The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1) Read online

  Rule 652: When meeting the boss’s dog, hop on one leg and transition into a twerk, followed by a flourish of jazz hands. Allowing a polite butt-sniff is also acceptable.

  “Nice to meet you, Bruce.” I settled for kneeling down to his level, and reached my hand out to pet him. A set of jagged teeth gleamed as his jowls pulled back. Bruce squinted his demonic doggy eyes and snapped at my hand, but I managed to pull it away before he could make a meal out of my fingers.

  “Christ on a cracker.” I pushed up to a standing position and planted my hands on my hips.

  “Bruce!” His deep voice boomed, and he pointed a finger at him. He turned to me and frowned. “Sorry about that. He has trouble meeting new people sometimes.”

  The urge to blurt out “Yeah, ya think?” was overwhelming. “No problem.” I tucked my hands behind my back just in case the beast decided to take another lunge at me.

  Bruce rolled over, and Brogan scratched his belly, the dog’s behemoth paws twitching in the air as a sound that I could only describe as a pig snort came out of his mouth.

  A photograph of Brogan with a little girl in a blue and white dress hanging on his shoulders sat on Brogan’s desk. The girl had to be about five, maybe six. Unlike Brogan, she had massive blond curls and big blue eyes. My mind turned to sleuth autopilot. Daughter? Niece? Hopefully the latter of the two. Our first few conversations hadn’t exactly been stellar, and his dog didn’t seem to like me, so maybe this was my chance to make it up to him. Nothing like asking about a person’s loved ones to jumpstart a good rapport. Plus, I was dying to know.

  As soon as my fingers touched the frame, Brogan stiffened. “Don’t touch that,” he boomed.

  The sudden outburst startled me into fumbling with the frame, and I quickly placed it on the desk with a hard thunk. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I—” I turned around to face him. Jesus. I could not win with this guy. Everything I said and did managed to either concern him or piss him off.

  The barest hint of a scowl disappeared from his face within the time I’d taken a breath, but his shoulders were still bunched together, the muscles coiled. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I don’t like my stuff touched. If it’s in my office, it’s off-limits. Even pictures of my niece.”

  Private guy. Got it. Didn’t like his stuff touched. Wouldn’t be making that mistake again. But I did give a big sigh of relief that Brogan was kid-free. “Okay,” I said, filling the silence.

  All righty then.

  I slowly moved toward the door, not sure if I’d make it there without doing something else to piss him off. “Right. Well, I should get back to work.”

  “Good idea.” He cleared his throat and focused his attention on Bruce. “Tell Jackson that he needs to take Bruce home tonight. I have a meeting and won’t be able to feed him dinner.” He tossed the leash to me and went back to his work.

  Right.

  I stood there for a few seconds, irked beyond belief at myself that I couldn’t manage to have a single conversation with Brogan that didn’t involve me screwing up somehow. Seriously, why was I even still employed here? If I weren’t in such dire need of money, I’d fire myself and put us both out of our misery.

  Bruce turned to me and let out a loud woof, and I clutched the leash to my chest and walked out of Brogan’s office, shutting the door behind me.

  I chucked the leash onto Jackson’s desk and made my way back to my own. I still had a bit of paperwork to fill out, enough to keep me busy until after five. But with one client and Jackson hogging all the tasks, that left me twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the week. How was I supposed to prove myself as an asset to the company if I didn’t have anything worth contributing?

  Chapter Seven

  Starr Media Handbook Rule #425

  Any misspelled or grammatically incorrect posts must be taken down immediately. Failure to do so will result in a chain of consequences listed in Appendix A.

  The next day, I dedicated the entire morning to the Willington account. Cranking out a tweet for Craig was akin to playing a game of Operation. Every time I thought of using a certain word that was on the list of “words that should never be mentioned” an internal buzzer sounded in my head.

  Craig_Willington: Hey you all y’all. Houston was a blast. Can’t wait to be in you meet everyone in St. Louis!

