Perfect Storm

8- Ian

"Don't give me that shit! The inventory spreadsheet, along with the order list, was on my desk! Including the monthly sales and tax report."

"Ian, I'm telling you, it's not here. I've looked all day and found nothing. I'm at your desk right now, and there are no reports, no spreadsheet, or order list in sight. The shit has vanished."

"Find it. Gene is supposed to be there Monday to pick up the reports," I snapped, scrubbing my face. "If you're at my desk, it should be right in front of you. The reports are in a Manilla folder, labeled, May monthly sales report, and the other shit was beneath it."

"Ian. There is nothing here!" Arnie yelled. "Your desk is cleared off as always."

My eyes closed, I took in a deep breath, then frustratedly exhaled. "The shit was on my desk. I know it was because I had just got done finishing it when Hannah called."

"I'll keep looking, but from what I see, there's nothing."

"What did you do about the ordering?"

"I guessed at what we needed," Arnie admitted. "It's all I could do."

I whipped my pen across the room. "Find out who was in my office. Immediately. Whoever it was, was the one who moved or took it. And once you find out, call me immediately..." I snapped before hanging up, then dropping my cellphone on the desk, not caring if I broke my screen.

I swear heads are going to roll if I have to drive down to the cities tomorrow and gather every fucking employee of mine into the small confined room I've designed specifically for shit such as this. A restricted room to scare whoever fucked with me to admit what they know and to admit the truth.

My office door opened, and in came Hannah, holding a drink for me in her hand. I didn't plan on drinking anything tonight. Still, with the shit that's going on at my nightclub, and seeing Tawny's beautiful fucking body in the band-aid bikini she was wearing, and how she was hanging out with my best bartender Jason, wearing what she was, having a drink right now sounds good.

"How did you know I need this," I asked as Hannah extended her arm over the desk and handing me a tumbler filled with scotch.

"As I've said before, I'm smarter than you, and I'm good at reading minds," she reminded as she sat in the chair, crossing her leg over the other and looking at me as if she were studying me.

"Why are you looking at me that way?"

"You're not supposed to be here. Don't you have shit to take care of down in the cities?"

"I've got Arnie on it."

"Why?"

Hannah better stop asking me questions before I get even more upset.

"Because I have shit to deal with around here," I muttered, taking a long sip of my drink.

Hannah's left brow raised high. "Like what?"

"Stuff," I groaned.

"What kind of stuff?" Hannah pressured, knowing damn well if she continues interrogating me, I'll spill what's on my mind. The thing is, I don't even know why I feel the need to be here. Of course, Hannah has everything under control, just as she always has. But for some strange reason, something is still keeping me here, and it's pissing me off that I can't figure out what that reason is.

I didn't know what to tell Hannah, so I remained tight-lipped, trying to think of what "kinds of stuff" was keeping me still here.

"It has to do with Tawny, doesn't it?" she pushed.