‘Chug a lug, bitch. I need that tongue a’ wagging pronto.” Tiffany swallows her mouthful of wine before sticking her own tongue out, wiggling it rather obscenely in my direction.
“We’re not that kind of friends, Tiff,” I tease. But really, I’m trying to keep from discussing the topic at hand. The wine, my second glass, is working its magic, though, and it’s getting hard to play coy.
I’ll blame my so-slight buzz for what happens next. “He wants me underneath him.”
Tiffany’s glass nearly shatters as she slams it to the coffee table. Her feet find the floor as she stands up for the first time since we rolled into my apartment an hour ago. “What?”
I smirk, knowing I got her good. “Well, sorta. He offered me a job as his assistant.”
Tiffany is dancing around the room, in grave danger of tripping over her own two feet and my dirty laundry as she sings seriously off-key. “He wants you, he wa-a-a-ants you. Elle’s gonna get her some BBC!”
My eyes bug out. “What? What does BBC have to do with anything, and how much porn are you watching these days? Hitting on me and using Pornhub lingo?”
“Big British Cock,” she says with a nod like that’s obviously what that means. It so doesn’t. “And I’m not coming on to you, though I might consider it if you give me another glass of wine.” She drinks the last of it from her glass, raising it to ceiling in salute before pouring another. It’s a good thing she’s not driving home.
As she pours, she says under her breath, “He wants you to take his dick-tation. Bet he tea-bags and eats crumpets at the same time.” She throws her head back, almost spilling her near-full wine as she closes her eyes and says louder in a fake English accent, “Oh, my, I’m arriving! Arriving now!”
It takes me two blinks to realize she’s joking about coming and then I burst into laughter with her. We fall back on the couch, giggles erupting like a Coke and Mentos experiment is going off in our bellies.
“Quite splendid, indeed,” I say through the snorts, my fake accent only slightly better than Tiffany’s.
Eventually, we laugh ourselves out and the reality of the situation comes back to me heavily.
“What am I going to do?” I whine.
Tiffany’s look of ‘duh’ makes me feel like I’m missing something. “Work for him.”
I copy the look back because she’s the one not seeing the big picture here. Before I can argue, she holds up a hand and lifts one perfectly sculpted brow, daring me to interrupt her. I wisely shut my mouth and give her the floor to speak.
“You’re smart, he’s hot, so give it a shot.” She smiles messily. “I’m such a poet.” More clear-eyed, she says, “I’ll miss you and probably die of absolute boredom without you to make things interesting all day, but you need to grab this bull with both hands and hang on with all you’ve got.”
“You think?” I say, knowing I’ve already decided. I’d decided before I even walked out of his office today, if I’m being truthful.
Tiffany takes a sip, feigning casualness. “Does Daddy know yet?”
I’m too deep in my own shit to give her any about the nickname this time. “No, and he’s going to kill me, or Colton, or both of us.” It’s a real fear, but more importantly, I confess, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
She pats my hand consolingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll be Daddy’s baby girl once you’re busy with the Big Bad Wolfe. I’m sure Daddy will need all sorts of comforting and I’m pretty good at that.”
She teasing, mostly. But then she goes one step too far. “After the wedding, do you want to call me Mother or Mom, you think?”
I kick out a foot, catching her in her middle, and she oofs. “Shut your filthy mouth about my dad, woman. Never gonna happen.” She tilts her head, not meeting my eyes as if that makes her able to ignore my decree. “It had better not. Girl. Code.”
She sighs, finally looking my way. “Fine. But how about if we trade tit-for-tat? You can break code and screw my brother, and in return, I get Daddy?”
I shake my head, grossed out. “No, I’m not fucking Ace. That ship sailed a long time ago. And you’re not fucking my dad. New subject . . . what am I going to wear?”
Fashion might be the only thing to get Tiffany’s attention off my dad, so I play that card intentionally.
She gasps, setting her drink down to stand. Grabbing at my hand, she half-drags me to my bedroom before shoving me onto my bed. Thankfully, my glass isn’t quite as full as hers and I manage to not spill a drop.
Sophie jumps up, mewling and hissing her displeasure at being disturbed upon her throne, also known as my bed. I hiss back, knowing I’ll pay for the disobedience later. There’s definitely a hairball in my future.
I consider for a moment whether Tiffany’s making a play for me as she eyes me thoughtfully. But she throws open my closet and digs in, pulling out skirts and tops.
If it’d been me, my room would’ve been a tornado of clothes in moments. Tiffany is methodical, though, lining up three tops that she eyes critically.
