I’m amazing, and you’re lucky to have me. Is it possible she wasn’t bullshitting me?
“Should I seek out a different service?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Somebody here could place the call for you…”
“No,” I say. “Leave it.”
And why do I even care? She’s rude.
But it’s more than the rudeness. There was something fiery and genuine about her. Compelling. Sure of herself, yet vulnerable. And she didn’t feel like a pro, rattling off lines. She felt…spontaneous. As though she was speaking from the heart. And that husky, sexy voice. “It’s fine. I’ll survive,” I say.
Operator Seven—that won’t do. I want her real name. I want to know who she is as a person. I press my fingers to my forehead.
“Mr. Drummond? Is there anything else?”
“Uh...” I feel half crazy. “How’s the…uh…Instagram thing working out?”
“Oh, fabulous!” she says. “I think you’re really going to like one of the directions I’m having the team create. We’re working up a behind-the-scenes view of the formulation process. A tools-of-the-trade thing. Think beakers and whiteboard shots. Race for a cure. But don’t worry, we wouldn’t bother you with it or divulge trade secrets. We’d have a junior chemist work with marketing on it.”
“Hmm,” I say. It’s actually not a bad idea. The race to develop the new Vossameer formula is far more dramatic and exciting than anything else we’re up to. “I’d take a look at that.”
“You would?”
“Put something together.”
She thanks me, and we get off the phone.
I click over to my most recent molecular model, letting my mind free-fall over the visual data, red and purple on a field of brown. I convert it to a dynamic model that simulates the natural motion of the atoms in a structure, point by point.
I groan. Nothing holds up. Nothing works.
I rub my eyes. I’ve been up and awake for hours looking at this thing and not seeing it the way I need to see it.
Why should I care about a wake-up-call girl? Just some girl doing a job that could be done by a machine. She’s a human being replacing technology. Nothing more.
I go back to the model and start retracing my steps, which is what I do when I don’t see a clear answer. I could do this all day. Probably will. There are people out there to whom it literally means life or death.
Sometimes the way forward is hidden in the steps behind me. A faulty choice I made days ago. A discarded data point.
An hour later, I’m pulling up my early notes. Figuring out how to make a more concentrated version of the existing gel without losing its clotting properties shouldn’t be so complicated.
The solution exists.
And the maddening thing is, it wasn’t thirty-seven degrees at JFK this morning. At no point this morning was it thirty-seven degrees at JFK. The temperature at JFK at 4:30 this morning was forty, and that was the low. So what the hell? Did she know the temperature or not? Is it possible she knew the correct temperature and told me the wrong one just to toy with me?
I grab my phone and text her.
Me: Your thermometer is broken.
I wait. No reply.
Me: FYI. The low was forty last night.
I wait. The words NOT DELIVERED appear.
What?!?! She blocked me? Blocked me?
Never mind. My sister, Willow, will know how to get around a block.
I click over to favorites and find Willow’s number.
I’m just about to call her, but I stop myself. What am I doing? People are dying out there every day for lack of a dehydrated hemostatic agent with vascular repair properties, and I’m putting the full weight of my intellect into tracking down my wake-up-call girl?
I rub my eyes. This stops now.
I force myself to go back to my notebook, but it’s no use. I’m looking at it without seeing it. The formulas blur. I push away from my desk, annoyed with myself.
Women never make me lose my focus. Not ever. I enjoy sex as much as the next guy, but in a context of respect and rationality. Not…whatever these calls are.
And how is it that I’m even thinking about her in the women-and-sex arena? Then again, I was thinking about that assistant—Lizzie—the one who dresses like she just fell off a turnip truck in that way, too.
It’s exhaustion. Frustration.
I go to the whiteboard, but I can’t bear to stare at it any longer, so I slip around it to the window and look down at the people, like so many toy soldiers.
Wake up, motherfucker.
It was so…shocking. But in a strange, and even slightly enjoyable way. I found it…stimulating.
Wake up, motherfucker.
It’s been so long since I felt any kind of surprise from a woman. And really, what kind of woman says that to me?
People are waiting for whatever annoying bullshit you have in store for them today. Whatever stupid bullshit flies out of your meteoric mind.
Meteoric. I shake my head at her use of that word.
Meteoric is the entirely wrong word for what she meant. Meteoric suggests something spectacular yet fleeting. Transient. I’m pretty sure she was going for something more like grandiose. Bombastic. High-flown, maybe.
I’d like to tell her that. If she’s going to sass me, she needs to get her terms right.
Of course she wouldn’t listen. She’d come back with some insolent remark, and I’d kiss those sassy lips. And then I’d take her over my knee and spank her. Just slide those pj pants down and give her a good firm slap on her bare ass.
I turn away from the window, surprised at the strange turn my thoughts have taken. What’s going on with me? Spanking isn’t my style.
Except now that I’ve pictured it, I can’t get the thought out of my mind.
I stalk back over to my whiteboard and study a side chemical reaction, but the harder I try to shake free of the idea of spanking her, the more erotic power it seems to gain, and the harder my cock becomes, and suddenly I can’t think of anything else.
