Whatever He Asks (Writer for the Billionaire)

BOOK: Whatever He Asks (Writer for the Billionaire)
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Writer for the Billionaire, #1

Whatever He Asks

by Thalia Frost

 

Copyright: 2012.

All rights reserved.

 

Editor: Em Petrova

Cover Artist: Sexybookcovers.com

 

To all my readers. Thank you for everything.

 

 

 

I
wiped
down
the
table,
sighing.
It
was
9:30
p.m.,
and
the
bar
was
empty
save
for
the
drunk
old
guy
who
came
in
as
usual
on
a
Tuesday
night.

This
job
sucks
and
so
does
the
economy.
This
is
what
I
get
for
being
responsible,
getting
a
college
degree
and
going
on
to
grad
school.

I
rolled
my
eyes,
pushing
my
usual
negativity
from
my
mind.
At
twenty-four
I
felt
washed
up.
Nearly
done
with
an
M.
F.
A.
in
writing
and
no
permanent
jobs
on
the
horizon.
Pittsburgh
was
getting
hip
again,
but
the
jobs
weren't
coming
along
with
the
cool
new
makeover
the
city
was
experiencing.


Mel,
you're
closing,

my
boss
Rick
bellowed.


Yep.
I
got
it.

I'd already worked four hours at Gray Enterprises before I'd hit the bar. That was a job I liked—writing marketing materials for a huge company in the city—but it was temporary. My six months were almost up as an intern in a stuffy little cubbyhole in the basement. The job as a barmaid was probably here to stay.


Good.
You
remember,
anything
funny
happens,
press
the
button
or
call
me
any
time.
I'll
be
here.

I
smiled
as
I
straightened
the
sugar
packets
on
a
table.
We
served
a
small
menu,
but
the
kitchen
had
already
closed
for
the
night.
Nothing
funny
ever
had
happened,
but
Rick
Moore
had
a
store
of
firearms
and
a
few
red
buttons
placed
strategically
about
his
place

aptly
named
Rick's.


I'll
be
fine.
Thanks.


See
ya
tomorrow,
Mel.


Yes,
you
will,

I
whispered
as
the
door
chimed
shut.
Every
night
of
the
week
I
worked
unless
I
had
to
study
or
get
something
school-related
done.
Eight
to
one.
I
couldn't
believe
we
even
stayed
open
till
one.

I
glanced
over
at
the
bartender.
He
yawned.

Glad
I've
only
get
another
hour
before
I
can
blow
this
joint.


Lucky
you.

Steve
was
an
okay
kid,
and
by
that
I
mean
a
guy
right
out
of
college
who
could
sling
drinks
with
the
best
of
them.
Not
that
there
was
much
slinging
happening
on
this
side
street
in
Swissvale.
I
finished
wiping
down
the
tables,
swaying
to
the
terrible
country
song
on
the
radio

one
I
didn't
recognize.
The
old
drunk
guy
played
it,
but
it
was
a
change
from
his
usual.


I'm
going
to
straighten
up
in
back.
I'll
be
done
before
you
leave.

Before
I
turned
to
head
that
way,
the
bell
on
the
door
jingled.

Lo
and
behold,
a
customer.

I
glanced
absentmindedly
to
see
who
it
was,
and
my
jaw
dropped.

Sex
in
a
suit
came
to
mind
as
I
tried
to
close
my
mouth.

That
guy
doesn't
belong
around
here.
Maybe
he
thinks
he'll
pick
up
a
woman
for
the
night
here.

I
smirked
at
the
thought
and
left
the
room,
adding
a
sway
to
my
hips.
After
all,
Mr.
Tall,
Nordic
god
was
watching.

I
rushed
through
the
cleanup,
my
mind
still
on
the
Viking
in
the
bar.


Uh,
Mel.

Steve
stood
in
the
doorway
to
the
kitchen,
his
thin
face
screwed
up
in
confusion.


What
is
it?'


There's
a
guy
out
here
wants
to
talk
with
you.


The
old
drunk
guy
who
mumbles
his
name?

I'd
still
never
caught
it.


Uh,
no.
That
business
type.

My
heart
skittered
like
a
mad
horse.

Okay.
Why?

I
put
down
my
rag
and
washed
my
hands.


Dunno.
He
just
said
he
wished
to
speak
with
you.
Just
like
that.

Steve
shrugged.


All
right.
His
wish
is
my
command.

I
smirked
and
sauntered
out,
straightening
my
hair
as
I
did
so.

The
standard
bar
maid
outfit
Rick
insisted
I
wear
every
day
made
me
want
to
crawl
into
a
hole.
Complete
with
royal
blue
laced
bustier
and
white
peasant
top
as
well
as
short,
matching
blue
ruffled
skirt,
it
was
a
suit
you'd
only
find
in
a
sleazy
joint
like
this
one.
A
lot
of
men
did
like
it,
though.
So
I
guess
it
was
good
for
business.
I
tugged
at
the
skirt,
wishing
it
didn't
ride
up
so
high.

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