|Down Kitkat Lane
Author: kitkat681 PM
A fabulous collab from twelve super talented writers written to celebrate my birth. Come enjoy their take on some of my stories! Rated M for sex...eventually and a shitload of funny. BEST GIFT EVER!Rated: Fiction M - English - Humor/Parody - Chapters: 13 - Words: 21,089 - Reviews: 93 - Favs: 29 - Follows: 15 - Published: 05-07-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8094252
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hi! As you can tell from the summary...this is NOT my work. What this is, is an amazing and overwhelming gift that twelve fabulous women put together. In each chapter there is a reference (or two) to some of my stories as well as hints to my life outside the fic world.
This gift was too spectacular and I just had to share it with you.
Cara No, JA Mash, Edward's Eternal, TexasBella, Reyes139, BellaEdwardlover1991, les16, Bornonhalloween, Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy, Shell Shock, Ladyeire and Whiti
All those talented and supportive people got together and wrote this...
Just for me.
And now I'm sharing it with you.
Be sure to check out the amazing Banner that JA Mash made for me...and yes...that is my face AND my tits :)
i1164 . photobucket . com/albums/q565/kitkatcullen/72a998cd . jpg
And Now I give you...
Down Kitkat Lane
Written by JA Mash
Ms. Katherine Komma's POV
"Ms. Komma," Mr. Cullen grunts at me, not looking up from his intent study of the files on his desk. "Need to have a word with you."
"—by which I mean, I'm going to talk, you're going to listen, and you will not say anything until I'm done, at which point if you choose to speak, I'm fully able to walk away at my leisure."
I dim. I start to open my mouth to say, "Okay", but Mr. Cullen looks at me, drawing a savage red line beneath a score that displeases him, and I shut it again. I nod.
Mr. Cullen slants a flat glance at me and hmmphs. "What's that?" When I hesitate, trying to figure out if this is permission to speak or not, Mr. Cullen rolls his eyes and points with a jab of his pen. "In. Your. Hand, Ms. Komma. What is that in your hand? I can use smaller words, if you like? I mean, you are new to this agency. It's to be expected that you're a little behind the rest of the class."
It's a paper cup of coffee. Venti-sized. Quintuple-shot espresso in dark roast, no sugar, no cream, scalding hot, Mr. Cullen's very favorite drink in the whole world, and I would know since I've watched—okay, spied on—Mr. Cullen buying a cup this size, from this very vendor, every single morning since I started at Ellipsis Real Estate.
I run out of mental breath and my mouth starts moving. "Coffee."
"Huh. Why is it here?" Mr. Cullen waves me off. "Doesn't matter. No drinks during floor time, you know that. Either chug fast or throw it away."
But… I bought it for you, I think. "You—do you want it?"
"Me? God, no. I gave up coffee for Lent."
"Are you questioning the validity of my religious beliefs?" Mr. Cullen looks offended. He takes the cup from me and drops it in the trash. Thunk.
Which is actually not such a bad thing, because while I like to think of myself as a good woman, nice, someone who gets along with absolutely everyone I meet—and damn it, the rest of the world thinks so, too—because despite all of that, I figure I was about point five seconds from dumping the coffee over Mr. Cullen's head.
I'm kinda tempted to fish the cup out of the trash and go for the java shower anyway.
Mr. Cullen's already moved on though. Once again immersed in reading about the wish list of the current top dollar client, he digs in the pocket of his jacket and fishes out a tiny black rectangle about the size and shape of a Tic-Tac box and tosses it my way. "Heads' up," he says after I've already fumbled the catch. "See why we don't allow drinks on the floor? That could've been nasty."
My fist tightens around the box. I grit my teeth, count to twenty in French—which I only know because I sometimes like to pretend I'm an exotic tourist here to see the sights and get in the pants of as many beautiful men as I can dream about drowning in—which, by the way, never works and doesn't start working now.
"I see that," I say instead of tearing a strip off Edward. Mr. Cullen. Dickhead.
Damned, pissant, irritating, aggravating, fucking hot as melted butter on a baked potato, could not stop thinking about him since I started working here and if I'm pathetic enough to close my eyes, I can still hear him moaning like he did in my dream the night before. That Mr. Cullen. Edward.
I pop out of my reverie to the sound of clicking. Mr. Cullen's snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. "Wow, it'd be nice to dream my life away, too," he says, smile bright and eyes unreadable. "Unlucky me, I have a job."
"Mr. Cul—," I start, knowing I sound desperate, but aggravated horniness will do that to a woman.
"Okay…" Mr. Cullen drops his file. "I can see we're going to have to add subsection 'b' to this talk, and I'd really hoped we wouldn't have to, so this is going to cost you." He props himself on the edge of the table and crosses his arms. "Tell me, just because I called you in here to 'talk'"—he adds the air quotes—"you don't think we're friends now, do you?"
I can answer this question, at least, without equivocation. "No, sir." It's halfway true. We could be friends—more than—if Edward gave me a chance.
Yeah, and tomorrow bacon will be proved as an excellent source of zero-trans-fat heart-healthy fiber.
Disgusted with myself, I mirror Mr. Cullen's pose. He waves the black box at me and I take a closer look. It's… plain. A teensy black plastic rectangle with a discreetly recessed tiny black button one-sixth the size of his thumb. I take the box and click it curiously.
"Ah, playtime. The nostalgia of childhood will bring a tear to my eye. It really will." Mr. Cullen snatches the box away from me and holds it up so they can both see the button.
I obediently look at the box, because as I will admit to myself, I'm just that whipped by the Almighty Power of the Cullen Ass.
"This is company policy," Mr. Cullen explains. I focus intently on his words and try to ignore the draw of the 'Almighty Cullen Ass', but I gave up coffee. I don't have the energy to fight it.
"When we get a new client, you take it with you, and whenever they complain about a property you point, you click, you put it away, end of story, and by the way, this is the conclusion of the talk I'd intended to have with you. Now that it's over and done, I think you have properties to show, don't you?"
Next chapter will be up soon!