  I spent five minutes staring at the exclamation point at the end of the sentence. Would Craig be the type to use one? Or maybe he was more the laid-back, chill guy on social media. How was this my job to worry about expressive punctuation? I felt like I’d just unlocked some sort of life achievement.

  Deleting it and adding a period instead, I then attached a picture of Craig crowd-surfing at the Houston concert, the spotlights shining on his sweat-soaked face. Anything was better than focusing on the dozens of ways I’d made an ass out of myself in front of Brogan during my brief employment. If I was going to make it for the long haul¸ I really needed to shape up with this whole interaction with the boss thing.

  Within minutes, thousands of people had favorited the post. One of the rules from Brogan’s book stated that it was our job to like or favorite all replies to the posts. Something about boosting signals and hitting more people. Social media had algorithms that I couldn’t even begin to fathom.

  By the time lunch hit, I’d spent my morning on tasks pertaining to one tweet. No wonder Craig hired our company. It was a full-time job just to keep up with social media.

  Jackson sauntered over from his desk with a stack of files cradled in his arms. A couple of weeks into the job and I was beginning to distinguish between the different arches in his brows. So far, I’d identified three definitive angles:

  1. The Cartoon Character: Ohh, girl, I have so much work I’m passing off on you.

  2. The Squiggle: Your ignorance amuses me.

  3. The One Brow Shooting up Face While the Other is Aimed Down: I pity you for making an ass out of yourself.

  I’d only seen the third arch once, after the elevator incident. The second happened whenever I opened my mouth to ask a question. This was definitely the cartoonish, over-exaggerated arch that was only be attained by villains and Jim Carrey.

  “How’s it going, Lenny?”

  I looked down at the computer screen, attempting to quell the urge to roll my eyes. He didn’t need any more ammunition. I didn’t get why he had it out for me. I’d made it longer than most of the previous assistants, so the hazing should eventually come to an end. Right?

  “Lainey,” I said, keeping my tone light. He knew this. I’d corrected him for weeks. But I would not let a dude with a comb over and receding hairline get under my skin. Not to mention I was at least four inches taller than him, and I was only five four on a good day.

  Last I checked, my big girl panties were securely in place. I had more pressing things to focus on, like not getting fired before my next paycheck could go toward Mom’s chemo.

  “I need you to address these envelopes.” He threw half the manila folders down on my desk. “And file these in the storage room.” He dropped the rest of the files on the other side of my desk, papers spilling out across the surface. “Oh, and I need you to walk Bruce tonight. Here’s the key to Starr’s condo.” He slid the key across the part of my desk not littered with paper he’d just thrown down.

  The latte I’d been sipping sputtered across my screen. “Excuse me?” Me. Going to Brogan’s place? That sounded like a recipe for disaster. The dude already thought I was a grade A stalker. No need to give him any more ammunition.

  “Here’s how it works, Lenny. I’m Brogan’s assistant. You’re second assistant. Brogan commands me. I command you. You comply.” He gave brow arch number two and said, “If you have a problem with the pecking order, I can make sure to mention it to Brogan, and you’ll be canned before tomorrow’s meeting.”

  A knot formed deep in my stomach. I was essentially being blackmailed into walking a dog, but that didn’t mean I was stupid enough to try and defy him this early in my caree
r here. I had zero leverage and my mom to think about. And damned if I’d let Jackson succeed in his attempt to bully me out of the company. I was stronger than the masses of second assistants that came before me. “Fine.” I grabbed the leash from his manicured hand.

  Brogan was scheduled for meetings until ten tonight, anyway. He wouldn’t know I’d even set foot in his condo. I bet he didn’t even sleep there half the time, because he was in his office before I came in and left long after I went home.

  Jackson smirked and swaggered back to his desk, turning to me before he reached his chair. “Oh, and word of advice: stay in front of Bruce at all times. He has a major flatulence problem.”

  A dog with fart issues. Jesus, what had I gotten myself into? I clutched the leash a little harder.

  “He gets two scoops of kibble and seventeen squares of wet food. You must chop them up in one inch by one inch chunks or else he won’t eat it.”

