The woman leaned back in her chair and set her hands to her temples, rubbing them. “Fuck, I hate these things.” She sighed, wiped her brow and looked sidelong at him. She was the kind of woman that men loved to look at. Red lipstick, pale skin, green eyes. She had an upturned nose and a solid face with red hair, touched here and there with “tinsel” as she called it, tucking itself through the hair. She was tall, slender but not Hollywood slender. She had curves which she gratefully showed off and was obviously proud of, if one were to take into consideration the shirt she had on. It was one of his favorites. It had her assistant's handprints over her breasts and then was embossed with, “Property of Bowens Assoc. Enjoy looking, but don't touch.”
Yeah, Clavie Fulcrom was kick ass. And she was currently kicking his. Amel rolled his head on the end of his neck to straighten out the kinks. Before he could open his mouth, she pointed a lacquered fingernail at him.
“No. You think of fucking quitting on me, Amy and I'll kick your fucking ass, then I'll make sure you audition for nothing but Made for Hallmark shit for the next month.” She smiled at him sweetly.
“You know most people wouldn't think that was enough of a threat,” he grimaced. “You're gonna get shit pay for that and you'd lose a client.”
“You? Leave me?” She laughed, her voice a deep, throaty sound that suited her, like smoking would have, if she'd been into that. Cigarette smoke, curled around her, she could have been Rita Hayworth ten years older.
“Tommie, send in the next one,” she touched a forefinger to the com and then grinned over at him. “And get Mr. Amel something to drink. He's getting on my nerves.” As she lifted her finger, she kept his eyes. “You are such a fucking asshole. I swear, you be nice this time around or I'll cut off your balls.”
Amel slouched and rolled his eyes. Asking him to be nice was like asking Clavie to not ooze sex any time she walked into a room. The only people he was truly kind to, were Clavie, Tommie (on occasion), and his little sister who was in Europe, chasing after some tennis player dream. Even his pack had given up on him mellowing out.
Besides, assistants made of glass could go blow themselves. Nothing bothered him more than having some fucktard bowing and scraping after him like a pansy assed … pansy. Or.. something. Shit. He'd gone through fifteen of these damned interviews and it was starting to make him lose his vocabularic powers.
He slid his gaze over to Clavie as she stood, pressed her hands down her slacks and then smiled while holding out her hand. “Come in. I'm Ms. Fulcrom and this is Mr. Daela. Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?” She gestured to a small tray with drinks on it and glanced back at their next applicant.