“Sexy, but not overtly so. You don’t want to look like you got the promotion on your knees.”
“On my ass, actually. I fell off the copy machine to the floor. It was a full Hello Kitty situation. Thank God I’d waxed recently.” I cringe, knowing that waxing is uncomfortable as hell, but flashing full bush at Colton Wolfe would’ve been a million times more painful.
Tiffany smiles but remains focused. “Not chaste and matronly. You don’t want to look like a virgin unless that’s his kink.” She looks at me like I’d have any idea. Actually, I shake my head, pretty sure that’s not the way to his cock. Tiffany nods her agreement with my assessment. “But professional, of course.”
“This one,” she decides, holding up a grey button-up shirt. It’s the softest cotton, which is why I bought it, but rather plain.
“Really?” I question. She’s more of a fashionista than me, but that shirt screams bland and blah.
She throws it at me. “Just you wait and see. Trust me, put it on.”
I pull off my comfy T-shirt and put on the grey one Tiff’s selected, buttoning it up. In the mirror, I look a little Risky Business in just the shirt and socks. Well, maybe like a college girl’s Halloween slut version of the outfit because my braless nipples are quite apparent through the thin cotton.
Hello, Headlights!
Tiffany pulls a deep plum skirt from my closet next. “And this.” She instructs me to slip it on with a wave of her hand. I do as ordered while she digs around in my dresser. “Hose.” She hands me a pair of thigh-highs, my favorite ones, actually, that are the same dark purple as the skirt, but silky sheer with small polka dots for some flair. “And last but not least, jewelry. Get it?”
She holds out a multi-strand necklace of faux pearls. “I am not wearing a pearl necklace to my first day on the job with Colton Wolfe.” The argument is useless in the face of Tiffany’s intelligence.
“I dare you to.” Her brow quirks, knowing she’s got me. “He might not even get the reference. It’s probably called something else in London.” I eye the necklace warily. “The queen’s choker?” she postulates.
I still don’t agree, but I carefully pull the hose up my legs. Tiffany hands me a pair of black heels, and I slip them on as I look in the mirror.
“Hair up, but leave a few ringlets loose. Professional makeup with a burgundy lip, something that goes with but doesn’t match the skirt.” Tiffany gathers my hair in her hand, holding it on top of my head mimicking a bun. “You’ll have the sexy librarian look down pat, and something tells me that’s the way into Colton Wolfe’s . . . trousers.”
“I’m not getting into his pants, Tiff.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, not till he gets in yours, of course. Ladies first. Always. It’s a sign of a true gentleman.”
“He’s just using me to fuck with Dad. He told me as much, so don’t go getting your hopes up that this is some Cinderella story.” I sound sad about that, even to my own ears.
Tiffany’s pity is loud and clear. “That’s what he said. And it’s probably even true. But it’s not the only reason. Look at yourself, girl.” She uses her grip on my hair to wiggle my head around, forcing me to look my reflection in the eye.
“I feel like a traitor,” I say softly, not looking at Tiffany because I don’t want to see her reaction.
She lets go of my hair, her mouth rounding. “Oh, honey, don’t. No one is going to think that, least of all your dad.” That she calls him that and not ‘Daddy’ shows me how seriously she’s taking this right now. It must be requiring all of her brain power, considering how many glasses of wine she’s put down.
She blinks, and the seriousness is gone in favor of something she knows will persuade me more than sweet platitudes.
“You’re a daredevil on an adventure. Elle Stryker, Secret Agent, working side by side with the dashing, debonair Colton Wolfe while secretly helping her father. You’re like one set of handcuffs and a nunchaku fight away from your own superhero action show, and I bet you could get Colton to help with the handcuff issue.” She winks knowingly.
She’s right. There’s something about Colton that makes me want to know more—the way he dances between frosty formality and risqué entendre, the honest surprise at my confession that I’d been trying to get his attention, the bold declaration that he was going to use me. But what intrigues me the most was his quiet admission that he thinks he’s boring and in need of fun. I don’t share that with Tiffany, selfishly wanting to keep that tidbit to myself.
Mine! My precious! my inner Gollum screeches.
But this is a dangerous game I’m playing, one I’m woefully unprepared for. Everyone knows who my dad is, and as soon as word gets out about my new position, I’ll be the topic of every water cooler conversation.
Fuck it, I think as I take the pearl necklace from Tiffany’s hand. Might as well give them something easy to nitpick.
And she’s right. I do look fucking fabulous. Sexy librarian, indeed.
Shush . . .
The next morning, my guts have taken a flying leap off the top of the building, leaving me a nervous mess.
