He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But first I think I need to read the ad you wrote.”
Mary led the way to his office and opened up the document on the computer. “Here.”
Clay sat down and read the ad. “Holy shit. That sounds really good and professional.” He looked at Mary. “Nothing like me, really.”
She stared him down. “Nobody would want to apply for an ad you’d write.”
He raised his eyebrows and laughed. “You’re probably right. So how the hell did you learn to write like that?”
Mary giggled. “I looked at a bunch of ads where people were looking for an assistant, and I just copied and pasted parts I thought sounded good.”
Clay shook his head. “So where are these resumés? I guess I should read them, huh?”
“That would be a good idea. I printed them out. They’re in the file folder on the kitchen table.”
As they walked back to the kitchen, Clay said, “Maybe I should hire you to be my assistant.”
Mary laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? I already know you’re more organized than me.”
“I don’t want to travel with you, for starters. When you’re on tour, I have extra time with my family. And even though you’re a pig, I think you’re a nice guy. I don’t think I’d like you much if I had to be your assistant.”
“Pig? Hell, do you even like me now?”
“Most of the time.” They got to the kitchen and she handed him the file folder with resumés. “Here. Read up.”
Clay sat at the table where they’d been just moments before. Mary had printed a list of several questions and written notes in the margin, about the last candidate, Clay assumed. Looking at the last interviewee’s resumé, he could tell that the guy might be a good assistant after all, but he didn’t feel a connection with the guy. Clay knew it could mean that he was bypassing smart, capable people, but he had to follow his gut. That was how he’d wound up choosing Mary—pure instinct.
He shuffled through the pile, though, and scanned the resumés. Truthfully, he could barely tell one from the other. It seemed that most of the candidates claimed to have strong communication skills and were excellent organizers. That was all Clay really needed—someone to keep his ass organized and on track. He was sure that any one of the people they were going to interview today would be able to do the job. He needed to figure out from the interviews who he’d click with...but Mary felt like he wasn’t taking the interviews seriously. He knew if he at least glanced through the papers, she would feel like he wasn’t just goofing off.
Still, looking through them didn’t help him at all. Talking with the people—whether he asked intelligent questions or not—would tell him if the person was right for him or not. They’d interviewed two people already, and neither of them seemed right for the job. Well, not the job—they weren’t right for Clay. He’d know the same thing about the rest when he met them.
Mary poured them more coffee (good thing, since it was before noon and Clay couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up that early) and then the doorbell rang. “Be right back,” she said, and left the kitchen.
Clay wasn’t sure why, but Mary acted very much like a butler when she was on premises. She answered the door, and he was sure she would have answered the phone if he’d had a landline. She’d signed for packages before, paid for deliveries, and whatever else Clay had ever asked. If he could find someone half as perfect as Mary had turned out, he’d be quite pleased.
He heard Mary talking with the latest arrival. She was friendly yet professional sounding, asking what traffic had been like and things like that. Clay was glancing at the resumé of the person Mary had said would be next—a woman named Emily Brinkman. According to the information on the paper in front of him, she had just graduated from University of Colorado-Boulder with a Master of Business Administration. That probably meant she was young and didn’t have much experience. It also meant she was more than likely book smart with no common sense. Well, that was okay. They still had four other people to meet after her, and it would give Clay a chance to try being more serious about his questions.
He heard the two women walk into the kitchen, and he looked up from the paper. Holy shit. This woman, the one walking into the kitchen, didn’t look like what he’d pictured in his mind. He’d imagined a mousy, business-suit-wearing, tight-assed immature girl. Instead, the woman next to Mary looked put together, in charge, sharp, and gorgeous. She was a sight for sore eyes. Clay needed to take a deep breath and get himself under control before both women noticed he was staring. Instead, he stood and held out his hand to shake hers and he suddenly felt underdressed. She was wearing a navy blue skirt that ended just above the knee and those long, long legs. Wow. They looked even better in the black heels she was wearing. She also wore a navy blue jacket over a black blouse. Her long dark hair was pulled away from her face but still flowed down her back. Her brown eyes didn’t seem to miss a thing. And he didn’t see a tattoo or piercing in sight. Those were normally huge turn ons for Clay, but she was quite hot without them.
Why was he feeling underdressed? She wanted to work for him. She came to the interview expecting a rock musician, so he shouldn’t feel weird wearing blue jeans with a Mastodon t-shirt. He didn’t remember what he said when he took her hand in his and introduced himself. All he knew was he could feel heat and fire and electricity…something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.
Chapter Four
EMILY HADN’T QUITE known what to expect walking into her interview for the position of Personal Assistant to the rock musician. The house was big and beautiful, with a well-cared-for yard in an upscale neighborhood. The woman who answered the door introduced herself as Mary Daily. She was a short, slightly overweight woman with dark hair and eyes and a subtle smile, but she seemed quite friendly. Because Emily was applying to be a personal assistant to a rock musician, she had expected a rock musician to answer the door.
She realized immediately her prejudices, though. Who was to say this woman wasn’t the musician? Then again, if the person she would be working with could afford an assistant, he or she could also afford to have someone around to open the door.
