Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Taking Liberties
Like a Boss: 3
by Serenity Woods
*
Copyright 2017 Serenity Woods
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Caleb
Love at first sight is bullshit.
That’s in my humble opinion (or IMHO, as my friend Colette would say). Not that I have much experience with it. (Love, that is. I’ve plenty of experience of bullshit.) But from what I understand, love is something that develops over time, like a photograph in a darkroom, or whiskey in oak barrels, or cheese. Okay, maybe cheese isn’t the best example—I can hear the squeak of Colette’s eyeballs rolling in their sockets at that comparison. The point is, so I’ve heard, love is about trust and contentment and becoming comfortable in another person’s company, discovering their strengths and weaknesses, learning what they like and dislike, and feeling as if—at that moment—nobody in the world is more suited to you than this person.
This is all hearsay, by the way, as my one and only foray into Cupid’s world ended very badly, with no sign of trust and definitely no contentment anywhere to be seen. But others assure me it exists in this form, and, if that’s the case, it simply can’t happen at first sight.
Lust at first sight… well, that’s another matter. That I do have experience with, because the moment I lay eyes on the new girl who comes in to collect a parcel from the conference room, I fall in lust.
I feel like a character from a cartoon—like Hanna and Barbera’s Tom when he sees that girl cat with the long eyelashes and the bow on her tail. His eyes pop out of his head with hearts painted on them, and his tongue unrolls like a red carpet on the floor. Yep, that’s me.
Now let me explain, first of all, why this is so unusual. I’m not lacking in experience where women are concerned, or at least, I wasn’t when I was younger. I’ve dated all kinds—tall, short, curvy, boyish, sexy, homely, skinny, curvy. But the last couple of years, I’ve tended to go for a particular type. Typically tall, blonde, sophisticated, well-spoken, educated, and ambitious. They’re usually called Sophie or Annabel or Lydia, and they wear pantsuits and have French manicures and style their silky hair in neat bobs.
I suppose, if I were to think about it, I’m subconsciously searching for someone who would make a suitable long-term companion. A woman I can take to the theater and the opera, to dinner parties and to charity functions, who’ll be able to blend in with the clientele I mix with, and who other men will look at with envy and say to each other Have you seen Caleb’s date? Wow, what a looker, and she has a degree in engineering, too! And the other guy will reply, Yeah, and Caleb told me she does yoga and can get her ankles behind her ears, which is really useful because apparently she knows every position in the Kama Sutra and she’s filthy as sin, even though she looks like a goddess.
Such is the fantasy. I’ve yet to meet a real woman like this, but I’m happy to keep looking for the foreseeable future.
The girl who comes into the conference room is… well, let’s say politely, not like this. She’s short—maybe five-four, slender, and… hmm, how best to describe her. Well, she has jet-black hair that’s twisted up so the ends stick out all over the place. She has black eyeliner, black eyelashes, and purple lips. She’s wearing a tight sweater the same shade as her lipstick, a black mini skirt, black tights—one leg of which bears a ladder running up her thigh—and long black boots. And she has a shedload of attitude that’s obvious from the moment she walks in.
We’re coming to the end of a busy afternoon preparing for a presentation we’re putting on next week as part of a huge telecommunications conference in the city. As well as several members of the office staff, the four directors are there—me, Elen, Seb, and Harry, as well as Seb’s partner, Colette, and Harry’s girl, Gaby. Harry and Gaby returned only last week from a long stint abroad. The two of them got married in Florence, and they’re having a big party on the weekend to celebrate the wedding.
Lots of people are talking and moving around as we check out the various promotional materials the marketing department have put together, so nobody else hears the door open. I’m standing right near it, though, so I turn and stare as the girl comes in.
She stands there for a moment, looking around, obviously looking for someone or something. Then her gaze falls on the post tray on the table near the door, and she leans across and picks up a large parcel waiting for collection.
When she turns back, she finally sees me watching her.
Our eyes meet, and she stops in her tracks. She has huge green eyes, made even huger by all the black eyeliner, and she’s chewing bubblegum. We look at each other for a long moment. Then her gaze leaves mine to slide slowly down me, taking in every detail of my appearance, I presume, from my suit to my shoes and then back up, lingering in a not-subtle manner somewhere around my crotch before returning to my face.
Her eyes meeting mine, she pokes her tongue through the bubblegum and blows out a big bubble, which she then pops with her teeth before gathering the gum into her mouth with her tongue and chewing it again. Her lips curve up, and she winks at me before finally backing out through the door and disappearing down the corridor.
Someone appears beside me, and I glance down at Elen—the only female director and Seb’s younger sister.
“Who the fuck was that?” I ask her.
“A walking lawsuit.” She gives me a direct look. “No banging the temps, remember?”