Everything’s going great until my phone rings.
“Tiff? What’s up?” She never calls me in the morning, both of us too in a hurry to have time to gab.
A strange noise comes through the phone, and for a moment, I think she’s being murdered and somehow managed to butt dial me for help.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to call 9-1-1 or come kick ass?” A horrible thought peeks out from the recesses in my mind and I grip the phone, whispering, “Did you kill Ace? Should I bring a shovel?”
Considering we live in the city and any deserted land is well outside the city limits, I hope it’s not that. And mental note, I need to lay off the I Almost Got Away With It binge watching.
That same strange noise happens again.
“Early. I need you to come and get me early. It’s an emergency, Elle. As soon as possible, please.” I realize that sound is her growling angrily and sobbing uncontrollably at the same time.
“Are you okay? Is Ace okay?” I venture. “Wait, don’t answer that. They might be listening.” I don’t know who they are, but if today is the first day of my Secret Agent spy show, I don’t want to start it by causing my bestie to incriminate herself. “I’m on my way.”
“Thanks.” She must pull the phone from her ear because I hear her yell from a distance, “I am going to murder you in your sleep, Ace Young.” And then the line goes dead.
At least I know he’s still alive right now. When the police interrogate me later, I can tell them that’s all I know.
I quickly get dressed, thankful I don’t have time to second guess the outfit Tiffany pulled together for me. Not even the pearl necklace causes me to pause.
I’m not surprised when Tiff isn’t outside as I pull up. She’s probably wrapping Ace’s body in rug or something. But like the loyal friend I am, I head to her door, which is noticeably absent of shitty loud rap music this time. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, though.
The door swings open before I can knock. Tiffany is perfectly pulled together as usual . . . from the neck up. Hair? Curled into loose waves. Makeup? Instagram ready.
It’s from the shoulders down that is an utter clusterfuck of morning-after-frat-party-refugee chic.
“Is that a Rainbow Brite shirt? And where’s the rest of your skirt?” Dumb questions, I guess, because she glares behind her, where Ace sits sullenly on the couch.
But seriously, her shirt is probably a girl’s large at best, her belly button and several inches of abdomen exposed beneath the hem, and her skirt would be better described as a thick belt. I can’t see her ass from this angle, but I bet if Ace looked up from the floor, he’d be getting more than an eyeful of his sister’s assets.
Tiffany growls like an animal and Ace says, “I said I’m sorry.” I get the feeling he’s said it several times already. “I was trying to help.”
“Your laundry,” Tiffany replies crisply. “Clean the piss off the toilet, wash the dishes, and take out the trash. All of it. Capiche?”
“Yeah,” is his sad answer.
“Before I get home.” With that, Tiffany shoves me out the door. “Let’s go, I have to go by the cleaners on the way to work, and then, I’ll have to get dressed in your car. I’ll probably flash truckers from here to the office when I take this joke of a skirt off. What was I thinking?” She gestures to the tiny scrap of fabric. “Why did you let me wear this thing in public? I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends go out looking like hoes, Elle.”
I wisely decide not to remind her that we quite often went out wearing the latest and greatest in slutty fashion in our younger days. Hence, why that skirt is in her closet in the first place.
She sits down in my passenger seat and I remind myself to get Cammie detailed. It’s not that I don’t love Tiff, but I’m well aware that her bare ass is resting on my leather seat right now, and that’s just a little bit much, even for my bestie. I’m just grateful she’s got underwear on . . . well, I assume she does.
I focus on the obvious. “Why are you wearing that? What did Ace do?”
“He claims he wanted to help.” She does finger quotes around the word but one turns into a gun and she jokes at shooting herself. “Kill me now, because that boy took my laundry and washed it all. The dirties in my hamper? Maybe that would’ve been all right. But he took my work clothes too, the dry-clean only ones. Washed them all, and then to pour salt on the wound, dried them. I don’t think I have a single respectable item left, hence my current attire.”
“Holy shit,” I gasp, wincing. Tiffany’s always been a bit of a clothes hound, with a wardrobe that’d put mine to shame. But she’s ridiculously organized about hers, usually only keeping special pieces and her current on-trend lineup. “I’m surprised he’s still alive. I kinda assumed he wasn’t when you called.”
She holds her finger and thumb up, a skinny space separating them. “This close, I swear. If you’d been one second later.”
She bangs her head on the headrest. “Turn right at the next light. The cleaners is on the left.” I follow her directions and pull into the drive-thru line.
