Crush Me

by Black, Stasia

  CRUSH ME

  By Stasia Black

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Stasia Black

  Sneak Peak of PLEASE ME

  CHAPTER 1

  Bryce Gentry of Gentry Information Technologies doesn’t look up from his computer when I enter his huge corner office. Even though I know for a fact his secretary buzzed him to tell him she was sending me in.

  Just from his profile I can see he’s as good-looking as the online pics I saw last night when I was researching the company. Blond hair, aquiline nose. Long face and squared jaw, like a model. Not that I was paying that much attention last night. Kinda hard when Charlie kept trying to climb into my lap and bang his favorite rubber spoon on my nose. All the while yelling, “Mama! Mama!” to get my attention.

  Try telling a two-and-a-half-year old that Mama needs her me-time on the laptop or you’re both going to get evicted by the nasty landlord. Yeah. I shudder even thinking about Mr. Jenkins. He doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t staring at my boobs, no matter if Charlie’s with me or not. At least Mr. Jenks-a-lot waited till he caught me alone to tell me to get the rent to him by Friday or come around to some ‘alternate forms of payment.’ Said while blatantly rubbing at the crotch of his pants.

  I stretch my neck and shake out my hands. Focus Callie. All that shit just means this interview is more important than ever. Which leads to the mantra I’ve been whispering over and over to myself all morning: Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.

  “Mr. Gentry?” I finally venture. Maybe he didn’t hear the secretary when she buzzed him or notice when I came in. The wall separating his office from the reception is that cool futuristic glass that can frost and unfrost at the touch of a button. It frosted over as I opened the door. I thought Mr. Gentry had control of it, but maybe I’d been wrong and that had been the secretary as well. Am I an idiot just standing here like a stalker and he doesn’t even realize there’s anyone in the room with him? “I’m here for the Personal Assistant interview?”

  A grunt is all that greets me in return. I stand awkwardly and look down at my shoes. I immediately frown. Shit. I polished them last night but the left one has a giant scuff down the side. They’re just crappy knock-off pumps, but I thought they’d at least last the interview process. I’ve been desperately job-hunting all month ever since the lawyer’s fees and rent and student loan repayments have started stacking up too high.

  Especially when another custody hearing is looming. My stomach cramps just at the thought, even though it’s the last fucking thing I need to be focusing on right now. But God, the money. It’s why I’m here. The money has to come from somewhere. Waitressing gigs aren’t cutting it, no matter how many hours I work.

  And after a month of job hunting, interviewing with no call-backs, turning over every damn rock possible, this is my last shot—and for a job I’m only remotely qualified for. Personal Assistant. I can do that, right? Assist a person. I’m great at thinking on my feet, helping out where needed. And I know computers and robotics. Well, I’ve taken classes about them anyway…

  I look around the pristine room and swallow. The space isn’t like the others I’ve interviewed in. It looks almost like one of those futuristic sets for a movie. Everything is white, glass, or chrome—the floors, the ceiling, the chairs, the desk. It’s all so… immaculate. Perfect.

  At least I thought I was qualified for the job. My hands squeeze into fists but I quickly relax them again. The listing didn’t say the PA job was for the freaking CEO of the company. And to say that I engaged in a little… creative truth management on my resume would be putting it kindly. But doesn’t everyone? And if I can actually pull this off… there wasn’t a salary listed, it said full details would be offered at inquiry. But damn, who hasn’t heard of Gentry Tech? We talked about Gentry Tech products all the time in my classes at Stanford and studied research this man developed. God, this could be the break I’ve been looking for.

  If I don’t fuck it up.

  Bryce Gentry finally shuts his laptop with a loud clap and looks up at me. For a second I’m startled, just staring at him. He really is attractive, but with a Parisian suave vibe more than an overly muscled All-American football player way. No, he’s sleek. The kind of guy you imagine standing in the shadow of the building. Mysterious. Maybe smoking a cigarette. Although the blond hair does throw off the image a little. He’s really blond, like me. And younger than I would’ve thought. I’d guess he’s in his thirties, but just barely.

  “Miss…?” He waves a hand in my direction and I hurry forward, realizing I’ve just been standing here stupidly instead of introducing myself like a normal human.

  Damn it, Cals. Don’t fuck this up!

  My legs feel wobbly. I’ve probably only been waiting about five minutes, but it’s felt like fifty. God, I hope I don’t have obvious sweat stains under my pits already. I put on my extra-strength deodorant this morning, didn’t I?

  “Miss Cruise. Calliope Cruise.” I smile enthusiastically and hold out my hand across his spotless white desk. “Or Callie. You can just call me Callie.”

  Awesome, way to come across like a bumbling idiot. I just can’t believe I’m meeting him. And interviewing in person with him. Although it makes sense, if it’s him I’d be working directly with.

  Bryce Gentry’s eyes finally make their way to me.

  But they don’t make it all the way up to my face. My excitement deflates. His gaze lands firmly on the real estate that is my chest. Of course. Never my face.

  I keep my hundred-watt smile though. It doesn’t falter even a few degrees. I don’t know why I thought for even a few moments it would be different with this guy. Fortune 500 company or not.

