Aw, fuck.
That was the first thought that came to mind as Holly Sullivan turned off the alarm and glanced at the clock. It was 7:45 a.m., and she was running late for her first day of work at her new job.
Throwing back the covers and hurriedly wiping sleep from her eyes, Holly jumped out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.
The snooze button has got to be the most evil invention, she groused to herself as she splashed water on her face. Deciding there wasn't any time for a shower, she threw her russet hair into a ponytail and swiped on some mascara. Holly frowned at her reflection, wishing for the millionth time that she wasn't so pale and that her nose didn't have a smattering of freckles. But being of Irish descent, neither was avoidable.
In truth Holly was a fairly attractive girl. She was average height and had curves in the right places, with auburn hair that tumbled in soft waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep green, and the freckles gave her face charm.
There were, however, dark circles under her eyes, making her look older than her twenty-two years. A rough life had taken its toll on Holly -- her parents were killed in a car accident when she was only sixteen, leaving her to fend largely for herself as she bounced around from relative to relative. And having had a hard time paying the bills as she struggled through school, she was desperate to make a change and finally get her life together.
Rushing back into the bedroom, Holly searched frantically for a clean pair of pants to wear. It was one of her faults that she hated to do laundry; now she was paying for it. Settling on a mostly clean pair of black dress pants, she then pulled a pale blue button-down tank top on over her cream colored bra, careful to button it up to the collar to appear as modest and work appropriate as possible.
Not that it matters, she thought as she slipped on a pair of black flats. My first impression is already ruined since I'm late.
Swiping a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, Holly grabbed her keys, purse and leather jacket and flew out the door. It was a miracle that she didn't take a fatal fall down the stairs of her apartment building as she made a mad dash for the parking garage.
Spying her beloved Harley in the far corner, Holly quickened her pace. The motorcycle had been her father's, and she treasured it more than any other possession she owned. It was a red, black and chrome Fat Boy Softail, and some of her earliest memories were of riding through the neighborhood streets, clutching onto her father for dear life.
Whipping her helmet out of the storage compartment at the rear of the bike, Holly straddled the seat and started the engine. Holy Mother Mary, she prayed silently. Please don't let me be fired.
*
"Where the hell is the new assistant?"
Alexander Grant was pacing. This was never a good sign.
His cat, Murray, merely stared at him with heavy-lidded eyes, uncaring that his owner was working himself into a fit. Alex stared back. "Yeah, yeah," he spat, waving his hand dismissively at the feline. "What do you care, you fat bastard?"
Alex was not used to waiting. As a prominent novelist, he had gained quite a reputation, as well as a following. He was someone who mattered; as a result, no one kept him waiting.
Until now.
He had gone through six assistants, one for each of his books. None of them seemed to want to stick around -- Alex had quite the temper, and as charming and charismatic as he was when he was happy, he was just as much of a tyrant to work for when he was in one of his moods.
"This is ridiculous," Alex muttered as he checked his datebook again. Seeing that the new assistant was in fact scheduled to start today, he picked up the phone and called his agent.
"Devon!" he barked into the phone as soon as he heard someone answer.
"Cool it, Alex," Devon said, trying to calm down his easily agitated client. "What's the problem? Writer's block?"
"Har har," Alex replied sarcastically. "No, the problem is that the assistant you hired is already putting me behind schedule!"
"Oh, is that all?" Devon asked. "You woke me up to tell me that?"
Alex scowled. "You know, I should fire you. If not for your lack of caring, then for your apparent incompetence at hiring a decent assistant."
Devon chuckled, grating on Alex's nerves even more. "Don't worry, Grant. She's worth the wait. I hired her because she actually knows a thing or two about writing." There was a pause, then he added, "Also, she's kinda hot."
Alex smirked. "Right," he said. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not a good idea to do all your thinking with your other head?"
At that moment there was a knock on the door.
"Finally," Alex growled as he slammed the phone back onto the receiver. Stomping over to the door, he yanked it open and was momentarily taken aback by what he saw.
A tall, shapely, helmeted figure was standing there.
"You're late," Alex finally managed to snap, moving aside to allow entrance. "And for God's sake, take off the helmet, would you?"
"I'm so sorry," the figure said, her words muffled by the helmet as she reached up to pull it off. "I overslept this morning, and..."
