Whatever He Asks (Writer for the Billionaire) by Thalia Frost Read Free Book Online

 
     
     
     
    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.
    He was sitting at the far end of the bar, away from the