“Yeah.” I look down the corridor, but the girl has vanished. “Don’t worry. She’s not my type.”
My gaze comes back to Elen, who is now giving me a wry smile. “Her name’s Roxie,” she tells me. Of course it is. “She’s working in the mailroom. She’s only twenty-one, and she really is as feisty and unconventional as she looks.”
“All right,” I say, somewhat impatiently, “I said, she’s hardly my type.”
“Yeah. The steam coming out of your ears says otherwise. Just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.” Ignoring my glare, she grins and walks away.
Refusing to look back down the corridor, I close the door and return to the table. We have to make a decision on which leaflets and
promo sheets are the best, and Seb and Harry are currently arguing over two, so I’m going to have to intercede.
I push the girl and her laddered tights to the back of my mind. I am not going to fall in lust with someone like Roxie. That way lies seven kinds of madness. I’m definitely not going down that road.
Chapter Two
Roxie
It’s nearly nine p.m. on a Friday night, and the bar is heaving. It’s the middle of summer, and the room is warm enough to make me break into a sweat.
This is the first time I’ve played here with the band, and it’s a great atmosphere. It wouldn’t surprise me if the manager asked us back as his customers seem to like our music.
During a five-minute break, Marc brings me over a beer, and I drink half of it in one go. “Good crowd,” he says, nodding at the room.
“Yeah.” I wipe under my bottom lip. “It’s fucking amazing. Woop!” I’m buzzing with energy and do a little dance.
He grins. “Ready to rock and roll, girl?”
“Bring it on, bro.”
We climb onto the stage and don our guitars. Marc plays rhythm and also sings. I play lead, and our drummer and bass player take their places.
As Marc says a few words into the microphone, I glance around the sea of faces. I haven’t seen anyone I recognize this evening, just the usual mix of couples, groups of friends, and buddies out for the night. Then, to my surprise, my gaze falls on Colette from work, standing by the bar. I’ve only been at Hearktech a week, but Colette’s been really friendly, and I quickly picked up that she’s the partner of one of the directors. That means Sebastian’s going to be here somewhere… Yep, there he is, bringing her a glass of wine and sliding his arm around her. Behind them are Harrison and his partner, Gabriella, intertwined, as usual. And to Gaby’s right is Elenora, and there is…
I don’t miss the way my heart skips a beat at the sight of the fourth director, Caleb Chase, leaning against the bar. Tonight, he’s not wearing a suit, but instead has chosen black jeans and a gray tee beneath a big black jacket. It doesn’t make him look any smaller. The guy’s not particularly tall, maybe six foot, but he clearly works out or plays sports or something, because he’s got legs like tree trunks and biceps I wouldn’t be able to get my hands around.
Even in street clothes, he reeks of money, from the watch on his wrist that I spotted the other day is an Omega, to his haircut, which, although carefully styled to look as if he just got out of bed, no doubt cost more than my weekly grocery bill.
He’s watching me, a curious, amused smile on his face, but I know better than to take that as interest. Guys like this don’t go for girls like me. Caleb Chase will date women who speak French or Italian, and who know Puccini from Pavarotti, or, rather, they look like they do. I know that Puccini’s a composer and Pavarotti’s an operatic tenor, but nobody would ever think I did. These women wear Manolo Blahnik and Gucci shoes, not twenty-dollar sneakers. They eat quinoa and pronounce it kinwah and not kwin-oh-a.
For a second, resentment burns in my stomach like acid. This man knows nothing about me—about my lifestyle, my past, or what I’ve had to go through. He’ll have made a judgement about me, and in seconds will have assumed I’m not his type.
I have another swig of beer, and ready my guitar as the drummer taps his drumsticks. The resentment dies away, to be replaced by a buzz of energy as I start playing. I’m not going to stand here and feel intimidated by Caleb or his friends just because I work in the mailroom. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Fuck ’em all. I’m here to play Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, and I when I get to the fantastic solo, I forget he’s there, forget everything, in fact, except the beauty of the music and the hum of the strings beneath my fingers.
For the next forty-five minutes, I throw myself into playing, and have a blast as the audience sings along to every song. We’ve deliberately picked a well-known setlist of covers, and when we finish and take a bow, we have two encores before we finally plead no more and step down off the stage.
I place my guitar in its case and lean it against the wall where it can’t be knocked into, then turn to go and get myself a drink. My passage is stopped, however, by a young guy, guilty of the terrible sin of wearing double denim—both jacket and jeans—who leans across me and leers in my face.
“Can I get you a drink?” he yells above the din of the crowd.
“No, thank you.” I flash him a smile and step by him.
He moves to interceded me. “Aw. You were fucking amazing up there. Come on, darlin’, have a drink with me, make my day.”
I’ve had a great evening, and I’m not in the mood to tussle with a kid who barely looks old enough to be in the bar. “Dude, get outta my way or I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat they’ll be chomping on your fucking balls.”
