Page 77 of Wicked Angel
I snickered. “Well, I’m trying to be confident here. If I can prove my worth to Johnny, maybe he’ll keep me on longterm.”
Courteney eyed me. “I ask you this with love. Do you think you’re going to last a month as his publicist if you start pleasuring yourself with a sex toy you named after him?”
I placed my basket on the counter, smiling at the cashier. “Girl’s gotta blow off steam somehow.”
“Hmm. All that steam,” Court mused. “Do you think he’s feeling the heat?”
“I doubt it. Wherever he goes, that man is fire.” I sighed. “I probably don’t even rate as a wisp of smoke on his radar.”
ChapterFourteen
Johnny
Irang my sister’s doorbell. I was dressed sharp, in black trousers and a white-on-black paisley print shirt, no tie. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up to show off my neck, chest and arm tats.
It was nine o’clock, the night of Champagne nightclub’s grand pre-opening VIP-only party. The limo was already waiting in the driveway. And I wondered idly what I was in for getting Shayla, Angeline and my date, Maxine, all in one car.
Drama, no doubt.
My sister never got along with the women I dated, for one. And throwing Angeline into the mix was a giant question mark. I had no idea what she’d make of Maxine or if she’d approve of her for my “rebirth.” I could easily picture my sister getting scrappy, though, and Angeline trying to mediate.
Women fighting over me was hardly a new scene, but it wasn’t one I particularly enjoyed, even when it was mildly entertaining for the ego.
When the giant smoked-glass slab of a front door—which I’d forked over an uncomfortable amount of money for because Shayla loved it—swept open, Angeline appeared. In a sleek black long-sleeved mini dress, black pantyhose and black sneakers. I had no idea pantyhose and sneakers were a thing, but she made it work. Her hair was slicked back in a ponytail, and her smoky, jagged eye makeup and glossy red lips had a vaguely eighties vibe.
The sneakers made sense for her, but the rest of it reeked of my sister’s influence. Last fucking thing I needed: my sister’s attitude rubbing off on my new publicist.
I looked her outfit over, slowly. “No kittens, sparkles, or faces of ex-boyfriends?”
“Shayla!” she called over her shoulder. “Your asshat brother is here!”
“Your client is here,” I corrected her.
“My mistake.” She faked a smile, stepping back with an impressed gasp, like she’d just noticed me standing here. “Johnny! You look dashing.”
My eyes drifted over her tits for the third time. The dress was a slinky, tight-fitting knit and moved alluringly with her body. The sheen of her silky bra was visible through the knit at certain angles. “You look like one of those hot chicks pretending to play instruments in that Robert Palmer video.”
She scowled. “That’s how you talk to your publicist?”
“I’m confused on the etiquette. Who are we to each other tonight?” I stepped past her, into the foyer.
“And who’s Robert Palmer?”
“How old are you?”
I could feel her bristling as she shut the door behind me. “Two years younger than you. Don’t get imperious.”
“And yet, so young.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Also, you’re closer to three years younger than me.”
“Big difference.”
“Quick quiz. Who’s Gordon Sumner?”
“You mean that famous chef?”