  My gaze flicked to his. This had to be a sick joke, one that was followed by a “ha ha, just shitting you, loser who now has this horrible responsibility of walking a gassy dog.” Except Jackson didn’t look like he was joking. His normal air of superiority dissipated, and he looked very serious for once.

  “You need to follow that exactly. Do you understand?”

  I tilted my head at him, wondering why this was so important. Besides the fact that I was going to be in my boss’s house when he most likely—100 percent likely—wouldn’t be okay with it. “Yes.” He was making this such a bigger deal than it needed to be. It was a dog. Eating dog food. This wasn’t business calculus.

  Before I went to make copies for Jackson, my phone rang. I picked it up with much less anxiety than during my first week on the job. “Starr Media, Brogan Starr’s assistant Lainey speaking. How may I help you?”

  A smooth voice caressed my ear. “I’d like to speak to Brogan. Tell him it’s his father calling.”

  After the whole Gizzara incident, I knew better than to deny his dad. “Yes, sir.” I put him on hold and buzzed through to Brogan’s office. “Mr. Starr?”

  His gruff voice came through the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Your dad’s on the other line. I put him through.”

  “You what?” he growled.

  Okay, so family calling work wasn’t a good thing. “I’m sorry, I assumed since it was your dad…”

  “Have you ever heard the phrase assuming makes an a—”

  I scrunched my eyes shut and inwardly cursed myself. Seriously, I could not get this right. “Yes. I’ll make sure to ask next time.”

  Before I said anything else, the red light on my phone disappeared. Even if he was pissed, he at least took the call.

  A few seconds later, muffled shouting came from his office. I couldn’t make out most of what he was saying, but choice words cut through the walls and streamed into the entryway.

  Note to self: Don’t put Brogan’s dad through if he ever phoned the office again.

  I walked to Brogan’s apartment building after leaving the office at seven. I stared at the lone silver key in my sweaty palm, the metal catching in the light outside Brogan’s door. I had a feeling that Brogan would have a conniption of epic proportions if he knew I had access to his personal sanctuary right now. This went way beyond a picked-up picture frame.

  I let out a deep breath and put the key in the door. Before I could tell what was happening, a brown blur leaped from the ground and tackled me to the floor. My back hit the tile with a muffled thud as my boots slipped out beneath me. Drool splattered across my face as Bruce stood on my chest, licking at my hair, pulling strands out of my French braid.

  My arms shielded my face, taking the brunt of the tongue assault. “Jesus, Bruce, I need to be wined and dined before making out.” Sad truth, this was the most action I’d seen in months. With everything going on, I wasn’t left with much time for things like picking up dudes at bars. Although I was still kicking myself for not talking to the guy reading Emerson on the light rail.

  Bruce backed off my shirt and sat beside me, tongue still lolling out of his mouth.

  “Does this mean we’re friends now? Earlier you wanted to bite my head off. I need a man who doesn’t go hot and cold.”

  He let out a loud woof, which I took as an insult because he ripped a fart near my face and then trotted into the apartment with his tail wagging.

  I closed the door behind me and glanced down at the gaping hole in my shirt that hadn’t been there prior to my opening the door. A piece of fabric was stuck to one of Bruce’s nails and flopped around on the floor as he pranced around the kitchen island. A special circle in hell was reserved for this dog.

  Bruce trotted over to a set of matching silver bowls. He pawed at the empty one and let out a high-pitched whine.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I looked around the expanse of the kitchen, all the granite counters clear of anything indicating where Bruce’s food might be. “Help me out here a little? I don’t know where your food’s stored.”

  Was it possible for a dog to have a condescending glare? Bruce really knew how to channel the “you dumbass” look. Jackson must have been rubbing off on him. He huffed out a sigh and loped over to a cabinet and sat in front of it. He pawed at the door and let out another loud fart.

  “Maybe you need to get a different brand of food,” I muttered and pinched my nose as the smell assaulted my nostrils.

