Like a Boss Box Set: Like a Boss Series Books 1-4

by Serenity Woods

  This is the first time I’ve played here with the band, and it’s a great atmosphere. It wouldn’t surprise me if the manager asked us back as his customers seem to like our music.

  During a five-minute break, Marc brings me over a beer, and I drink half of it in one go. “Good crowd,” he says, nodding at the room.

  “Yeah.” I wipe under my bottom lip. “It’s fucking amazing. Woop!” I’m buzzing with energy and do a little dance.

  He grins. “Ready to rock and roll, girl?”

  “Bring it on, bro.”

  We climb onto the stage and don our guitars. Marc plays rhythm and also sings. I play lead, and our drummer and bass player take their places.

  As Marc says a few words into the microphone, I glance around the sea of faces. I haven’t seen anyone I recognize this evening, just the usual mix of couples, groups of friends, and buddies out for the night. Then, to my surprise, my gaze falls on Colette from work, standing by the bar. I’ve only been at Hearktech a week, but Colette’s been really friendly, and I quickly picked up that she’s the partner of one of the directors. That means Sebastian’s going to be here somewhere… Yep, there he is, bringing her a glass of wine and sliding his arm around her. Behind them are Harrison and his partner, Gabriella, intertwined, as usual. And to Gaby’s right is Elenora, and there is…

  I don’t miss the way my heart skips a beat at the sight of the fourth director, Caleb Chase, leaning against the bar. Tonight, he’s not wearing a suit, but instead has chosen black jeans and a gray tee beneath a big black jacket. It doesn’t make him look any smaller. The guy’s not particularly tall, maybe six foot, but he clearly works out or plays sports or something, because he’s got legs like tree trunks and biceps I wouldn’t be able to get my hands around.

  Even in street clothes, he reeks of money, from the watch on his wrist that I spotted the other day is an Omega, to his haircut, which, although carefully styled to look as if he just got out of bed, no doubt cost more than my weekly grocery bill.

  He’s watching me, a curious, amused smile on his face, but I know better than to take that as interest. Guys like this don’t go for girls like me. Caleb Chase will date women who speak French or Italian, and who know Puccini from Pavarotti, or, rather, they look like they do. I know that Puccini’s a composer and Pavarotti’s an operatic tenor, but nobody would ever think I did. These women wear Manolo Blahnik and Gucci shoes, not twenty-dollar sneakers. They eat quinoa and pronounce it kinwah and not kwin-oh-a.

  For a second, resentment burns in my stomach like acid. This man knows nothing about me—about my lifestyle, my past, or what I’ve had to go through. He’ll have made a judgement about me, and in seconds will have assumed I’m not his type.

  I have another swig of beer, and ready my guitar as the drummer taps his drumsticks. The resentment dies away, to be replaced by a buzz of energy as I start playing. I’m not going to stand here and feel intimidated by Caleb or his friends just because I work in the mailroom. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Fuck ’em all. I’m here to play Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, and I when I get to the fantastic solo, I forget he’s there, forget everything, in fact, except the beauty of the music and the hum of the strings beneath my fingers.

  For the next forty-five minutes, I throw myself into playing, and have a blast as the audience sings along to every song. We’ve deliberately picked a well-known setlist of covers, and when we finish and take a bow, we have two encores before we finally plead no more and step down off the stage.

  I place my guitar in its case and lean it against the wall where it can’t be knocked into, then turn to go and get myself a drink. My passage is stopped, however, by a young guy, guilty of the terrible sin of wearing double denim—both jacket and jeans—who leans across me and leers in my face.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he yells above the din of the crowd.

  “No, thank you.” I flash him a smile and step by him.

  He moves to interceded me. “Aw. You were fucking amazing up there. Come on, darlin’, have a drink with me, make my day.”

  I’ve had a great evening, and I’m not in the mood to tussle with a kid who barely looks old enough to be in the bar. “Dude, get outta my way or I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat they’ll be chomping on your fucking balls.”