When she walked in the kitchen following Mary, though, she knew immediately that she was looking at the rock star when he stood up. The guy in front of her had long brown hair—as long as hers—and unending tattoos on both arms that disappeared under the sleeves of his shirt. He had a winning smile underlined with sexy snake bite piercings and the sweetest little soul patch under his lip. Wow. Could she work for someone like this who would be quite distracting?
And then she realized she recognized him. Holy crap! This guy was Jet, the guitarist from Last Five Seconds. He smiled at her and for a second she couldn’t find her breath. Fortunately, he did the talking. “Hi, I’m Clay Smith,” he said. She hadn’t ever heard him speak before, because—even though she loved rock and metal music—she didn’t follow bands closely enough to catch interviews or award shows or anything like that. Bryce was totally not into her music, so she listened to it when he wasn’t around, and she’d taken down the posters of rock bands from off her bedroom walls a few months after they’d started dating and he’d expressed his distaste. So Jet’s (or Clay—she’d have to get used to that)…his voice took her by surprise. He was soft spoken and almost quiet, not what she had expected out of someone who wielded an axe like she knew he could. She liked his voice. It took her off guard, especially since Bryce could be loud and intimidating with his voice sometimes. This man’s voice was unassuming. It was nice. It was almost funny, because the lead singer of his band could scream with the best of them, and the guy had a raspy, deep voice that could be guttural and even scary sometimes.
She took a deep breath and composed herself, putting out her hand to shake his. Her grip had been something she’d worked on perfecting for years. She’d known, going into business for a living, that she’d have to have a strong handshake, one that was as fi
rm as a man’s. By the same token, she wouldn’t want to crush other people’s hands with her own. Fortunately, she rarely got rattled anymore, so she no longer had to carry around a tissue in her hands to keep them from getting clammy and gross. The older she got, the more confident she felt, the less her palms would sweat. And she’d learned over the past couple of years that sometimes faking confidence was just as good as having it deep down. Her body (hands included) had learned to respond.
No, her problem now was making sure she wasn’t so confident she scared men off. Sometimes, she wouldn’t care, like if a guy was hitting on her at a bar. A potential boss, however, could be a problem, so she didn’t want to come on too strong. So she took his hand and shook back.
She managed to keep her smile steady, because inside she turned into a mess. This guy…wow. He was knocking her down. He was gorgeous up close, one of those men who made her feel wobbly in the knees, warm in her girlie parts, and dizzy. He was the kind of guy who could take her on a hell of a ride, the kind of guy she knew absolutely one-hundred-percent was completely wrong for her. He was the anti-Bryce, a man who made her feel hot, made her feel like a woman, and who could bring her to her knees. He was the kind of man she’d given up in favor of a steady, calm man like Bryce. So it didn’t matter that she could already feel some weird buzzing magnetism between them. That spelled it all out for her—he was trouble, trouble in the nth degree, and she had to stay away.
In fact, she should consider not taking the job.
Well, that was provided it would even be offered to her.
She felt her heart thudding against her breastbone as she drew a slow breath into her lungs. She could do this. She’d given how many presentations to large groups of her peers and kept her cool? Yeah. So this? This was a piece of cake.
She swallowed and found her voice. “Hello, Mr. Smith. I’m Emily Brinkman. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you and Ms. Daily for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with me.”
This man—Jet—smiled at her. Part of it seemed kind and sweet, but there was something behind it, something knowing and fiery. He simply said, “The pleasure is all ours,” but it sounded like so much more to Emily’s ears.
* * *
They’d gone through Mary’s portion of (boring but necessary) questions. The woman in front of Clay seemed more than capable…but the other people had appeared capable as well. In person, this young lady showed that she really was intelligent and personable, and Clay might have been okay with that. After all, Clay was a nice guy.
Jet, on the other hand…Jet was a force to be reckoned with. Most people who didn’t know the guitarist of Last Five Seconds assumed that Jet was simply a stage name, a cool description for the guy whose fingers seemed to fly around his fretboard like it was child’s play. It wasn’t, though. Clay didn’t have two personalities, but he did have two distinct sides. Growing up, he’d always been the nice guy, the guy his mother had groomed him to be—kind to women, children, and puppies, polite to teachers, gentlemanly, and just all-around nice. Clay would even wear a suit if need be. Jet, though…Jet was the darker side of Clay. Jet was a good guy too, but he was the kind of guy girls did not want to take home to meet Daddy. He was the nasty, down-and-dirty guy who played his guitar like today was the end of the world, and he fucked like the world was ending too. He was the guy who made women’s panties wet and pissed other guys off. He was all alpha.
And even though Clay knew his Jet persona had started out as simply a mask, Jet had grown into more. He had first come about to help Clay over his stage fright. The first time he’d performed for an audience, he was a teen. Everyone in the band had taken a large swig of Jack and that helped, but he’d taken an extra one until he felt himself relax. It was that very first time a girl—one of his classmates—had commented on his shredding abilities, had said something about how fast his fingers moved, and also mentioned the dye job all the guys had done on their hair (jet black). Anyway, she had dubbed him Jet, and it hadn’t taken Clay long to start associating that name with untold badassery. He wore that name like chainmail, and performing hadn’t been a problem since. Jet wasn’t afraid of anything. He didn’t care if he offended anyone (or, on the other hand, impressed them) for any reason. He played for himself. And he oozed confidence and sexuality. Jet embodied the baser side of Clay, the part of him he’d bottled up all his life, and naming that part of himself simply allowed the man to let that side come out and play.
