Page 1 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

PROLOGUE

Holly

Britney Spears’s “Toxic” thumps harshly in my ears from a speaker near the nightclub’s bar.

Fitting, really. I sigh.

I’m sitting in a corner of this over-hyped club, downing my fifth—no, sixth—glass of tequila, watching my ex-boyfriend, Jake Roland, gyrate next to a leggy woman with blonde hair that might be even faker than his apologies.

That’s the fourth woman he’s cheated with in the last month. The bastard! Well, he’s technically not cheating anymore as we’ve broken up, right?

I can still picture the moment I surprised Jake at his filming location two days ago, only to catch him necking with a production staff member at the back of the trailer.

His excuse?

“I’m a popular Hollywood star, Holly. Women throw themselves at me all the time… and a man is a polygamous animal.”

Yes, to the animal. No to the popular star. He’s just a B-list actor. A B-list, two-timing bastard who thinks cheating is his divine right.

I dumped him right there and then, two days ago, and when I saw his text, like an idiot, I thought he might actually be remorseful, that he’d asked me to meet him here so he could apologize. I even pictured a pathetic attempt to win me back.

Instead, he’s right there, rubbing his crotch into the barely covered ass of his dance partner. It’s damned salt in my already raw wound.

I feel my blood boil as I watch him. He sees me, knows I’m here, and he’s dancing with her so blatantly, so lewdly. It’s like he’s trying to break me.

I should leave. But my legs feel like jelly, and I’m afraid any step I take off this bar stool will lead to me crashing to the ground. My pride is already buried beneath layers of self-pity and I’m sure Jake would love it plummeting even further.

Well, screw him. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

I down the contents of my glass in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction similar to the sting of betrayal. I slam my glass on the bar and motion to the bartender.

“Another one,” I announce, my voice clipped and cold.

The bartender raises an “are you sure?” eyebrow and I push the glass further toward him.

“Another one.”

“You’re going to kill yourself,” a deep voice cuts through the noise.

I turn to find a stranger standing beside me. He’s tall, with a dark intensity that’s strangely captivating. His eyes are the color of storm clouds, and his hair, a long, dark curtain that frames his face, looks like it belongs on a rock ‘n’ roll poster.

“Mind your own business,” I slur, my voice barely a whisper over the music.

He smirks, a slow, seductive curve of his lips. “I’m trying to. But you look like you’re about to drown in a sea of tequila.”

I scoff. “So what? It’s my funeral.”

He leans closer, his breath warm against my skin. “Not if I can help it.”

I give him a once-over, taking in the broad shoulders, the easy confidence, the way his eyes twinkle with mischief. He’s too attractive for his own good.

Something about his confidence, his sheer audacity, sparks a flicker of interest. He’s devilishly handsome. That accounts for the confidence. His dark mullet is falling into his face and his smirk is the kind that promises trouble.

But that jacket…

His Chicago Blizzards jacket hugs his broad shoulders, the name standing out under the club’s neon lights like a lighthouse in a storm.

“Chicago Blizzards, huh?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. “You lost?”

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