  His face darkens. “Hey, I was being pleasant, no need for that, lady. Why are you so fucking superior? You ain’t got nothing I ain’t seen before, girl.”

  The guy seals his doom by reaching out a hand and grabbing my left boob.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caleb marching toward me. Jeez, he must think I need rescuing. I ignore him, jab an elbow in the kid’s stomach, and then grab his hand and twist it behind his arm, pushing it high enough that he cries out loud.

  “Fuck off,” I say mildly, and he wrenches free and stumbles away, hopefully out of the bar.

  I turn to Caleb as he stops before me, my blood up, and glare at him. “You want some too?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender, then lowers them, smiling. He runs his gaze down me, then back up, much the same way, I have to admit, that I did to him in the boardroom at work. When his eyes reach mine, they’re warm, interested.

  “Can I buy you a beer?” he asks.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is uber-deep, Vin Diesel deep, and I swear every single hair on my body rises in response, and my nipples tighten in my bra.

  Ohhh… I want this guy. I wanted him the first time I saw him, in his thousand-dollar suit, and I want him now, with his ruffled, just-fucked hairdo, and his sultry eyes. Yeah, I’m not the type of girl he’d choose for a relationship. But who wants to go steady when there’s the opportunity of a super-hot, one-night stand?

  I lick my lips and stick my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, whatever.”

  His mouth curves up, and he jerks his head toward the bar. I follow him through the crowd, hot, flustered, heart thumping, mind buzzing. I’ve never slept with a guy like this. But holy Jesus, if he doesn’t come home with me tonight, I think I just might explode.

  Chapter Three

  Caleb

  I buy Roxie a beer, and watch her lips close around the bottle as she drinks a good third of it. She’s wearing a sleeveless black top. Her jeans are so tight she could have painted them on, and yet her face is flushed and her skin is glowing. Tonight, her lips are scarlet, while her fingernails where they hold the bottle are black. The sleeveless top has revealed a tattoo on her upper arm, a symbol I don’t recognize, possibly Sanskrit text. Her hair is twisted into a knot on the top of her head, but the ends have been sprayed into points and then dyed a rainbow of colors.

  This girl is so not my type, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.

  She wipes beneath her mouth with the back of her hand and her eyes flash. “Take a picture,” she says, “it’ll last longer.”

  I chuckle. When I saw the young kid giving her some lip, I’d gone over to help, but it hadn’t taken long for me to realize she was the polar opposite of a damsel in distress. I watched her dispatch of the guy with admiration and a little pity for the dude who clearly had no idea he’d approached someone with a brain, wits, and some talent for the martial arts.

  “So, you play the guitar pretty damn fine.” It’s a huge understatement—her rendition of David Gilmour’s solo would have given me a hard-on even if I hadn’t already had one from watching her.

  She shrugs. “I play a bit.”

  “I like your Les Paul,” I tell her, describing her guitar. “The sustain on Gibsons is incredibly rich, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes widen. “You play?”

  “Yeah. A bit.” I smile.

  She studies my face, her green eyes curious, appraising. Then she sips her beer again. “It’s only an Epiphone,” she admits.

  An Epiphone is the budget-conscious version of the Gibson. Gibsons have higher-quality woods and generally are superior. I can tell by the way she’s lifted her chin
that she’s expecting me to comment on that. She thinks I’m a snob. She’s probably right, but I’m also a gentleman, most of the time.

  So I say, “Did you know Epiphone has been around longer than Gibson?”

  Her lips curve up. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “About twenty years longer. And did you know that in 1941, Les Paul bought a transmitter to play pirate radio broadcasts of his experimental music, stuck his hand in the transmitter, and electrocuted himself. He spent weeks wrapped in bandages from head to toe.”

  She laughs, and her whole face lights up. “I didn’t know that, no.” Now she turns her whole body to face me, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re much warmer. “I bought it because Pete Townshend played a Les Paul. He’s a hero of mine.”

  “Yeah, me too. Eric Clapton played one as well. So did Bob Marley.”