His face darkens. “Hey, I was being pleasant, no need for that, lady. Why are you so fucking superior? You ain’t got nothing I ain’t seen before, girl.”
The guy seals his doom by reaching out a hand and grabbing my left boob.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caleb marching toward me. Jeez, he must think I need rescuing. I ignore him, jab an elbow in the kid’s stomach, and then grab his hand and twist it behind his arm, pushing it high enough that he cries out loud.
“Fuck off,” I say mildly, and he wrenches free and stumbles away, hopefully out of the bar.
I turn to Caleb as he stops before me, my blood up, and glare at him. “You want some too?”
He holds up his hands in surrender, then lowers them, smiling. He runs his gaze down me, then back up, much the same way, I have to admit, that I did to him in the boardroom at work. When his eyes reach mine, they’re warm, interested.
“Can I buy you a beer?” he asks.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is uber-deep, Vin Diesel deep, and I swear every single hair on my body rises in response, and my nipples tighten in my bra.
Ohhh… I want this guy. I wanted him the first time I saw him, in his thousand-dollar suit, and I want him now, with his ruffled, just-fucked hairdo, and his sultry eyes. Yeah, I’m not the type of girl he’d choose for a relationship. But who wants to go steady when there’s the opportunity of a super-hot, one-night stand?
I lick my lips and stick my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, whatever.”
His mouth curves up, and he jerks his head toward the bar. I follow him through the crowd, hot, flustered, heart thumping, mind buzzing. I’ve never slept with a guy like this. But holy Jesus, if he doesn’t come home with me tonight, I think I just might explode.
Chapter Three
Caleb
I buy Roxie a beer, and watch her lips close around the bottle as she drinks a good third of it. She’s wearing a sleeveless black top. Her jeans are so tight she could have painted them on, and yet her face is flushed and her skin is glowing. Tonight, her lips are scarlet, while her fingernails where they hold the bottle are black. The sleeveless top has revealed a tattoo on her upper arm, a symbol I don’t recognize, possibly Sanskrit text. Her hair is twisted into a knot on the top of her head, but the ends have been sprayed into points and then dyed a rainbow of colors.
This girl is so not my type, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.
She wipes beneath her mouth with the back of her hand and her eyes flash. “Take a picture,” she says, “it’ll last longer.”
I chuckle. When I saw the young kid giving her some lip, I’d gone over to help, but it hadn’t taken long for me to realize she was the polar opposite of a damsel in distress. I watched her dispatch of the guy with admiration and a little pity for the dude who clearly had no idea he’d approached someone with a brain, wits, and some talent for the martial arts.
“So, you play the guitar pretty damn fine.” It’s a huge understatement—her rendition of David Gilmour’s solo would have given me a hard-on even if I hadn’t already had one from watching her.
She shrugs. “I play a bit.”
�
��I like your Les Paul,” I tell her, describing her guitar. “The sustain on Gibsons is incredibly rich, don’t you think?”
Her eyes widen. “You play?”
“Yeah. A bit.” I smile.
She studies my face, her green eyes curious, appraising. Then she sips her beer again. “It’s only an Epiphone,” she admits.
An Epiphone is the budget-conscious version of the Gibson. Gibsons have higher-quality woods and generally are superior. I can tell by the way she’s lifted her chin that she’s expecting me to comment on that. She thinks I’m a snob. She’s probably right, but I’m also a gentleman, most of the time.
So I say, “Did you know Epiphone has been around longer than Gibson?”
Her lips curve up. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“About twenty years longer. And did you know that in 1941, Les Paul bought a transmitter to play pirate radio broadcasts of his experimental music, stuck his hand in the transmitter, and electrocuted himself. He spent weeks wrapped in bandages from head to toe.”
She laughs, and her whole face lights up. “I didn’t know that, no.” Now she turns her whole body to face me, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re much warmer. “I bought it because Pete Townshend played a Les Paul. He’s a hero of mine.”
“Yeah, me too. Eric Clapton played one as well. So did Bob Marley.”
“Really?” She starts talking about other types of guitar, and we spend a pleasant thirty minutes or so discussing guitars, rock music, and some of the concerts we’ve been to.
Around this time, Seb touches me on the shoulder and says, “We’re off. You want a lift back?”
I don’t look at Roxie, but I shake my head. Whatever happens at the end of the night, I’m enjoying myself too much to leave now. “I’ll catch a taxi.”
“Okay.” His eyes are amused, but he doesn’t comment. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
They all say goodbye to Roxie, commenting on her great performance, and head out. Elen gives me a wry look as she leaves, but doesn’t say anything.
“Are you working tomorrow?” Roxie asks.
Taking Liberties (Like a Boss Book 3) Page 1
