought the things Cal and I did were hot. She got us beat.” “No one is ever gonna forget about that book, are they?

I’m not going to be the young hussy that keeps Mama Sterling from her baby boy the one time he visits Seattle during the season.” “Fine,” he huffed. “But when we get back, I’m going to take out my frustration on your hot little body.

Fuck, Bristol. Your hot little mouth is gonna make me come.

Oh, please tell me you gave him a private little lingerie show and then got down on your knees to pray to the altar of his hot-as-hell body.

Thank God I was sitting down because my knees would have given out the minute Bristol’s hot mouth swallowed my cock.

I’m gonna look like a hot mess.” “You’ve never looked more beautiful.

Baby, I need you on my face. Right now. I need to taste you.” “Who’s in charge here?” Fuck me. It was hot as hell that she owned the power she held over me.

Not a bad way to die, though.” I wrenched my hand away. “Stop. It’s not funny.” “You’re right. It’s not funny. It was hot as hell. I’ll be reliving it for years to come when I’m stroking myself in the shower. Spank bank sufficiently filled thanks to you.

You’re a moaner and curser. And, love, it was so fucking hot that I can’t wait to witness it again.” “Again?” “Oh yes. Again and again and again. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.

mineral soil that snakes around the perimeter of a wildfire. There are different kinds of fire line; the one we were on was called direct line, or hot line. It was several feet wide and cut right along the edge of the fire—“one foot in the black,” as they say. When the fire front is really flaming, the crews cut indirect line anywhere from a few feet to several hundred yards away. Often the area in between is then burned out with torches, called fusees. A burnout uses up the fuels between the line and the fire front, effectively creating a fire line up to several hundred yards wide. A burnout is different from a backfire, which is set deliberately to eliminate huge swaths of fuel in the path of an advancing fire. Often that is the only way to stop a crown fire that is throwing embers miles ahead of it; often, of course, a backfire becomes a disaster of its own. A burnout can be ordered by a crew boss; a backfire can be decided on only by the incident command team.

Damn, he was handsome. My heart was still fluttering. “It’s fine,” I told myself. “It’s fine that my new next door neighbor is a hot firefighter and single dad with muscles for days and dark, broody eyes. It’s fine, because I am the boss of my feelings.” Slowly, I started walking up the stairs, skimming my palm along the banister and wondering if his abs were as hard and sculpted as his jaw. Then I snatched my fingers off the wood as if it was hot. “I am also the boss of my hands.” I started up the steps again, imagining what it would be like to feel his scruff against my cheek, maybe bite his lower lip. “And my teeth,” I said defiantly. “I’m definitely the boss of my teeth. I will not bite my nice new neighbor.

RULE #24: WORK IS SO MUCH MORE ENJOYABLE WHEN YOU’RE FUCKING YOUR HOT BOSS.

The situation is simple. If you want to keep our business, we'd like a different project manager. One who doesn't act like she thinks we're stupid, or insufferable. Someone who doesn't act like she hates working with us." A red haze falls over my eyes. I've never been anything but respectful with these jackasses. I've been friendly and calm and accommodating. But this? This running to my bosses and tattling like spoiled children? Asking to have me removed because I told them that I want to build their stupid house so that it doesn't fall down? This is major bullshit, and my blood pressure soars. My carefully-fought-for bit of restraint that I've been struggling so hard to maintain shatters into a zillion pieces. And before I know it, words are flying out the front of my head. "Mr. and Mrs. Manning, everyone here at MacMurphy wants you to be happy with your experience. And you should absolutely work with someone you connect with. I recommend Liam Murphy, he's your kind of ass-kissing suck-up guy. He will tell you what you want to hear, one hundred percent of the time. He will built your monstrous tasteless house and fill it with your cut-rate special-deal fell-off-the-truck fixtures that your buddies pawn off on you. He'll never tell you that you are building something with built-in lack of resale value due to your appallingly bad taste, and that you are doing it at a price nearly twice what the market in that neighborhood will ever bear. He can be the one to ignore your calls in two years when your screening room walls sprout black mold and your ghastly gold-flecked marble backsplash cracks in half as the kitchen settles six inches into your unstable leaky basement. As for your perception that I act like I think you are stupid and insufferable and I hate working with you? Let me assure you. That? Is no act.