  He growled, and I rolled my eyes and opened the cupboard. Boxes and cans of organic food were stacked with expert precision on the top half of the pantry, and a clear bin with dog food was at the bottom.

  I scooped out two cups worth of dry food and Bruce went airborne, dashing toward the bowl. A skittering of puppy paws tap danced across the wood as he impatiently waited for me to drop the food in his dish.

  “Sit.” I commanded.

  Bruce barked in response, his butt not coming any closer to the floor.

  “Sit.” I repeated.

  Bruce huffed—and was that an eye roll? Could dogs even do that? This was exactly why I liked cats. They weren’t needy, and they certainly didn’t leave puddles of drool that called for a mop and heavy duty rain boots. Zoey’s cat Jitters was far superior to this mangy mutt.

  I wasn’t up for playing games, so I dumped the food in the bowl and almost lost a finger when Bruce lunged at the bowl. This solidified it. I’d never in a million years be a dog person.

  My next hurdle was to find the wet food, which Jackson had been kind enough to mention that Brogan kept in the fridge. I unwrapped the neatly packaged dog food and gagged as soon as the scent hit my nose, by far worse than Bruce’s gas.

  With my nose plugged with one hand, I managed to cut seventeen cubes as per Jackson’s instructions and quickly wrapped the rest and shoved it back in the fridge. I didn’t even bother walking all the way to Bruce’s dish, I just set the plate down on the floor and let him go to town.

  As he was in doggy heaven snarfing down food, I finally had a moment to take everything in. To say Brogan’s furnishing style was minimalistic was an understatement. If Jackson hadn’t told me that he walked the dog every other evening, I wouldn’t believe someone lived here. There was a dining room table, a French press, a couch, a basket of dog toys, and a huge television in the living room, but that was the extent of the decor. No family pictures on the wall, no empty glasses sitting in the sink, not even a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Nothing in here indicated that this apartment was inhabited by my boss. Did he even live here? Or was he so rich that his dog got his very own condo? Somehow this wouldn’t surprise me. From what I heard, those Silicon Valley zillionaire types were a cupcake short of a baker’s dozen when it came to anything outside of work. Why would Brogan be any different?

  Well, for one, he made eye contact when we spoke, and had the ability to flip the good old hot and bothered switch with one look from those deep, soulful brown eyes.

  Oh boy. Not the best idea to fantasize about the boss’s eyes while technically trespassing on his pr
operty. Then again, since I was here, I might as well take advantage of getting to know the boss on a deeper level than his Wiki page, right?

  Ever since I was a little girl, I had this fascination with Nancy Drew. My earlier years were spent honing my sleuthing skills—though Mom would argue that I was a snoop and just liked going through people’s shit. Technicalities aside, I liked knowing more about people, what they chose to keep as opposed to trash. It would annoy my mom to no end when I went through her stuff, but after a while she came to terms with my snooping.

  My Nancy Drew itch got the best of me, and I slyly made my way to the fridge for a better look. Just like a man’s hair, you could learn a lot about a person by what they kept in their fridge. Organic milk, an industrial size bag of chocolate chips, microbrew beer, and a container of leftovers wrapped in foil made up most of the contents of the fridge. In other words: boring.

  Instinct told me I was pushing my luck, that I should close the fridge, but I couldn’t help prying a little more and lifting the foil to his leftovers. I realized then this was an all-time low if I was in someone’s apartment digging through their food, but the Nancy Drew gene was a force to be reckoned with.

  As soon as the foil lifted, the comforting aroma of garlic chicken with a pesto sauce wafted out of the fridge. Aha! Garlic! What a hypocrite. For one second, where I claimed total insanity, I contemplated taking a bite.

  Girl, you are not Goldilocks. Drop the garlic and move away while you still have your dignity.

  The voice of reason had spoken, and I quickly tucked the foil on the container and backed away from the fridge. Bruce had finished his chow and sat next to my feet, judgment in those devil eyes.

  “What? I didn’t eat it.”

  He let out a huff.

  “Like you’ve never thought about eating his food.” I scowled.