We've been on the road for hours. Part of me thinks we should have gotten there by now, while another part of me is afraid that just asking might be an admission to my poor navigation skills. I really didn't want to be out here, and she knows it. Yet this is her boss, and I can't put her in a position that makes her look anything short of the aspiring hard worker they all know her to be. Sometimes that pisses me off, that she's trying to win their approval more than mine. I'm the one she alleges to love and yet here I am, spending my kid free weekend driving up to butt fuck nowhere in the middle of spring, probably going to a shitty ass cabin that has no internet, and no cell service. So while I brought my laptop with me and I can get some of my work done, I won't be able to email it to my publisher until I return to the real world. Fan-fucking-tastic.

And yet here I am... driving her to a company retreat being hosted by her boss.

I'd do anything for my Angie, and the bad news about that is she's aware of that and often abuses it. People often tell me that I lack backbone, but that isn't true. It's not lack of backbone that prevents me from standing up to her when she uses me. It's fear. Fear that she'll dump me and find a more handsome man with a bigger cock that could please her in ways that I can only see on porn hub. A fear that if I lose her that I will never find another and die alone.

Does this make me weak? Maybe, but right now a bossy cunt that knows what she wants in life is better than nothing. It's not like I'm not getting anything out of this relationship. I take the bad with the good, but this weekend is starting to look more bad than the other.

Uh oh, she's looking at me. I have a feeling I know what she's thinking.

"Shouldn't we be there by now?" she calmly asked, with a voice I know to be passive aggressive.

Translation: Do you have any fucking idea where we are, asshole?

"I think so," I reply, trying to convey even just a minuscule amount of confidence. "We left pretty early too, so I'm still confident we'll get there before anyone else. "

"Good," She said, as she resumed to gaze out the window, as if the view of vast nothing was better than looking at my ugly mug.

I grip the wheel a bit more, as knuckles go a little white. This weekend is going to fucking suck, and I mean The Last Jedi, I can't believe I actually miss George Lucas kind of suckage. The kind that will linger like a bad taste in your mouth and no amount of Listerine will wash away.

Part of me hates her for making me attend this clusterfuck. If she could have come out here without me, I know she wouldn't have hesitated to leave my sorry ass behind. I bet she's wishing she hired a male hooker for the weekend, just to avoid introducing me to her boss. Thankfully her boss is happily married, cause I have no doubt she'd fuck him for a promotion.

And since this is a couples retreat, everyone had to bring their significant other, and that means the scruffy writer she's been talking about finally has to make an appearance. I feel like the elephant man, and the curtain is about to be whisked aside and gasps will be heard all around. I'm not really that ugly, and am aware I clearly have confidence issues. Yet I would prefer to speak with a therapist about it, not air anything in front of Angie's pompus, book smart, faker friends who are all competing to kiss the CEO's arse.

"Yes," Angie then said spontaneously, "I think we should be there by now."

"And I think you should shut your fucking cake hole." I mummur under my breath.

"What was that?" Angie asked, as she wasn't paying attention.

"I think you're right," I reply, "Let's stop at the next station and ask."