by Adele Hart
Okay, back to our story, right now I’m on the trip to end all trips, the one I’ve been waiting for my entire life. In exactly eleven minutes, I’m going to land in the very best place I can imagine. Tanzania. There is a conservation program there that submitted an application and I am about to spend three glorious weeks in the freaking Serengeti! I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours at airports and on planes, and I’m pretty sure I have noticeably bad B.O., and I haven’t slept a wink, but I don’t care. I’m filled with the most exciting energy I’ve ever known.
Africa is my dream. I’ve always—and I mean always—wanted to go there. Other girls played Barbies, but I played ‘safari adventure girl’ in my room by the hour. I even had one of those pith helmets. My mom bought it for me for my eighth birthday, along with a set of real binoculars (which are in my carry-on). The Lion King was by far my favorite cartoon growing up, and I’ve watched Out of Africa at least fifty times. And that video with Taylor Swift and Scott Eastwood (yum!)—you know the one—it makes me swoon every damn time I watch it. And now I get to be Taylor. Well, sort of. I’m not gorgeous like her, but still. Don’t laugh, but I even bought a big yellow gauzy scarf to hold up in the wind. I doubt I’ll actually do it, but you never know.
Two
GUNNER
“Yeah, I’m here.” I roll my eyes. I’m standing outside at the airport. It’s hot as fuck and I’m on the phone with my sister, Alicia, who loves micromanaging the shit out of everyone and everything. “Plane’s on time. She should land in ten.”
“Did you remember to bring water?”
“Yes, I picked up a pack of them on the way. They’re on ice in the jeep.” I try to control the edge in my voice because I know she’s just nervous. Everything makes her nervous, which is a strange quality for a woman who lives smack dab in the middle of the Serengeti, but she was born that way. I can still remember her tiny little fists balled up as she wailed night and day. I was only three at the time, but she cried so much that it’s burned into my memory.
To be honest, I’m not exactly what you’d call calm today, either. Today matters. I’m picking up a woman who, in the next three weeks, is going to decide if our wildlife conservation program will be given a grant big enough to keep us going for a lifetime or if we have to keep limping along with the resources we’ve got.
“What about some flowers? Maybe you should see if you can get some—”
“I’m not buying her flowers. For Christ’s sake, Alicia, this isn’t a first date.”
“Fine. It’s just really—”
“Important. I know. Believe me, I want this to work out, too.” I run a hand through my hair, and my gut tightens a little thinking about what’s at stake. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. Drive safely.”
“Yup.”
The plane lands right on time, and I watch as the stairs are wheeled into place, and the first of the passengers appear. It’s tourist after tourist, cameras already strung around their necks, safari hats on, looking tired from their long trip, but excited at the same time. I stand by the doors to the tiny airport, feeling like a total jackass holding a sign that says ‘Tabitha Gray’. I look like one of the tour guide surrounding me. But I’m no tour guide. I’m an ex-Army Ranger. I spend my days and nights armed to the teeth, chasing down poachers and securing our twelve-thousand-acre park.
I could never be a guide. I don’t have much use for most people. People lie and betray each other. Animals, though, them I understand. You know exactly where you stand when you’re staring down a lion. There’s no question of what they want from you.
A family gets off the plane—a mom, dad, and two surly looking teenagers who have clearly had so many things handed to them on a silver platter that nothing impresses them anymore. As far as I’m concerned, they can turn right around and go home. Then I see a young woman at the door to the plane. She’s a curvy little thing with reddish-brown, curly hair, cowboy boots and a short, flowy dress. My cock twitches at the sight of her. I hope to hell she’s Tabitha because I could use a few weeks pumping her full of lead.
She’s got a huge backpack slung over her shoulder, and I watch as the wind blows her skirt up and she has to hold her dress down with one hand. Come on wind, pick up.
I can’t take my eyes off of her. She squints at the cards that the tour guides are holding up. Her eyes freeze on my sign, and then she smiles up at me.
Well, fuck me, looks like it’s my lucky day after all. I give her a nod and a wide grin as she walks toward me. As she gets closer, I realize how small she is. She barely comes up to my chin, even with the lift she’s getting from those sexy boots.
“Hi, I’m Tabitha.”
“Gunner Steel.” I hold out my hand to her. When her skin touches mine, a wave of heat rushes through my body, stirring my already wide awake cock. Her hand is the softest thing I’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something because I’ve touched just about every type of fur there is. None of it compares to her.
“Gunner Steel? Is that really your name?” Her green eyes shine at me.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
She giggles a little, and I’m pretty sure it’s the cutest sound I’ve ever heard. “Well, nice to meet you. I thought Alicia would be picking me up.”
“A federal inspector was coming by, so she had to stay at the base camp today.” I reach up and take her bag off her shoulder. My thumb rubs against her bare skin and I find myself wanting to kiss the spot where my thumb just was. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a woman, and this one is exactly the type I like.
And then it hits me like a kick to the balls. I’m going to have to spend the next twenty-one days trying not to make a pass at her. Son of a bitch. I sling the bag over my shoulder and tell myself this is the closest we’re going to get, no matter how much my dick sits up and begs.
