The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  “Two weeks.”

  I swallowed hard. Okay, no big deal. Maybe they were a total dud and lacked the skills to be a second assistant. “And the person before that?”

  “A week.”

  Well, crap. “Oh.” I kept a smile plastered on my face all the way back to my desk, not wanting him to see me sweat. Seriously, was this how other companies in Seattle worked? Revolving door positions, everyone as disposable as a to-go cup?

  This position was not dispensable to me. I had to make this work, so I had to show Mr. Starr just how invaluable I could be.

  I plopped down in my swivel chair, and after signing my life away with the paperwork, I pulled up Craig Willington’s media account. Jackson had shown me how to gain access to the Cloud drive with all pre-approved photos from each celebrity. As part of my job description, I was in charge of posting on their social media sites and building their fan base.

  Craig had sent over three pictures this morning—selfies on his boat, taken with his girlfriend, country music star Miranda Rivers. He had a blocky chin with a smattering of stubble, and the gap between his two front teeth was ten shades of charming. Miranda was in her typical peach-colored eye shadow and ruby red lips that glistened in the sunlight. I let out a sigh and stared wistfully at the photo. If I were reposting to my own page, I’d tag it #lifegoals. But this wasn’t my personal account—made apparent by my lack of arm candy and dismal bank account. Ah, the glamorous life of a postgrad student. Once I paid off Mom’s expenses, I’d be in the clear to make poor life choices with my newly acquired cash flow. In the meantime, “getting crazy” was code for Netflix and frozen pizza.

  My legs bounced as I hunched over the desk and stared at the images, deciding what to say. This was my first account, my first post, and I really wanted to get it right. Craig had fifty thousand followers—a smaller following than other clients in the firm, but I planned to change that. They deserved to be as entertained by him as much offstage as at a country music concert. After Jackson gave me his account yesterday, I went home and looked up all his music and live performances. This guy was heading straight for platinum records. It was only a matter of time.

  Mulling it over for a few minutes, I decided on:

  Craig_Willington: Sailing into the sunset with my lemon drop, @MirandaRivers.

  I smiled, satisfied with my idea. Fans would totally eat that up since “Lemon Drop” was his latest chart-topper. Within minutes of hitting send the post already had two thousand likes and shares.

  Jackson strode over to my desk a few moments later and plopped his perfectly pressed khakis on top of my notes I’d taken from the manual and our whirlwind office tour. When I didn’t acknowledge him in the amount of time he deemed appropriate, he cleared his throat loudly and shifted on the desk, crinkling my notes. Asshat.

  I looked up at him, pressing my lips into a smile. “Yes?” My mother always told me to kill ’em with kindness, and I wasn’t about to get sassy on my second day with someone who smelled of arrogance and a few too many spritzes of Dolce and Gabbana cologne.

  “As much as I love babysitting, I take my lunch at eleven thirty, which means you take yours at twelve. During that time, if there is an emergency, text me. Do not go to Starr—he doesn’t like to be bothered by anyone when he’s working on a new project, especially by a newbie like you.” He scribbled down his number on a sticky note, tore it off the pad, and plastered it to the bottom of my computer screen.

  “Don’t screw anything up, capisce?”

  “Okay.” I mean, really, was there anything else to say? Jackson wasn’t rolling out the welcome mat. Not that I expected him to—I had to earn it here and was determined to show him I was more than capable. I wouldn’t have minded a little polite chit chat, though.

  “Good. Wouldn’t want to get canned your first week,” he singsonged as he pressed the button to the elevator.

  No pressure or anything.

  Just as the elevator doors opened, another employee rushed through the hallway, almost sprinting to my desk. Phil? Or maybe it was Darrel? All the names from the earlier tour blended together. “I need these signed by Mr. Starr within the next forty minutes or this client is going to terminate services.” He shot a nervous glance toward the closed door and sucked in his blotchy cheeks as he held the manila folder out to me.

  Jackson had given me strict orders to not contact Starr, no matter what. “Did you email him?” I asked.