I’d spank her, and then maybe I’d turn her over and kiss her. I’d grab her hair and trace my fingertip over the impudent smile I can hear right through the phone.
I go back to the window and press my finger to the glass, letting the sound of her sexy, raspy voice echo through my soul.
Ten
Lizzie
* * *
Mia’s gone when I get back home. I check her schedule and I see she has an evening class to go to.
I usually don’t mind being alone, but these days I’m a little rattled by the fact that Lenny’s collections guy was able to wheedle his way into the building. You need a key to get into the building, and residents are not supposed to be letting strangers in. But this guy got in. He was in our hallway, knocking at our door. He could come back at any time. I have the door locked, but a few good kicks could break it open.
I sleep poorly, even after I hear Mia roll back in.
My alarm goes off at four, but I’m already awake, pulse racing, looking forward to talking with him and tormenting him.
I need to find a way to keep stringing him along, but I have to be careful; eventually he’ll figure out that I’m using his curiosity against him.
I pull my phone out of the charger a few minutes early and give myself a pep talk.
My pulse beats excitedly as the time turns over, from 4:29 a.m. to 4:30 a.m. I press the green phone symbol, because Operator Seven is always on time, bitches!
He answers on the first ring. “Yeah.”
I feel my face split into a huge smile. “Here he is, folks, answering on the first ring. Who’s the best wake-up-call girl in the city?”
He says nothing, but I know he’s there. Then he says, “You hung up on me.”
“You were awake, dude.” I put extra emphasis on the word, knowing somehow that it’ll bug him. It’s like I can feel the edges of his wonderfully prickly emotions. “Did I not tell
you the weather? Isn’t that how proper wake-up-call girls end their calls? I heard it from a very reputable source.”
“Did you? So you know who this is, then?”
“‘Do you know who this is?’ Did you seriously just ask that?”
“Do I need to ask it again?” he rumbles.
I hold the phone with both hands. The volume is just up enough that I can hear. I kind of do want him to ask it again. Partly because his voice is really grumbly and sexy this morning and partly because I have no idea whether wake-up-call people know who they’re calling. Do they get little profiles of their clients? Special wake-up dossiers?
“Well?”
“You think I don’t know who I’m calling?” I say, making a snap decision. “This is a wake-up-call service. I know exactly who I’m calling—Theo Drummond, CEO of Vossameer. I know everything I need to know about you. Thing one: You’re a man who can’t seem to operate the modern wake-up technologies specifically created for wake-up functions, so you have to hire somebody to do it for you. And then you act like a total jackalope and tell her how to do her job.”
My heart bangs. Did I really just call him a jackalope? I wait for his reply. Nothing.
Was jackalope a bridge too far?
“Is there anything else I need to know?” I ask. “Because that kind of says it all, don’t you think?”
He does his hot warning grumble, and my belly melts. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
I lie back down and pull the covers to my chest, imagining Mr. Drummond in his own bed, somewhere across town.
He probably has a kingly king-size bed with thick wooden posts on all four sides. Grand arched windows with amazing views. Would he sleep in pajamas? No, I decide. He’d sleep in the nude; he’d see pajamas as a useless convention.
I imagine him nude in a nest of tangled sheets, muscular chest bathed in moonlight. One trunk-like thigh sticking out the side.
My blood races to imagine it. I turn to my side, and my nipples tingle from the brush of fabric, being that they have become keenly sensitive little pellets of need. “Well,” I say hoarsely, “now that you’re awake, let’s see what the temperature is.”
“Don’t bother,” he rumbles.
“But isn’t that how I’m supposed to wrap up our call?”
“It’s not as if you have any idea of the temperature.”
“I can tell you what I think it is, though. Accuracy is so overrated, don’t you think?” I add, just to needle him. I have to stop smiling, or he’ll hear it in my voice. I shouldn’t be having fun. “Now, let me take a look here…”
“Wait,” he says.
“What? You’re awake.” I set the phone on the bed, just inches from my face. I curl onto my side, looking at it like a live thing. What am I doing? “This marks the official end of my duties,” I tease. “You think I don’t have other clients waiting for my amazing wake-up service?”
It’s a little evil, reminding him of his question.
“So this really is how you wake people up…”
I decide his tone this morning is less of a rumble and more of a velvety crinkle. Soft, yet substantial.
“That’s for me to know and you to never find out, Theo.” I decide I get to call him Theo. I like calling him Theo.
Judging by his silence, he’s not a fan.
“Just tell me,” he says finally. “Is this your technique with multiple clients? It’s not a difficult question.”
“Hmm,” I say, imagining his stern expression. No doubt he’s reached stern-face DEFCON one, red-alert status.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Operator Seven.”
He grumbles his disappointment. “Fine. One more question.”
“Oh, I suppose,” I say breezily.
He lowers his voice. “What are you wearing?”
My mouth falls open. Sexy shivers flow over me. “What am I wearing?” Everything seems too wild, suddenly. In a good way.
He lowers his voice yet another octave, which I might not have thought was possible, and which I can report is even hotter. In this lower and more delicious new octave, he says, “Tell me.”