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My Toy Boy-Sneak Peek
One
Janey
Drip coffee makers, espresso machines, and French presses. My head is full of coffee brewing facts. My nose is full of the bitter but robust scent of perfectly roasted beans. Earlier this morning, I sat in the local Starbucks and consumed several options. Enough coffee to make me shake like a crack whore in need of a fix. Maybe the espresso on top of the black and white was too much.
I pace my gray linoleum kitchen floor waiting for my phone to ring and wondering if the floor was always gray or had it once been white but after years of abuse had faded?
My phone rings and I jump several inches into the air. It vibrates to the end of the card table before it takes a triple flip off the edge. I dive to save it mid-air.
“Hello.” My normally calm and even-toned voice morphs into a two pack a day smoker with a case of bronchitis. I cough to hack up the hairball or frog that’s lodged in my throat. “This is Janey.”
“Hello, Janey,” A deep thick espresso voice filters through the line. “This is Caine Stark from the Grynd.” There’s a shuffle of papers in the background and a muffled announcement. “I’ve got to make this quick.” His chuckle is low and rumbling. “Fast isn’t generally my style, not something I’d brag about, but I’m about to board a plane back to the United States.”
“I understand.” Although my pulse is double-shot hyper, my heart sinks a little because a fast interview means he’s going through the motions and has probably already chosen a person for the position. Rather than waste the opportunity, I decide to use this experience as a way to better my interviewing skills so the next chance I get to impress an interviewer, I’ll be relaxed and prepared.
Sadly, I know more about coffee than the average person at this point. It’s not like it’s going to serve me any purpose unless it’s trivia night and the subject is java, or Starbucks puts a ‘now hiring’ sign in their window. I may not be able to make a vanilla bean soy latte but I can tell you where the bean is harvested, how it’s roasted, and this year’s yield
.
He breaks my rambling thoughts with a question—my first question.
“I assume you’re familiar with the product?”
This is where I’m going to excel. I’m tempted to blurt out everything I know in one long run-on sentence but I wait. “Of course. The Grind is the perfect product for me.” I wanted to sound knowledgeable, but not in the way that would tell him I spent the entire week memorizing their inventory. Their store locations. Their employee handbook.
He clears his throat. “So, you use our product?”
I laugh. “Yes, regularly. In fact your product starts every one of my mornings. Sometimes, I need it several times a day. You never know when you’re going to need that extra pick me up.”
Silence fills the space and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. But that smooth dark chocolate drips over me. “I agree. I’m told our best-selling products have the perfect amount of buzz.”
“It must be true since everyone I know uses your product. I haven’t met a person who’s disappointed with the quality. You know it’s good when you feel it all day.”
“Wow, that is good.” A slow low chuckle begins and ends abruptly. “The position is for a quality control representative. Which means you’d have to…”
“I’m perfect for that position.” I shouldn’t have cut him off, but the caffeine is coursing through my body and my mouth is going ten miles faster than my brain. “I’m a detail-oriented professional who will stay plugged in until I reach my goal.”
“So, you’re good with testing the products? You must be willing to try to reproduce product failures based on client claims and test new products that are in beta. We understand the sensitivity of this work.”
He confuses me with that statement. How often do bean grinders fail? How sensitive can that information be? “If you’re worried about customer confidentiality, then you have nothing to be concerned about. Everything I do will be kept behind closed doors.” I make a lip-zip motion he can’t see but it makes it all the more real for me.
“Closed doors are important.” He doesn’t sound all that convincing. “Listen, my plane is boarding.”
Here is where he tells me he’ll consider my application. I hold my breath hoping for something different but know it won’t come.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark. I appreciate the opportunity to interview for the Grind.”
In the background an announcer calls for all passengers on Flight 4235 to San Francisco.
“You know what, Janey? I like your candor. I like that the product does not embarrass you, and that you're willing to…what did you say? Stay plugged in until you reach your goal. That’s the type of girl I’m looking for.”
Oh. My. God. Did that mean I got the job? “I am your girl, Mr. Stark.”
“Can you start tomorrow? The last girl who showed up took one look at her office and bolted. There’s a backlog of emails to work through on top of the product testing. Are you up for a challenge?”
“The bigger the better.”
He laughs. “Let’s hope that’s true. We’ve relocated our offices. We are at 926 Market Street. There’s no sign on the door, so just walk in. We’ll go over the details soon, but I have to run or you’ll be the only one at work tomorrow.”
He hung up before I could say goodbye. I throw my hands in the air and shout at the top of my lungs. “I’ve got a job!”
A loud thud sounds from the floor above me. Glinda, the not-so-good witch pounds her cane on the wooden floor. “Stop that racket, I’m watching my show.”
Goal number one is to make enough money to move out of my cruddy apartment in the Mission District. It’s a dump, but the rent is cheap, and it serves its purpose for now. Beggars can’t be choosers.