  You don’t do the beauty pageant circuit without getting accustomed to men ogling you at every turn, even when you’re only in the running for Miss Teen California. Not when you sprout double D’s at fourteen.

  He snaps out of it a lot quicker than most, at least. I slide my resume out of my faux leather folder and hand it to him.

  I keep that smile plastered as I take a seat in the chair set across his desk from him. Then I jump in head first. “I was very excited when I saw the personal assistant job opening and the chance to work here. Gentry Information Technologies is at the cutting edge of short-range drone technology.” Ugh, I want to punch myself. Why am I fucking rambling about shit he already knows about his company?

  I pause only to take a breath before refocusing my pitch, “I have extensive experience in public relations and communications. I also have a background in computer science, specifically machine learning and robotics, and I will dedicate myself to this job one hundred and ten percent.”

  I only realize that I’ve been slowly leaning further and further over his desk, all but entreating him as I finished my spiel. Shit. Don’t look like you’re begging, look like you’re offering him an opportunity he can’t afford to miss.

  I pull down the edges of my suit coat and sit up straighter. “In short, I know I can be an asset, both to this company and to you personally.”

  Mr. Gentry stares at me with an unreadable expression for several moments, his head slightly tilted. Shit. What is he thinking? And w
hy the fuck does he have to be so handsome? It’s worse now that I’m closer. Even his haircut looks expensive, trimmed short at the sides of his head and perfectly edging into the longer hair on top. His face is shaved totally smooth though. The kind that makes you want to run your fingers across to see if the skin is as soft as it looks.

  Shit. I’m weirdly staring at his face. And his hair.

  I look away even as beads of sweat break out on my brow. Am I smiling? I smile. Shit, that probably looks weird. I just started smiling all the fucking sudden. I drop my lips into a straight line. Dammit. That probably looks even weirder. I wasn’t smiling, then I smiled, then I stopped again. What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing? And what is he thinking?

  He finally looks away from me only to glance down briefly at my resume. His mouth twitches. Was that a good mouth twitch or a bad mouth twitch?

  “Background in Computer Science, you said? I’m to assume that’s from the undergraduate courses you listed, by name.” His eyebrows go up.

  His deep voice doesn’t sound mocking, but I don’t see that there’s any other way to take it. I sit up straighter in my chair. “Yes.” My voice is firm.

  “But you never actually finished college.” His eyes are brown. They meet mine. I still don’t know how to take him or his words. I can’t read him. Fuck. Even if he’s mocking me, I still have to fight for this.

  “I understand that it might not be conventional to list an unfinished degree in the educational experience area, but those courses are relevant to the work this company does.” I hold my trembling hands together and hide them in my lap. “For example, in my advanced robotics course, we studied the real-time reaction simulation algorithm you and Jackson Vale developed while at MIT. You were only students, but you pushed the state-of-the-art years forward from where it had been.” Good. My voice is coming out confident. I sit up even straighter, if that’s possible. Fake it till you make it, right?

  I continue. “I’m only on a short hiatus from Stanford, with just a semester left. So it’s not that I never completed college,” I smile a winner’s smile, “it’s that I’m about to finish and for now I’m just after some real-world experience.” He doesn’t have to know that with a toddler and a constant need for steady income, the thought of tackling my last twenty-one credit hours of college has been too overwhelming to even consider.

  “Real-world experience.” This time the lip twitch is definitely a smirk. Fucker. It’s a struggle to keep my face open and pleasant, but I do it.

  He glances back down at my resume. “Such as The Bridge Bar & Grill? And Hooters? I assume that’s where these communication skills you touted were developed?”

  Fuuuuuuuuuck. I knew I should’ve left Hooters off. But if I had, I’d have no work history before a year and a half ago. I worked at Hooters for three years, from when I turned eighteen till I was twenty-one. I had to hide it from my parents when I was still at home and going to community college for my first couple years before transferring, but it was the only place to earn any real money in our podunk-freakin’ town. Plus, I was an assistant manager by the end. That counts for leadership skills.

  I feel my cheeks heating up, but when I look at Bryce Gentry, his eyes aren’t where I’d have predicted they’d be. He’s not looking at my double D’s again. He’s staring straight at me. In the eye. It’s like for the first time in the entire interview, he’s looking at me.

  I don’t care if he’s being an ass and judging me like everyone else in my life has. I keep my voice confident. “Look, I did what I had to do to get out of the tiny-ass town where I grew up. No one there ever amounted to anything special. That wasn’t going to be me.”

  He doesn’t have to know that I’ve already learned my lesson the hard way that I’m not a special fucking snowflake. I was an idiot with all my big dreams and princess wishes.

  All I want now is to be able to pay rent and keep custody of my son, Charlie—and all this bastard needs to know is that I want this job and I’ll do anything to get it. “I know how to work hard and do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  One of his eyebrows lifts and there’s challenge in his face. “Will you really, Callie Cruise?” Even the way he says my name is clearly mocking. My name has never sounded blonder than it does coming from his lips. “Will you really do whatever it takes?”