If you thought your mind had a monopoly on screwing you over, you were sorely mistaken. Your body seems to be in cahoots with the boss upstairs and has its very own contributions to that lovely beast we call anxiety. Don't worry if you are one of those lucky people who seem to have anxiety that is primarily driven by physical symptoms. You're not S.O.L. We just need to approach things a little differently. Physical anxiety symptoms vary from person to person, but there are some that tend to be pretty consistent: ● Pounding heartbeat ● Shakiness ● Shortness of breath or hyperventilation ● Sour stomach ● Headache ● Dizziness ● Feeling of pressure on chest ● Sweating ● Feeling of choking ● Chills or hot flashes I bet you’ve felt a few of those suckers before. Maybe you’ve even had a panic attack, which is a sudden surge of fear that involves many of those symptoms and makes you feel out of control. Panic attacks and physical anxiety symptoms, in general, are scary as hell. I don't get to that point often, but I have been there before, and I've seen it occur in others countless times. When you have a panic attack, it feels like you are going to die. You might even WebMD yourself (never WebMD yourself) and find that your symptom profile is strikingly similar to a heart attack... I bet that realization did wonders for your anxiety. Here's the thing, though. I know it hurts, I know it sucks and it feels like you are going to die, but you will not. People don't die from panic attacks. It just doesn't happen. Your body is a dick, but it's not going to let you self-destruct like that. Even though the emotional pain and physical discomfort may be quite unbearable, anxiety will not physically hurt you.

I’m absolutely fucked. I drop my full weight onto her smaller body, yank her knees up and rail that spasming pussy in a way that should land me in prison. My grunts are vile, my thrusts crude and rough—and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself because she’s got a pussy that won’t quit. It’s sopping wet and welcoming every drive of my cock with a hot little flex.

Well Juliet, I'm just saying. You're twenty-two years old, and now you're working for a retired hockey player. You need a man. A hot one who has lots of money and a nice butt. Have you seen their butts?" "Can we not talk about my new boss’butt? Like, can this not be a thing?

Oddly, Charlee seems to know exactly what I need in my life to do the best work I can, which includes an occasional historical romance. A romance I stayed up late last night reading because I desperately needed to find out if Lord Eric finally claimed his wench. He did. On a pile of hay as their “mattress.” Carnal fucking. It was hot as shit.

My breasts were on fire, my nipples were sending messages to my knickers, I was all over the place, but I was determined to remain boss of myself. I crossed my legs and cast my eyes anywhere but Manolo, desperately trying to dispel the sensation of his chest against me, the flex of his arm as he had steadied me, the rush of arousal that was pulsing through me. Breathe! Breathe!

This felt like a classic example of projective identification. In projection, a patient attributes his beliefs to another person; in projective identification, he sends them into another person. For instance, a man may feel angry at his boss at work, then come home and say to his spouse, “You seem angry.” He’s projecting, because the spouse isn’t angry. In projective identification, on the other hand, the man may feel angry at his boss, return home, and essentially insert his anger into his partner, actually making the partner feel angry. Projective identification is like tossing a hot potato to the other person. The man no longer has to feel his anger, since it’s now living inside his partner.

So, this is your plan?” he sneers. “Plan?” “Turn your stupid boss on, until he cracks and pursues you. Then you have him charged with sexual harassment in the workplace.” My mouth falls open in horror. “What?” “Oh, please.” He screws up his face in disgust. “It’s clear as day now—the hot little dress, turning up at that event looking like a walking fucking orgasm and then going home with another man. The sauna, ha.” He throws his head back. “The sauna was a good one, what chance do I have seeing you hot and sweaty in a bikini like that?” I stare at him as my brain misfires. I turn him on.

If you have girl troubles—” “I have no such thing!” Tiris snapped a little too quickly. “Whatever you say, Boss. Don't forget, I saw you two kissing.” Kino sighed wistfully. “Man, was that hot.

Rosalie brushed her fingers over Roary’s cheek in a ‘I’m sorry you’re pissed, but I’m also the boss bitch so I’ma do what I want and you can’t stop me’ kind of way that was hella hot, then walked away from him towards me.