A year ago, I came home to my apartment in the Haight-Ashbury District to find my boyfriend gone. He had vanished with everything we had. Well, not exactly everything. He left a duffel bag by my door that held most of my clothes. The bastard even took my vibrating bullet. It was like he was sending a message that said, “If I can’t please you, nothing can.” Well, the joke’s on him because that little buzzing bean is the only thing that pleased me, and I’m saving up for a new one as soon as I get a new place.
Solo sexy time in this apartment isn’t an option. The old woman upstairs will bang her cane until my ceiling falls, while the guy downstairs will probably send up a client for me to service.
When I signed the lease I didn’t know that I’d be living below Satan’s mother and above a brothel.
At exactly eight a.m. I walk out the front door and hop over the drunks in the entryway. I catch the bus from Mission Street to the Embarcadero Center. It doesn’t take long to find the address Mr. Stark gave me. In front of a frosted glass window, I look at my reflection. I suppose I look professional enough for coffee. Black slacks. White button-down shirt with a cute embroidered collar. Pumps—not too tall—not too short. A ponytail hanging down my back.
I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and sigh. This is it. This is my new beginning. This job is my first step on my way out, and my way up. I grip the brass handle and turn it slowly. I breathe in the surrounding air not picking up a hint of coffee. Strange for a place all about the brew.
The long carpeted corridor eats up the sound of my shoes until I get to Office C. After a big breath, I walk inside to find the front desk empty. Off to the right a door is cracked open. The lights are flickering to life as if whoever is in there has just arrived.
“Hello.” I step up to the empty desk hoping that a secretary or someone else will come out and greet me. “Hello, is anyone here?” Of course I know someone’s here because I can hear them rustling papers and closing drawers.
“Come on in, I'm in the office to your right.” His voice is like warm hot chocolate on a cold day; the kind of day you get in San Francisco when the fog rolls in. He has a deep dark chocolate voice that sounds richer and more full-bodied than the man on the phone. Then again, the connection wasn’t the best.
I take several steps to his office, grab the handle and inch it open. Reaching into a tall cabinet is the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. His back is turned toward me, but I can already tell he’s going to be delicious to work for. He’s tall with dark hair and an ass made for a jeans commercial.
“I'm sorry, I thought I’d be more organized. I'm suffering from jet lag. That trip from Taiwan always kills me.” He pulls several papers from the top shelf. “Here it is,” he turns around and stops. His eyes scan me from head to toe. I fight the urge to wipe my face thinking maybe I missed a crumb of muffin on my mouth. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “Employment forms.” He waves the papers in the air. “Janey, right?” He stares at me long and hard like I’m going to tell him something different.
“Yes, I’m Janey,” I reach across the desk and offer him my hand. When he takes it, my entire body burns like he’s the frayed wire in a heating blanket and I’m the flammable material. I snap my hand back and glance at it sure there will be a scorch mark. There isn’t. “It’s my pleasure to meet you. You must be Caine Stark.” Please say yes. I’d be happy to have his face in my head while I quality control his merchandise.
“In the flesh.” He pulls out his leather executive chair, sits, and points to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Janey.”
Despite the butterflies in my belly, I sit tall and attentive. “I’m so excited to work for you.”
He leans back, the weight of his body causing the springs in his chair to creak. “You’re different from what I expected.”
That causes me to tilt my head to the side like a confused puppy. “Really? How so?” I suppress the urge to play with my hair or bite my lip, two things I do when I’m nervous. My fingers twitch to pull at my ponytail so I tuck them under my legs. “Is there a type of girl this job usually attracts?”
His eyes grow as large as saucers. He moves his head left to right like he’s placed his thoughts on a scale. “Never mind.” He writes on
a piece of paper and slides it to me. “This is the offer.”
I look at the amount and gasp. “I’ve never made this much money.” It’s twice the amount of my last job.
“It’s a specialty job. We believe you should be compensated well. I’ll assume the amount is satisfactory?”
He looks at me with black espresso eyes so intense, I’m forced to turn my head and stare at the boxes that line the walls of his office.
I nod. “You really are just setting up business.” When he said the company recently relocated, I thought maybe weeks ago, but it’s more like today.
“Yes,” he looks around the mess on his floor and shrugs. “We outgrew our old location and needed more office space.” He slides the forms forward and places a pen on top. “Despite the condition of my office, my partners Andrew and Brad have set up your office so you’ll be ready to dig in.”
My office. It sounds so important. “That’s amazing. I’m happy to help you set up yours if you like.”
He rubs his chin while he looks at me. “While your offer is generous, and tempting, your time is better spent…” he pauses for a long second, “testing our products.”
Of course he wants me to get started on the product line right away. It’s what he hired me for. “I’m ready.” I quickly fill in the employment forms and pass them back to him.
He stares down at the documents. “Janey Pickle,” he says. “I would have sworn that P was a typo. You know how things get mixed up when you do all your business online.”
“It’s easy to get confused when the tap of the wrong key can change everything.” I follow him to the door.
He turns right and walks past the desk, leading me all the way down the corridor. “We thought you might prefer some privacy, so your office is set up at the end. The two offices nearest you will be empty except to warehouse products.”