Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Oh, and Mr. Blackthroat?”
I don’t turn, I just keep walking to my office.
“I prefer Madi, but I will answer to New Girl, or Secretary, or Ms. Evans, or Madison, but if you call me little girl again, I won’t hear anything that follows it.”
Amazing. I actually want to laugh. I’m not sure I remember the last time I laughed over anything at all. Good thing I’m already in my office, and she can’t see the smile tugging at my lips.
“Noted,” I grumble.
Score another for the assistant.
I am so very fucked.
Chapter Eleven
Madison
“I’m coming. I promise. I’m on my way now.” I shove my feet into my knee-high boots and take a quick look in the mirror of the bathroom at work. Blackthroat kept me working late, and I was supposed to meet Aubrey an hour ago to prepare our set for the 80’s band night at the club next to La Résistance.
Now there’s no time to change at the cafe, so I have to put on my outfit here. Jerry, the night janitor, who is already on our floor cleaning, is going to get an eyeful when he sees my transformation. I’m sporting a tiny mesh crop top over a loud neon pink bra, a mini-skirt that shows half my ass, and black leather boots. I teased my bangs up in front and applied thick war paint as makeup. I look critically in the mirror.
Not bad.
Good thing I’m taking the subway in New York City, where there are people in all kinds of outfits, and not in DC, where blending would be impossible.
I throw my mid-length cream jacket over the top of it because there’s a fall chill in the air, and it helps tone down the outfit a smidge. Then I grab my half-drunk vanilla latte that served as my dinner and barrel out of the bathroom.
Oof. Straight into Brick Blackthroat.
My coffee spills all over both of us, but mostly me, dripping down my cream jacket. I groan. “I guess that’s what you call hitting a Brick wall.”
I’m not above a pun when it’s so perfectly presented.
I’m tempted to give his chest a napkin pat-down, like I did the time I spilled water on him, but his glare makes me refrain.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Blackthroat demands. His gaze rakes down my body, taking in the suggestive rock and roll outfit. He looks pissed, the same way he does when I wear the peek-a-boo dresses. Like my body is an affront to his peace of mind.
“I'm off the clock; it's not your concern.” I probably should watch my tone, but I’m annoyed because he already made me late, and now I’ve ruined my favorite jacket. I seriously doubt I’ll ever get a coffee stain out of the pale fabric. I peel it off and shake off the liquid with a grimace.
His nostrils flare when he sees my outfit without the jacket to hide anything. “You're on salary, which means I own you all hours of the day. Plus, you’re still at work. Why are you dressed like that?”
I huff. “I’m performing tonight at an 80’s night. In a Go-Go’s cover band, if you hadn’t guessed.”
He dabs at the coffee on his shirt, his brows down. “Madison, you’re not getting in a cab looking like that. No way.”
“You’re right. I’m taking the subway–it’s faster this time of night.”
“Oh no, you’re not. Forget it.”
I try to get around him. I’m seriously late at this point, and Aubrey will never forgive me if I miss our performance. “I don’t recall you having the right to deliver edicts about how I spend my personal time.”
He blocks my way. “I’ll drive you.”
“I’m out of time, sir. I really have to–”
“I’ll get you there.” He finally lets me by, and I dash to grab my bass guitar from behind the desk.
Blackthroat eyes it darkly, like my playing bass guitar is another affront to him. When Jerry walks by, pushing his janitorial cart, my boss steps in front of me, as if to block his view of my outfit. We get in the elevator, and he doesn’t stop frowning at me.
My heart beats faster just being so near him. I’ve worked for this guy for a month, and I like to think I’m figuring him out, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still both intimidate me and turn me on.
He’s so much bigger and taller than I am, and the powerful force field of his presence takes up even more space. The elevator car feels too small. “You don’t have to drive me,” I say again to try to cut through the tension.
He gives me an unfathomable look. “I’m driving you. Where is the show?”
“It’s in Brooklyn. I was supposed to be there an hour ago.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Would it have mattered?”
“I would’ve let you go,” he says mildly.