Tiffany requests her clothes from the passenger seat, glaring menacingly at the young guy when he stares at the long length of thigh she’s showing. I can’t help but laugh a little. “You can’t blame him. I mean, you’re a cough away from an ‘is there some other way I could pay?’ situation.”
Her glare hits me full-force. “Now who’s watching too much porn?”
And of course, that’s when the guy steps out the door to hand over Tiffany’s clothes. As if this morning could get any worse, he’s now looking at us like we’re a dream come true. No, scratch that . . . like a fantasy come true.
I have to get out and push the seat forward for him to hang the clothes in the back seat, and I swear to God, he sniffs the air as he leans down in front of me. And then he misses the hook twice because he’s side-eyeing Tiffany in the front seat. I can’t see his eyes, but I can tell because his head’s angled all wrong.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.” Polite words said with zero kindness and a full dose of get the fuck outta here seem to wake him up.
He steps back, having finally gotten the clothes secure. “Oh, I will. You ladies have a great day too.” He tips an invisible hat and steps back so I can get in and close the door. But before I can put Cammie into drive, he leans down, putting his forearms on the open windowsill.
“My name’s Joe. Would either of you ladies . . . or both of you . . . like to grab a drink tonight? I get off at six.”
I blink. I guess I should give him some credit for shooting his shot, but to ask both of us out seems beyond the pale, so I’m not feeling that generous. “Nope.”
I slip the shifter into first and gun the engine with my foot firmly on the brake. He takes the hint and moves back. A split second later, we’re flying down the road, beelining for the highway.
I look over to Tiffany, seeing that she’s still scowling and ruminating about Ace’s misdeeds.
“Want me to go back? You could get to know Joe a bit better. I could dare you to go out with him, if you want?” I offer it seriously, but she knows damn well that I’m kidding. It’s against rule one, and possibly rule two, though if things got that far between my bestie and the dry-cleaning guy, it’d be on her shoulders, not mine.
“Just drive,” she says with a sigh, but there’s a hint of a smile, so I’m taking the win.
The next stoplight, the last one before we hit the open road of rush-hour traffic, is a long one, so Tiffany unbuckles and works her way over the console and into the back seat. She absolutely flashes her ass to the driver of the car next to us, and the angry looking middle-aged woman honks and yells something that looks like ‘what the fuck?’ But the jacked-up truck in the far lane has a guy who looks like Tiff just made his day, judging by the width of his smile. He waves, and I shrug like whatcha gonna do?
Tiffany strips and gets dressed in more work-appropriate clothing while I drive on. As we merge onto the highway, Truck Driver honks his horn and waves again as he continues down the frontage road.
I laugh and look in the rearview mirror. “It seems you have another fan this morning, Miss Young.”
She flips me the bird and smarts off. “Well, with Ace’s help, at least you were too distracted to have what would’ve surely been an epic freak-out this morning. You’re welcome.” She tips her hat, copying Joe with a smirk.
“Thanks, you shouldn’t have,” I say dryly, but secretly, I think she’s probably right because now that she mentions it, I can feel the butterflies.
No, bees. Actually, more like wasps, mean and aggressive, buzzing through my belly at the thought of walking into Fox this morning, bypassing my usual desk, and heading for the elevator. I imagine everyone’s eyes on me as I walk down the hallway toward Colton’s office, whispering behind their hands at Daniel’s traitorous daughter.
This isn’t the usual happy sensation when I’m about to crush a dare. Not anticipation. This is dread. Not excitement. This is fear.
“I can’t do this.” The blurt is unconscious but true. “I’m just going to go to my desk like usual and deal with any fallout. You said it yourself. Colton’s not going to fire me. He’ll have to explain why he didn’t do something right away, and he won’t do that.”
I glance in the rearview mirror to see Tiffany watching me through guarded eyes. I don’t like that. She’s always pretty open and filter-less.
My mind keeps spinning. My mouth keeps running.
“Or he could just go to Dad, bypass anything official because he damn well knows that’d be worse to me. Shit. He’s right, rock and hard place. I could hit him in his hard place with a rock, see if he’d like that.”
“Snarky is not an attractive look on you,” Tiff ventures, not commenting on my solo encore performance of last night’s argument.
Her silence ironically reminds me why I’d decided to go along with this whole crazy idea in the first place.
I picture Colton staring out the window over the city, cutting a powerful silhouette but confessing to wanting a bit of excitement. I picture the heat in his eyes as he scanned the photocopy of my ass and the considerable bulge I know I saw in his slacks, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
“I’m doing it.” This dare isn’t done yet, but it will be. And suddenly, I can’t wait.