  “Really?” She starts talking about other types of guitar, and we spend a pleasant thirty minutes or so discussing guitars, rock music, and some of the concerts we’ve been to.

  Around this time, Seb touches me on the shoulder and says, “We’re off. You want a lift back?”

  I don’t look at Roxie, but I shake my head. Whatever happens at the end of the night, I’m enjoying myself too much to leave now. “I’ll catch a taxi.”

  “Okay.” His eyes are amused, but he doesn’t comment. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  They all say goodbye to Roxie, commenting on her great performance, and head out. Elen gives me a wry look as she leaves, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you working tomorrow?” Roxie asks.

  “No. Harry and Gaby are having a party. They got married a month ago in Florence, and they wanted to celebrate with their friends back home.”

  She nods and finishes off her beer.

  “Another?” I ask.

  She gestures to the bartender. “Can I have a Jim Beam, please? And make it a double.”

  “Make that two,” I tell him. I fish out my credit card, but she’s already passing over her own. I don’t argue with her, even though I probably make five or ten times what she earns in the mailroom. She looks like the kind of girl who’d be offended by me insisting on paying for her.

  We have a swallow of our whiskey, and it enters my bloodstream immediately, racing around my body and sending heat shooting up my spine.

  I don’t understand why this girl fascinates me, but she does. There’s an energy about her—I feel excited just being around her. She’s dangerous, feral. I realize with some surprise that I’ve never been with a girl like this. Even through school and university, I dated nice girls, or ones who looked nice on the outside, anyway—they’d often had more experience than initial impressions suggested, and not all of them were nice. In fact, a good proportion of them—including my vitriolic ex—were less than beautiful on the inside, so I suppose I shouldn’t judge a book by its black-haired, scarlet-lipped cover. Perhaps Roxie doesn’t have one-night stands. She could even be a virgin, for all I know.

  I watch her run her tongue around the lip of her whiskey glass, collecting the drops. She catches me watching her and smirks. Yeah, probably not a virgin.

  Not that I’m expecting anything tonight. She looks like the kind of young woman who’s able to handle herself, and I doubt I’ll be able to talk her into anything she doesn’t want to do in the first place.

  “Roxie!”

  She glances across at the rhythm guitarist and singer. He gestures to the door, and she shakes her head. He glances at me, then back at her, and nods slowly. He holds up her guitar, and she nods, watching him as he makes his way out of the bar with it.

  “Your boyfriend?” I ask, not wanting to turn around and find his fist in my face.

  “My brother,” she says with a grin. “It’s his band. Their lead guitarist left a few weeks ago, so I’ve been filling in.” Finishing off her whiskey, Roxie slides the glass across the bar, then turns to face me. She meets my eyes and considers me thoughtfully. “So. What now?”

  I knock back the last of my drink and slide my glass next to hers. I haven’t done this for a while, and I feel out of practice. “I’m hesitant to suggest anything in case you carry out some Jiu Jitsu on me.”

  She laughs. Her eyes are wild, excited. “My place is only a block away.” She shrugs, trying not to look too eager. “If you want. Whatever.”

  She’s eight years younger than me, but that’s old enough, and I want this girl more than anything I’ve wanted for a long time. Fuck it. We’re both consenting adults, and I’m not breaking any laws. Her strange blend of sassy confidence and vulnerability intrigue me.

  “Come on,” I say, and, taking her hand, I lead her out of the bar.

  Chapter Four

  Roxie

  Because it’s summer, I didn’t think I’d need a jacket, but the night air is on the cool side, running icy fingers up my arms, and I shiver.

  “Here.” Caleb slips off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.

  I stare at him. “Seriously?”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “What?”

  I just shake my head, and we start walking. I pull the edges of the jacket close around me. No man has ever offered me his coat before. I feel like Queen Elizabeth the First from merry olde England. Would he lay it over a puddle for me?

  He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunches his shoulders.

  “It’s not far,” I promise. He just smiles, which sends tingles all through me. Jeez, this man is sexy. He’s classy and a gentleman, and yet I have a feeling he’s going to be hot as sin in the sack.

