Feverish (Bullet #3) (5 page)

She giggled and threw her arms around his
neck. “You already know my answer, silly.” In a matter of seconds,
he had her hand in his and was slipping the ring on her left ring
finger.

“On that subject…when I get back in August,
do you want to move in together?”

She felt her eyebrows jump up her forehead.
She supposed that was an eventuality, but that made it
so…
real
. She forced a smile and said, “Yeah, we should.”

She wore the ring all night. They went to his
apartment where he lived by himself, unlike Emily who had to have a
roommate to be able to afford it, and they made love, just like
always, but as she lay in his arms, trying to sleep, she couldn’t
shake the feeling of emptiness, and she felt guilty, because she
knew that now, more than ever, she should be feeling full and
happy.

* * *

Clay stood up and ran his fingers through his
hair at the scalp. “Well, shit, Mary. That sucked. What the hell
kind of stuff did you put in that ad? My questions sounded lame,
and I definitely don’t think I can work with that guy.”

Mary tried not to smile, but her brown eyes
crinkled in the corners anyway. “Just because he doesn’t know who
Alter Bridge or Sevendust are doesn’t mean he would be a bad
personal assistant.”

“Yeah, it fuckin’
would
. What the hell
would we talk about?”

Mary started laughing now. “The work you need
him to do. Didn’t you look at his resumé?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“You should. I can do this myself, but this
person is going to help
you
, not me. You really need to
choose them yourself.”

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 firm 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.