assistant.”
“What’s she like?”
“Annoying as hell.” Mark leaned back against the soft leather couch. “You’ll see.”
A few minutes later she walked into the room, all five feet nothing of her, carrying a tin bucket filled with ice and Coronas. “ KronHello, gentlemen. Don’t get up,” she said, even though no one had made a move to stand. She wore those big clunky shoes she favored and a short leather skirt with animal print on it—zebra maybe. Her baggy black blouse had a big bow on the front, and her neon pink cell phone was clipped to the sparkly red belt wrapped around her waist. In the short time that she’d worked for him, Mark had noticed that she wore her tops really loose and her bottoms really tight. He wondered if she thought big shirts made her big breasts less noticeable. They didn’t. “I’m Chelsea Ross, Mr. Bressler’s personal assistant.” She bent forward to set the bucket on the coffee table, and Mark watched Frankie’s gaze slide to her little behind wrapped up in black-and-white-striped leather. “I’ve brought beer. Any takers?”
All four gentlemen raised their hands like they were in school.
“You look familiar,” Walker said, tilting his head to one side to study her.
Mark had always thought so too.
She grabbed a beer out of the bucket, slid her hands up the bottle, and twisted off the top. “Do you watch The Young and the Restless?”
“No.”
“Ever seen Slasher Camp?”
“No.”
She handed Walker the Corona. “Killer Valentine? Prom Night 2? He Knows It’s You?” She turned back to the bucket. “Motel on Lake Hell?”
“Don’t forget that ‘go meat’ commercial,” Mark reminded her. “The one where you wore a cheerleader outfit.”
She chuckled and pulled another beer from the ice. “Good to know you were paying attention.”
Droplets of water slipped across the tips of her fingers, ran down the bottle, and dripped into the bucket. Yeah, he was paying attention. Too much attention, although he didn’t know why. “Among Chelsea’s many talents, she’s a scream queen,” he informed the guys.
Daniel looked up at her as she moved toward him. “You’re a what?”
“I’m an actress.” She handed the Swede the bottle and flicked the droplets from the tips of her fingers. “I recently moved here from L.A.”
“And you’ve starred in horror movies?” Walker asked.
“I wish.” She shook her head and moved back to the coffee table. “I didn’t star in horror films, but I’ve acted in a number of them. My biggest role was in Slasher Camp. I got the axe, literally, within the first half hour.” She dug around in the ice and pulled out a Corona. “The amount of blood was ridiculous. The scene was shot at night in the woods and called for me to be practically nude. They didn’t even warm up the fake blood before they splashed it all over my throat. All that gross stuff gushed down my chest and soaked my white underwear. I about froze to death.”
Stunned silence filled the leisure room as Mark, and he was sure every other guy within hearing distance, pictur Kstaed her naked breasts, nipples hard from the cold, covered in fake blood. Jesus, he was getting that heavy feeling again in his stomach.
It was Sam who finally broke the silence. “What was the name of that movie again?”
“Slasher Camp. I played Angel, the slutty best friend.” She twisted off the cap and dropped it into the bucket. “In a lot of horror movies, the slutty girl is a metaphor for an immoral society and must be killed. You can interchange the slutty girl with the pot-smoking boy, but it’s always the same message. Immoral choices must be punished, while the virginal, squeaky-clean lead kills the bad guy and gets to live.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I always drew the line at torture porn like Turistas or the Hostel films. There’s a huge difference between metaphorical stereotypes in society and sexual objectification.”
What? What the hell did that mean?
“I don’t watch those movies. They scare the hell out of me,” Frankie said, then snapped his fingers. “I got it. You look like the short girl in the PR department.” He raised both palms as if he was about to hold two melons in front of his chest, quickly thought better of it, and dropped them. “What’s her name?”
“Bo.” She walked around the table to Frankie. “Bo Ross. She’s my twin sister.”
“Jesus. Mini Pit.” Of course. It was so obvious, Mark wondered why he hadn’t connected the two.
She glanced at him. “Who?”
“Mini Pit,” Sam explained. “It’s short for Mini Pit Bull.”
“You call my sister Mini Pit?”
Sam shook his head. “Not to her face. We’re too damn afraid.”
She chuckled, and Mark was still amazed that he hadn’t made the connection. “Short. Bossy. Annoying as hell. I should have made the connection that first day.” The thought of two identically annoying, short, bossy-as-hell women kind of scared the crap out of him. The feeling in his stomach dissipated. Which was a good thing. A very good thing.
She looked over her shoulder at Mark as she handed the beer to Frankie. “It’s probably the hair that threw you.”
“That’s bad, but more than likely… ” He paused to point to her wild skirt. “It’s the brain-numbing clothes you wear.”
She moved to the bucket and grabbed another beer. “If your brain is numb it’s more than likely the Vicodin.”
Sam laughed. He loved shit talk, no matter who was talking it. “He’s getting old. His memory isn’t great.”
“His memory is convenient.” She twisted the top and held the beer toward Sam.
“Thanks, Short Boss.”
She pulled the bottle back before he could grab it. “Did you just call me Short Boss or Short Bus?”
“Boss.” S KBoshe shoved the beer toward him and he took it from her. “What are you doing later?”
“Are you hitting on my assistant?” Mark asked before she could respond. He didn’t like the idea of any of the guys hitting on Chelsea. Not because he had any interest in her, but because he was doing his best to discourage her from sticking around. If the guys liked her, she’d never leave.
“I’ve never known a scream queen.” Sam grinned and took a drink of his beer. Mark knew for a fact that Chelsea wasn’t Sam’s type. Sam liked tall, leggy women with big lips. Like Angelina Jolie. His preference was so well-known that everyone razzed him about dating Octomom.
“I’m going to church with my sister,” she said, her blue eyes shining with humor. “You’re welcome to come along.”
“I’ll pass.”
Vlad and Andre walked through the door from outside, oblivious of Chelsea. “If you go to ze strip clubz,” the big Russian was schooling the rookie, “ze Luztee Lady is a good one. Ze best.”
“The Lusty Lady is a dive,” Andre said. “I prefer the clubs in Canada. Cheetahs in Kelowna has totally nude dancing and the girls are hot. If you go, get a lap dance from Cinnamon. I don’t think that’s her real name, but she has better—”
“You guys haven’t met my assistant,” Mark interrupted before the two got into a debate over which nudie bar gave the best lap dances. Although everyone knew that it wasn’t Cheetahs. It was Scores in Las Vegas.
“Hey guys.” She looked up and smiled. “You must be Vlad.”
Vlad wasn’t unattractive. Just severe-looking. Women had been known to run in the other direction. Especially if he dropped his pants and showed them the impaler. Although to be fair, he didn’t do that much anymore.
Without moving his head, Vlad glanced at Mark before returning his gaze to Chelsea. “Yez.”
“Mr. Bressler mentioned that you weren’t drinking today.” She dug down in the ice and pulled out a bottle of Evian. She moved toward him and gazed up into his face. “So I brought you water.”
“Thanz.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned to Andre. “Can I get you a beer?”
Andre wasn’t tall like Vlad or the rest of the players, but he was massive and had a low center of gravity, like a cement pylon. Which came in handy when he needed to knock an opposing player off the puck or duke it out. “Ah—
