Free Not That Kind of Girl by Susan Donovan

told him how lucky he was—the vicious she-devil of an attack dog had ripped some skin and a little muscle but had miraculously avoided tendons and arteries. Truly, he couldn’t have asked for a more jury-ready injury, a savage and hideous-looking bite wound that caused no permanent damage. Wasn’t that interesting? Even this nasty slice out of the right side of his neck was to his benefit. It might be slightly uncomfortable, but it would allow him to pull the plug on that fucking Roxie Bloom bitch forever.
    Raymond sighed with satisfaction. He led a charmed life. No doubt about it. A life where even his physical pain led to personal gain.
    “Is the light sufficient?” he asked his assistant. “Natural light is always best—is there enough? Should I turn a bit to the left?” Raymond adjusted his position to catch the maximum sunshine from his office suite window, suddenly doubting his new employee’s ability to execute this particular assignment. “Are you sure you know how to use a digital camera? These images will prove vital to my complaint. They must show how bruised and swollen I am, even two days after the stitches. Are you getting the caked blood?”
    Her response was borderline disrespectful. “Bruising and swelling, check. Caked blood, check.”
    Raymond rolled his eyes at the subpar attitude of his latest assistant. She was young. Extremely hot. Smart. But surly. Why did the hot ones always have attitude problems? Awkwardly enough, he suddenly couldn’t remember her name. It was Ricky or Randy or something inanely boyish, that he knew, because he’d almost condemned her résumé to the shredder pile when his eye caught reference to her four years in Stanford’s women’s tennis program.
    Looking at her now, in a tight little skirt and blouse, he could say with confidence that there was nothing boyish about that ass. She was all girl. All over.
    He smiled at her. “Maybe you should scoot over here and get a closer shot, Ricky,” he said, hoping his tone was at once suggestive and authoritative.
    “Dusty,” she said flatly. “And the zoom worked fine. Here.” She handed him the digital camera.
    Raymond felt a sudden hot rush of uncertainty. What was he supposed to do with the camera? He didn’t see any pictures on the screen! How was he supposed to find the pictures? How did he turn the fucking thing on? It enraged him that she’d seen his obvious lack of mastery over his own digital camera.
    “Ahh,” Ricky said, ripping the camera from his hand. She hit a few buttons. “There you go.” She shoved it back at him. “Click this arrow and you’ll see every picture I’ve taken, in the order taken. Can I go now?”
    Raymond’s lip began to twitch. Who did this little bitch think she was? He’d hired her from a pool of thousands of applicants. She was nothing. She wouldn’t even graduate for another two weeks. She wouldn’t start law school for another three months. Didn’t she know who he was? Didn’t she realize he could crush her? Ruin her before she even got started?
    True, she looked nothing like Roxie. This Ricky girl had curly reddish-blond hair and the palest gold eyes he’d ever seen. She was all peachy and perky and freckly, with a set of big tits and legs honed to perfection by Division 1 varsity tennis. Roxie, on the other hand, had been leaner and taller, and her looks were at the opposite end of the spectrum—strikingly dark hair and eyes and porcelain skin. Roxie’s boobs had been a nice handful, but they were at least a cup size smaller than this girl’s. Yet there was a similarity between them. Maybe it was the ridiculous, flippy sound of their names. Maybe it was the disrespectful attitudes.
    Roxie hadn’t always been that way, he knew. She’d started off in awe of him. She’d done whatever he said. She’d looked up to him. She’d admired him and catered to him and talked about having his children.
    Then she’d made it her life’s work to fuck him