  A bead of sweat trickled down the guy’s forehead. “Yes. No answer.”

  Okay, this was so not in my wheelhouse, but I knew someone who could help…

  Jackson stepped into the elevator, either failing to hear the conversation happening ten feet from him or just plain ignoring his coworker’s plea. Either way, poor Phil/Darrel/Whoever was in for a huge disappointment when he learned that second assistant privileges didn’t extend to things like talking to the person who I’m actually assisting.

  “Jackson, wait!”

  But the doors slammed shut, and I was on my own.

  Crap.

  Chapter Two

  Starr Media Handbook Rule #332

  Staff at Starr Media must dress professionally at all times.

  I’d lucked out and not had a single call during Jackson’s lunch. Phil had managed to get Mr. Starr’s signature, no thanks to me, just as Jackson made it back from break. He breezed through the elevator, sipped the contents of his Diet Coke can through a straw, and leveled me with a glare.

  “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late,” he said, flicking his hand toward the exit.

  I pushed back from my desk and beelined it to the elevator. Once I left the building, I took a big gulp of Seattle air. I was still getting used to the weather here. Although it rained in Portland, Seattle air was stuck on a seemingly constant mist setting.

  Instead of picking up Luigi’s, I opted for the safer option of the sandwich shop next door. As a precaution, I decided to get my turkey Panini sans onions, even though those weren’t on the list of prohibited food items. Just to make sure I wouldn’t be late getting back to my desk, I brought the sandwich back up to the break room, which was empty—surprising since twelve seemed like it’d be prime lunch-eating time. In fact, everything about this side of the office was eerily quiet. Maybe I’d watched too many office sitcoms in college, but wasn’t there supposed to be laughing and joking around? People taking coffee breaks around the water cooler? Reality was a huge buzzkill.

  This morning’s tour of the company flashed like a montage in my head as I remembered everyone’s bored expressions and total lack of acknowledgment. I hadn’t thought about popularity since high school, but this felt an awful lot like being demoted to the bathroom stall during lunch time.

  I sat down at the table and unwrapped the Panini and frowned. Breadsticks would have hit the spot. Although, no amount of breadsticks was worth giving up a steady income, not even Luigi’s. Still, I gave a spiteful glare to my sandwich.

  Just in time to take me out of my garlic grieving, someone walked into the break room. The first thing I noticed was his hair. You could tell a lot about someone based off the length and style. And the clean-cut, lightly-styled golden brown hair that the guy in the plain black tee sported spoke volumes. It said “I look like I’m not trying too hard, but I carefully crafted this look of perfection for at least fifteen minutes this morning.”

  The second thing I noticed was this guy should be reamed for violating the dress code policy. Not that I was complaining—because, really, those tatted biceps deserved to be on full display at all times.

  I mentally catalogued everyone I’d spotted during Jackson’s drive-by office tour. He most definitely wasn’t part of that whirlwind of name-drops, because I’d remember those high cheekbones. And those tattoos. His arms were covered from each wrist with intricate markings, disappearing under the sleeve of his T-shirt. Some were words, some were pictures I couldn’t quite piece together without creepily staring at him. Decidedly, all were hot as hell.
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  He smiled at me and walked over to the water cooler. He procured a teabag from his pocket, plopped it into his black coffee mug, and filled it with water. The glug glug glug of the cooler cut through the silence, and I quickly swallowed my bite of turkey sandwich, preparing myself for if this guy wanted to talk—unlike the last five people who took one look into the break room, saw evidence of human life, and booked it to the elevator before I could even manage a hello. For people working at a social media agency, they were oddly…antisocial.

  “You’re new here.” It was a statement. One that held the suggestion that this happened more often than my purchases from ShoeBinge.com. I’d deleted the app from my phone the minute I learned Mom’s diagnosis a month ago and was still thinking about those rhinestone heels.

  “Second day.” I smiled. Finally. Someone to talk to. Besides Jackson and his awesome ability to give the evil eye over his computer screen.