  My jaw thrusts out. I can take what this guy dishes. “Absolutely.”

  He smiles an easy, carefree smile. “Then open the front of your shirt and take out your tits.”

  “What?” I choke out.

  Some of his easy demeanor drops. A challenging glint enters his eye. “You said you’d do whatever it took. Do you need this job or don’t you?”

  I— I—

  I cannot fucking believe this. This is— I can’t— how can this be happening in the 21st century? Yeah my assets have gotten me work, and tips, and I know that we live in a shady world where bosses still ogle their employees. But this? This man—so respected in his field, just asking so blatantly for me to… to…

  Bryce Gentry waves his hand as if dismissing me. “I really thought you wouldn’t be so squeamish considering your work history.” He looks completely uninterested now.

  I stand up, ready to spit fire at him. “I’m not a fucking prostitute!”

  He stands up as well, his interest from a moment ago reappearing in a blaze. His hands are closed fists on the table as he leans over.

  “Good,” he says, his voice low, brown eyes blazing. “Because I don’t want a fucking prostitute. If I wanted a fucking prostitute, I could hit East San Jose any time after dark. I want you, with your big titties, your gorgeous smile, and the fact that you know what a simulation algorithm is. But,” he flashes a smile, and I swear it’s straight from the devil itself, dimples and all, “I really do need to see the headlights in person.”

  I can only just stare at him. I don’t even know why. This isn’t the first time I’ve been propositioned like this. Well, all right, it’s certainly never been exactly like this.

  This office just looked so classy. Gentry is so handsome. He could have any woman he wants. It doesn’t make sense.

  He comes around the desk toward me and I take a step back. He holds up his hands and sits on the edge of the desk.

  He’s got an easy smile back on again, like we’re having an everyday conversation. He seems kind of schizo that way, moving between intensity and a California laid-back vibe. I don’t know which one is really him, or if either are. If this guy is showing any of himself at all. This is clearly a game to him, and I don’t fucking know the rules.

  So much is at stake for me. What am I going to do if I don’t get this job? How am I going to afford a lawyer? For half a second, the panic threatens to choke me. I know from the little my ex, David, told me that his (supposedly ex) wife is wealthy—yeah, I found out after he broke up with me that he wasn’t divorced after all, just separated. Another juicy tidbit in the trainwreck that was my relationship with Charlie’s dad.

  And now I can barely afford an ambulance chaser type lawyer. I can’t let them take Charlie. I work two jobs as it is, but it’s not enough. Not enough. I look up at Gentry and he’s just sitting there on the edge of the desk, staring at me, that easy, expectant expression on his face.

  Shit. Fuck. Shit, shit, shit. FUCK. Are my options really to expose myself to Handsome Boss Man or suck off sleazy landlord Mr. Jenks-a-lot? I shudder even thinking about the second option. And that would only get me one month’s rent. As opposed to what?

  Fuck, Callie, you think showing your tits to Boss Man this once is gonna be the end of it? Don’t be stupid. This is just the audition. My mind scrambles for other options when I see Gentry start looking impatient again.

  Oh, fuck it.

  I start opening the buttons on my cheap blouse. I’ll figure the rest of it out later. If Gentry tries something I can’t handle, I’ll just start screaming. His secretary is on the other side of the glass wall, for Christ’s sake.

  I
glance up at Gentry again. The easy smile is gone and the intensity is back. Instead of my chest though, he’s watching my face. I look away, behind him at the distant Bay Area skyline. It’s a magnificent view. I can even see the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. I’m at the last button. I let my shirt fall slack.

  “Hold it open.” Gentry’s voice has gone deep.

  I stare at the floor as I pull the shirt to the side. It’s still tucked into my pants. I have to tug to get it loose enough so that it pulls all the way around the curving edges of my breasts. I look at the floor, but watch Gentry with my periphery vision.

  I can always run if he makes a move toward me. But will I? Shit. I don’t know how far I’m willing for this to go. I need this job. That’s the only reason my breath is getting quicker. Right?

  “Pull the cups of your bra down. Sit those fat luscious tits on top of them.” There’s a rasp to his voice now. Damn. Have I heard a man’s voice like that anywhere outside of a movie?

  My breath hitches as I push down the left cup and pull my breast out.

  “Mmmm, that’s right,” he says low. “Look at that nipple. So pink and pretty and getting hard just listening to my voice.”

  Shit. I look down. My nipple is hard, but it’s not from what he’s saying. It’s not. It’s just cold in here. That’s all.

  Right, maybe I could believe that. If I weren’t sweating.

  “Look at me, Callie.” My name doesn’t sound stupid or immature coming from his voice now. “Look at me, in the eye.”

  And shit, I do. I meet his gaze. He doesn’t have his hand on his cock like I expected. His hands are braced on the desk and he’s just watching me. Watching my face. Can he see how short of breath I’m getting? Did he see how I just twisted my legs together?

  No. Oh my God, this is not turning me on. This is all so wrong. I’m disgusted by this. By this whole situation that he’s putting me in. I’m a fucking feminist, for God’s sake. I hate this shit. He’s dragging women’s rights back a hundred years by doing this.