It started with Isabella trying to escape from Dexter, who Miles led you to believe at the beginning wasn’t a good guy, except he tries to keep Isabella comfortable and he never touches her. But she’s being held against her will, so that didn’t engender any warm and fuzzy feelings between them. In fact, the insults she lobbed at him were fantastic, like, You pikey pillock. [...] Dexter, for his part, took them all in stride and never retaliated, not even when she told him his mother must have been a slag. Yikes. The only time Dexter exerted any force was when he came in to bring her food and she used her feminine charm on him. Poor Dexter was stupid enough to believe it might be real. Wishful thinking on his part. Except when Isabella did get close to him, she felt a little something and it startled her. [...] She kneed him in the groin anyway and ran away. Dexter recovered quickly enough to catch her. That’s when he started sleeping in her room to make sure she didn’t escape. And that was when things started to get interesting. Isabella meant to lure him into believing she was interested in him to gain his trust, but the more she got to know him, the more she can’t help but like him. I read their exchanges as they talked late into every night, with him on the floor and her on the bed, asking all sorts of questions from his family to how he felt about politics. [...] [Dexter] possessed a calm reassurance about himself and a deep understanding of people and situations. [...] Poor Isabella thought she was getting the upper hand in all of this, but it didn’t take her long to realize she was losing ground. She began looking forward to their nights spent talking and sometimes playing Stop the Bus, a card game she used to play with her father. Dexter began using these moments to gain her trust, to start telling her the truth of her situation. It was enough that when they were discovered by two men clad in black who claimed to be there to rescue Isabella, she chose to flee with Dexter after some kick-butt fight scenes. [...] Isabella and Dexter fled to France. They almost kind of had a moment there. Isabella was furious with him because she felt like he was hiding something from her. She goes to slap him, but he grabs her hand before she can make contact. The unspoken words and emotion between them were totally hot. You thought he was going to kiss her, and so did she. She found herself yearning for it and she hated herself for it. [...] While in Paris, Isabella discovered a clue in her father’s journal that led them to Colorado. It had to do with a town legend involving a tree where lovers carved their names. It was said any pair to carve their name into the Aspen tree would only be parted by death. I loved that he used an Aspen tree. That was where they began to see how intertwined their lives were. Dexter’s mother’s name and Isabella’s father’s name were carved together into the tree long before either of them was born, but Isabella’s father’s name was crossed out. At first, I was grossed out thinking that they might be siblings, but Dexter was ten years older than Isabella, and his mother died before Isabella was born. But their parents were lovers. Interesting. [...] While they tried to figure out who might have crossed out Isabella’s father’s name, Isabella and Dexter started dancing on the edge of their feelings. Miles made the cabin they were staying in at the Ranch one room, not just one bedroom. A large, single room with only a bathroom for any privacy. Inch by inch, the sexual tension between them grew. Little touches here and there. But more than that, there was an emotional connection. Isabella began to let down her guard. She owned how afraid she was that her life had been a lie. But on the flipside, she had this desperate hope her father was innocent. More than that, she longed to be able to trust someone, but she didn’t know how.

You’re going to give me that hot little mouth however I fucking want it. You’re going to choke for me, and gag for me, and dribble and drool and cry such dirty fucking tears for me.” He paused, his breathing deep. “And your pretty little asshole is going to gape for me, so nice and fucking deep, and believe me, little girl, I’m going to make you do things so naughty, you’ll never feel like a good girl again.

He'd seen other detectives, over the years, pushed into a hole of horror by some monster that lurked out of reach. Part of them still trapped down there, even after they retired. Haunted by victims they hadn't been able to save, shattered lives in their rearview like wrecks on a highway. He'd been determined he wouldn't be like them. Assured himself he was good at his job, good at compartmentalizing. But these past months - his boss's breath hot on his neck and the feverish media coverage this investigation had been compelling him, inch by inch, toward that dark edge.

president Jimmy Hoffa and former Dallas boss gambler Benny Binion, would do something to jeopardize the possibility of legalized gambling in Arkansas.

Dora and John come round after breakfast. They are our next door neighbours and we see them practically every day, especially in the summer holidays when we are all bored and hot. Dora is thirteen, just like Alice and Moz. Dora and Alice are best friends forever. It can get a bit much sometimes. But that's OK, because this summer I am mainly hanging out with Moz and John. Moz is my big brother and he's pretty cool. He is enjoying lazing around at home and in the garden, getting a tan. I think this is because he likes to take his t-shirt off all the time to show the girls his cool bod! He has got a lot taller suddenly this year and looks strong and athletic. But I think he's still a bit of a kid inside, wanting to hang out with me and John rather than try and talk to all the cool girls and not knowing what to say. The down-side is that as he's the eldest, he's always bossing us around. He ALWAYS thinks he knows best. John is eleven, like me. He's OK most of the time, but he can be very annoying too.