  “How are you liking it so far?” The muscles in his bicep bunched together as he took a sip of his tea. Ovaries, meet arm porn, your new best friend.

  I folded the wax paper of my sandwich wrapper in half and creased the seam with my thumb. “It’s been nice. I made it through the employee manual…finally.”

  “Learn anything good?”

  I looked up from the wrapper and eyed him. “You’re breaking the dress code in at least two ways.”

  He looked down at his clothes and then back at me, smiling. Two dimples indented his cheeks, and I realized how incredibly unfair it was that someone could be that gorgeous and not airbrushed by professionals in a magazine.

  “Guess I am.”

  “You’ve met the boss. What’s he like? Uptight like that rule book?”

  His lips tipped up in one corner as he regarded me with his piercing brown eyes. “I don’t know if uptight would be my first choice.”

  I chuckled. “Really? I hear he’s called the Antichrist.”

  His brows rose. “Oh, really. That one’s new to me.”

  “Huh.” I fiddled with the wrapper. “Jackson said it was a pretty well-known nickname around the office.” Maybe the guy worked in a different department than everyone else. Heck, he was a lot nicer than all the other employees I’d (not) talked to yesterday and today.

  He let out a loud laugh that echoed throughout the break room. “Very interesting. Thanks for the heads up.” He grabbed the string to the tea bag and absentmindedly dunked it in the water. Veins corded deliciously up his arms and my brain went into zombie mode. Except instead of my inner monologue chanting must eat brains, it was must touch veeeeeeeins. “What’s your name?” he asked, bringing me out of my stupor.

  I cleared my throat, heat tingeing my cheeks. “Lainey Taylor. Newly appointed second assistant to the Antichrist.”

  Mr. Dimples mashed his lips together, and I couldn’t tell if the glint in his eyes was because he was amused or slightly annoyed. Maybe a bit of both. Great, I guess I was back to square one with making friends here. He backed toward the door and leaned against the frame. Really odd. Where I came from, people tended to give their name after someone else introduced themselves. This guy? Nada. I doubted 200 exits up the I-5 corridor were enough to see a shift in social customs.

  He bit down on his full bottom lip and looked like he was really enjoying this awkward silence that had me squirming in my seat. I balled up the sandwich wrapper just to give my hands something to do. Really, these people needed to work on their social skills. Where was the welcoming committee? Mental note: start welcome committee if one doesn’t exist.

  “It’s really nice meeting you, Lainey,” he said.

  He put his hand on the doorframe, and just before he left the room, I called, “Do I get your name?”

  “You can call me the Antichrist.” And with that, he breezed out into the hallway and disappeared into his office.

  My heart screeched to a halt, and that turkey Panini turned to a solid brick in the bottom of my stomach.

  Shit.

  I tried to come up with anything to say to smooth over the situation, like a “ha ha just kidding, I totally knew it was you the whole time, old buddy, old pal” (cue maniacal laughter), but all I could do was stare at his retreating form. For the love of all that’s holy, I just called Brogan Starr—THE Brogan Starr!— the Antichrist to his face. I lowered my head to the table and kept it there. If it was possible to die of mortification, now would be as good of time as any. Well, I’d better pack up my desk now. Bet I set a new record.

  Chapter Three

  Lainey Taylor Rule of Life #1

  A girl is only as strong as her closest girlfriend.

  My best friend Zoey was curled up on the loveseat, watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls when I entered our downtown apartment at nine that evening. The crazy thing about leaving at eight thirty was that there were still people flitting about the office that late, meaning I needed to step up my game if I wanted to make a good impression.

  She glanced up from the TV and frowned as she took in the drastically more disheveled version of this morning’s look. “Should I even ask how your day went?”

  “If you mean the day in which I called my boss the devil to his face? Nope, don’t want to talk about it.” But she already knew this after I’d sent an SOS Kill me now text promptly after the incident had occurred.

  She just nodded. That was one thing I loved about Zoey. She never pushed for more information before I was ready to dish. “Leftovers are in the fridge,” she said.