  We walk fast, and we don’t talk again. It seems stupid to make small talk, although he was easy to chat away to in the pub. I can’t believe he also plays the guitar. I wonder whether he owns any nice ones? I’d like to ask him, but I feel oddly tongue-tied, something I haven’t felt since high school. He’s quite a bit older than me, and for the first time I feel a flicker of nervousness at the notion of asking him back to my place. He probably thinks I do this all the time, but I don’t make a habit of it. I mean, I’m no simpering virgin or anything, but I don’t ask just any old guy back—I’m fairly choosy.

  I tell myself not to worry. Technically, he’s my boss, and Colette told me he’s one of the good guys, so I don’t think I have anything to stress about.

  Unless you count the idea of getting down and dirty. My heart doubles its pace at the thought of having sex with him, and I feel the last remnants of caution drift away in the wind. I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink—maybe I’d be a bit more cautious if I was stone-cold sober—but right now I don’t care. I’m feeling hot and horny, and Caleb seems like the perfect choice to scratch my itch.

  We reach my apartment block, and I open the door with my key and let him in. He closes the door behind. Where he’s lifted his hand, his tee stretches across his biceps—wow, talk about muscles a girl can hang onto. Moistening my lips, I lead him up the first flight of stairs to my door, and we go inside.

  I hadn’t expected to pull tonight, but luckily, I’m fairly tidy, and the apartment is neat enough. Suddenly, though, I see it through his eyes; it’s small because I can’t afford much and don’t want to waste money, so it’s just a living room with a miniscule kitchen, and a tiny bedroom out the back. I bet my apartment would fit into his ten times over.

  “Nice place,” he says, though, and I smile at him as I slip off his jacket, liking how polite he is, the same way I liked how he didn’t comment on my guitar. He has style—I’m not used to that. I could get to like it.

  “Whiskey?” I ask, and when he nods I go into the kitchen and take out a bottle. “It’s only the cheap stuff,” I say, conscious that he probably has one-hundred-year-old malts aged in oak barrels made only from trees planted in leap years.

  “I’m used to cheap whiskey,” he advises with a wry smile. “I wasn’t always a director of my own firm. Seb, Harry, and I lived not far from here when we left university, and we l
earned to live on a budget.”

  “I bet your idea of a budget is a lot different to mine.” I pour two large shots of the whiskey. “When you left home, did Daddy warn you he’d only pay off the first two thousand of your credit card every month?” I bring the glasses over.

  He takes one, his smile fading a little. “You think I come from a privileged background.”

  “Don’t you? What was your last girlfriend’s name? Poppy? Autumn? Clara?”

  His lips twitch. “Felicity.”

  “See! There you go. I bet the women you’re used to are all vegetarians or vegans. I bet they do Pilates and play tennis and refuse to have their kids vaccinated.”

  He tips his head to the side, and his eyelids lower halfway, which gives him a hot, sultry look. “So why am I here?”

  “You fancy a bit of rough?”

  A frown flickers on his brow. “That’s what you think of me?”

  “Caleb, it’s okay. I get why you’re here. I bet when the other girls you sleep with are in bed they’re checking their reflection over your shoulder to make sure their hair is still in place. I bet when they come—if they do come, because that means being out of control, which women like that don’t like, so they probably fake it—they go, Oh!” I make a little French-like squeak.

  He studies my face, but doesn’t say anything.

  I move closer to him, my heart racing. “You’re here because you think I’m different. You think I’m going to be loud, and dirty, and that I like it rough. You think I don’t care what my hair looks like, and that I’m going to scream your name and claw your back. You think you’ll be able to do anything you want to me, and that I’ll lie back and let you, or give you a few ideas of my own.”

  I stand in front of him, take another mouthful of whiskey, and then lick my lips. “And you know what? You’re right.”

  Caleb stares at me. For a second, I think I’ve frightened him off, and he’s going to grab his jacket and leg it out of the door.