And play he had. The problem was that Jet had mostly taken over. He was Jet for longer and longer periods of time, and he started to wonder what had happened to the nicer, more caring, deeper part of himself. He was worried that he was going to lose that man. Jet really didn’t care, but Clay did. Clay wasn’t willing to go down without a fight.
Clay had won for the first part of the interview with Ms. Emily Brinkman. He’d been polite and helped ask Mary’s intelligent, important questions, but Jet needed to know more. He could not, would not let anyone work for him who had no respect for what he did. And, yeah, he had expected these folks to do a little digging. When Mary had called them all for interviews, she gave them basic information. She said she wanted to know what they did with it. Well, Clay knew they’d use it to find out more about him and his band, and he figured that was the smart thing to do. But that did not by a long shot mean they were metal fans. And if they weren’t metal fans (or at least knowledgeable about harder rock), then he had no use for them. He didn’t want to spend days explaining things his personal assistant should already know. And how could that person passionately represent him if he or she only knew him from a fact sheet? It was do-or-die as far as Clay (or Jet) was concerned, and he didn’t give a shit if they were good on paper or better educated than all the other applicants. If they couldn’t prove to him they knew his business for real, then he had no use for them. When he tried to explain it to Mary, he’d said, “Would you buy a Ford from a guy who drove a Chevy? Fuck no. Would you trust a guy who sold Pepsi but drank Coke? Of course not. So why the hell would we hire someone who doesn’t get it?” At least that little speech had seemed to sink in with her a little bit.
He’d discovered that morning before they’d started, though, that Mary hadn’t told them who Clay was or what band he played for when she’d arranged the interviews. She’d simply told them general facts. She had a statement prepared when starting the interview that gave them more information. Even better.
So, when Mary’s questions were done, Clay smiled at Emily for a moment. The woman kept her cool, and Clay became convinced that she would win against him in a stare down contest. He filled his lungs with air, realizing he really liked her intensity. He found his first question. “First rock album you ever bought.”
No hesitation. “Godsmack, Faceless.”
Oh, that was good. “First concert.”
She smiled. She was up for the challenge. “Bullet for My Valentine.”
“A band you always buy a new release from, whether you’ve heard it or not.”
“Used to be Three Days Grace. Now…I don’t know. Um, maybe Art of Dying.”
He smiled back and nodded his head. He could feel an energy between them. “Favorite band.”
She tilted her head and broke eye contact, glancing up at the ceiling. That question was making her think. He wouldn’t be upset if she didn’t say his band. In fact, he’d be more upset if she did say Last Five Seconds, because it would seem fake, as though she’d just said it just for the interview. He wanted real. “Seether.”
Fuck yeah. Inside, Clay was fist pumping. This woman was on fire, and he was ready to offer her the job. He knew Mary would punch him in the arm if he did. As it was, she was tolerating his barrage of questions. “Good answer.” Now for the most telling response of all, one he needed to know. “Favorite guitarist.”
She smiled again. One more time, without pause. She knew exactly what she wanted to say. “Jimi Hendrix.”
“Excellent choice.” He took a deep breat
h, almost surprised he wasn’t getting hard. “I’d like to think I’m in your top fifty.”
Her smile turned into a grin that almost looked shy. That was odd and somehow a turn on from this confident woman. “Oh, you definitely are.”
Both Clay and Jet were really digging her.
* * *
The rapid fire part of the interview where guitar god Jet pummeled her with questions about her favorites in rock music was actually pretty cool, and it made her almost feel connected to him right off the bat. That he respected and liked her answers made her feel a sort of affection for him. He wasn’t some musician, all high and mighty and full of himself. He was instead a down-to-earth guy with a real passion for music, and by the time he wound down those questions, she realized he wanted to hire someone who felt the same way. She was pretty sure, based on the smile on his face, that she had passed the test.
The sweet woman named Mary had just sat quietly while Emily and Jet had volleyed words back and forth across the table. Afterward, though, Mary had gotten down to the nitty-gritty. She said, “I think you’ve definitely got the education and skills, and I know Clay is impressed with your music knowledge.”
Clay said, “Love. Not knowledge. Love.”
Mary looked like she was on the verge of rolling her eyes. “Love. But I want to see how you would handle some of the day-to-day tasks we’d have you doing.”
Emily raised her eyebrows and then nodded her head. “Okay. Sounds fair.”
Mary stood. “To do that, we have to go to his office.”
Clay looked over at Mary, and Emily sensed that the man hadn’t expected his helper to do that. He didn’t say anything, though. He stood around the same time Emily did, and he motioned for her to follow Mary, and he would be behind them both. She had to keep her cool, knowing his eyes were on her back.
Feverish (Bullet #3) Page 4