  I froze and took a deep whiff, checking for any evidence of smoke or burned food. Nope, just our raspberry vanilla wall plug in. Not a hint Zoey had touched a spatula or a pan. “You cooked?”

  She snorted in response, and I relaxed. Zoey had been demoted to preparing cold meals only. Anything else was a fire hazard. “I felt bad about you moping around, missing your mom, so I went and got Luigi’s. Just make sure to brush extra good tomorrow morning so you don’t get in trouble with the Antichrist.”

  Zoey and I had been best friends since she moved in down the street from me in seventh grade. She’d had the same bike as I did, and held a fierce love for New Kids on the Block, and we decided from that day forward, we were brain twins. After we both graduated college, she was offered an interior design job in downtown Seattle the same week Starr Media had offered me my job. So it was only fitting we moved in together.

  “You’re the best.” I dropped my purse on the counter and excavated the takeout box from the fridge. Sweet, delicious breadsticks and angel hair pasta with shrimp in a cream sauce. My stomach let out a loud growl in response to the beautiful aroma hitting my nose.

  I sat next to her on the couch and propped my legs on the coffee table, shoveling food into my mouth. One of the early seasons’ episodes was playing, where Rory was still with Lap Dog Dean. Zoey always hated when I used that reference, but I found it very fitting.

  She pointed at the screen and said, “Now there’s a man who won at life when he went through puberty.”

  “I think all the guys won at life on this show.”

  “Amen.”

  Dean was busy throwing a hissy fit about Rory needing to study. “I seriously don’t understand what she sees in him,” I said. Anyone who got in the way of a girl and her books deserved to be dumped, right there, on the spot.

  She stole a breadstick out of the takeout box and waved it around as she talked. “Hot guy, has that whole caveman thing going on.” She lowered her voice to a gristly croak. “Me like Rory. Me stake my claim. It’s all very primal.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t do a thing for me.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll keep him all for myself, thank you very much.” She took a bite of breadstick and smiled.

  I polished off the last of the pasta and the final breadstick and dumped the box into the trash. It’d been a couple days since I’d talked to my mom and decided I’d call her before she went to bed.

  Slipping into my room with my secret stash of Doritos, I dialed her number and la
y down on my bed. I imagined she was in the same position, most likely watching TV.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom.” I shoveled a Dorito into my mouth, trying my best not to chew directly into the phone. Mom always complained that I chewed too loud, said I got that endearing quality from my dad (one of the nicer put-downs when it came to him). Five years ago, before he left us, I’d laugh and take pride that I was anything like my dad, but nowadays the thought that half my genes came from him soured my stomach.

  “Hey, love bug.” She paused. “Jesus Christ, are you in a hail storm or something?”

  “Eating.” I said with my mouth full.

  “Are people around? You’re upholding our family name by at least covering your mouth, right?”

  I rolled my eyes and swallowed. Even this sick, she was able to crack jokes. High spirits were definitely encouraging. Maybe treatments were going better than before I left for Seattle.

  “Just Zoey in the other room, and she doesn’t care how loud I chew my food,” I teased.

  She let out a long sigh, but I could hear the grin in her voice when she said, “Gives me the warm fuzzies knowing I taught you great manners.”

  My smile faded. She was able to joke about it, but just how much longer would I have with her? Stage two ovarian cancer wasn’t a walk in the park. Chances weren’t super high at the moment that she’d be giving me manners lessons in the future. I threw the chip in the bag, my earlier hunger extinguished.

  “How are you feeling?” I managed to ask over the lump in my throat.

  I knew the answer. Chemo had taken my once vibrant mom and turned her into a zombified version of herself. Soft curves were replaced with harsh points. Easy smiles were fewer and farther between.

  It’d taken every ounce of willpower I’d had to leave Portland after her diagnosis. But an entry level position at Starr Media paid twice as much as anything I could find in my hometown. Renting Zoey’s uncle’s apartment for dirt cheap was a no-brainer.