My skin feels too tight. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m going to tell you what I’m wearing.” I look down at my sleep set. Silky pants, white with tiny pink flowers.
Silky matching top.
Nipples hard enough to cut glass.
Umm…
“I think you want to tell me, though.”
My pulse races. Because I do. “I’m wearing something beautiful.” Like a madwoman, I slide a finger over my belly, and just that light feather of a touch unleashes tidal waves of sensation. I could get off so easy right now. “More beautiful than you can even imagine.”
I slide my hand over my shoulder. I’m officially going insane.
“Tell me,” he says. “Now.”
“You think I take orders from an asshole like you?”
“I think you’d enjoy taking orders from an asshole like me.”
“Dream on,” I say. “In the words of Michael Jackson, U can’t touch this.”
“That was MC Hammer who said that. You need to take a little more care in terms of precision…Operator Seven.”
“Oh, excuse me, Professor Wonderbrain,” I say, enjoying the way he said my fake name.
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
A glowy warmth spreads through me. “Why do guys always want to know that?”
“I don’t know why other guys would want to know that. But personally, I like my woman to have a little bit of clothes on her, so that I have something to rip off of her. That’s why I asked. Because I need to know what exactly I’m visualizing myself ripping off you.”
I imagine Mr. Drummond hovering over me, savagely ripping off my clothes.
“I’m imagining you in something girly,” he continues. “Extra points for pink.”
I swallow, mind reeling.
“Have you ever had a man rip off your clothes?”
I think about the guys I’ve been with. Nobody ripped off my clothes, though Mason once made one of my buttons pop off. “It depends on what qualifies as ‘ripping off.’”
“Oh, Seven,” he breathes, “if you have to ask what qualifies as a man ripping off your clothes, then a man has never ripped off your clothes. A man has never been so desperate to get at your beautiful tits and your sweet pink pussy that he goes crazy, just taking the fabric in his fists and tearing it off you like a brute, blind with need…” He pauses, as if to catch his breath. “Insane from the need to sate himself with you,” he continues as I slide my hand on down my belly. “If you have to ask that, then I promise you, a man has never ripped off your clothes.”
I swallow, stunned that Mr. Drummond’s talking to me like this. Stunned that he’s talking to anyone like this!
Also, I can’t believe how hot it is.
“You’re right about one thing, though,” he says. “I am an asshole. And trust me, I could make it so hot.”
My breath speeds. I dimly recall having some sort of goal with this phone call, but it’s disintegrated into a thousand little bits. Vaporized. Transmogrified into stardust.
I try to keep my voice steady. “If nothing else, you’re getting an A for confidence. Or maybe an A minus.”
A tiny huff of breath. Did he think that was funny? “You and that sassy mouth of yours. God, if I were there, I’d put you over my knee so fast.”
Shivers explode over me. “W-what?”
“I’d put you over my knee and rip those little pj pants right off your ass and give you a good, hard spank.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine,” he says. “You and that smart mouth of yours need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you think?”
I swallow. Something wicked inside me says, “Maybe.”
“No maybe about it,” he rumbles.
In other news, my finger finds its way up to my nipple, pinching and kneading. The
sensation radiates all through my body. “Are you so sure I’m wearing pjs?”
“Pretty much,” he says. “Matching. A little bit prissy.”
“Well, aren’t you smart.”
“I’m right?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’d make you feel so good,” he whispers.
“Somebody’s feeling presumptuous,” I say. Like I’m not completely winging on my nipple, enjoying the thrill of his forbidden dirty talk. “You might be taking the ‘call girl’ portion of ‘wake-up-call girl’ a little far.”
“Somehow I don’t think I am.”
I swallow, trying to think of a clever answer, but my mind has gone offline.
“And I promise you,” he continues, “I’d know how to handle you. You’d want things good and dirty. So fucking dirty, and you know I’d deliver. You might even like me to hold you down. Can you feel my hands around your thighs?”
“Yes,” I whisper softly.
“I am not a man with a lot of mercy in him—that’s something you’re figuring out right about now.”
I close my eyes. He is not a man with a lot of mercy in him. It seemed like such a bad trait before.
“You would give yourself over to me, and I would be every inch the asshole you need me to be. I would push you right up to your edge. Maybe a little bit past it. Just a little, though. Just enough to make it interesting.”
“Yeah?” My voice sounds breathy. Operator Seven is getting into this.
“Oh, yeah.”
I slide my hand down over my thigh, back up between my legs.
“I can hear your hand right now. Skin sliding across fabric. Something silky, maybe.”
“Silky. Pink with flowers.”
He huffs out a breath at this extra detail. Like he really, really loves it. I close my eyes, enjoying the resonance of his pleasure.
“Tell me where you’re touching yourself.”
I swallow.
“But only if you’ll tell the truth,” he adds suddenly. “No lies. I hate lies. What I want with you is a little bit rough and real as dirt.”
I stare at the phone. What I want with you. He wants a thing with me? Also, a little bit rough and real as dirt? The room seems to spin. “Real as dirt?” I manage.
The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl Page 7