The Dare (Truth or Dare Book 1)

Dear Universe,

I am SO dead.

Signed,

Elle

I’ve always loved the bedtime story, Little Red Riding Hood. There’s just something so dangerously exciting about the wolf pretending to be nice . . . before revealing he’s anything but.

And that’s exactly how I felt underneath Colton’s gaze as he paced around the room, staring at me like I was a piece of fat, juicy steak. He was the Big Bad Wolfe, and I was Little Red Riding Hood, wondering if he was going to eat me up.

Or eat . . . something else. I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth the whole time. I’ve never reacted that way to any man, but if he’d ordered me to prove it was me in those pictures, my clothes would have hit the floor before he could have said the ‘t’ in skirt.

I’m not usually so wanton, am in fact rather discerning about who lies in my bed, metaphorically speaking, but Colton brings out some sex-hungry goddess in me. And I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing. Weakness, in any form, is not something I like to experience.

It was frightening, shivering in my seat, withering beneath his gaze, torn between desire and terror, the whole time literally counting the seconds until he exploded, screaming at me for daring to desecrate his office . . . before sending me home with a pink slip.

But he didn’t.

Surprisingly, he was mostly calm, cool, and controlled . . . and oh, so sexy.

And I could’ve sworn when he looked at my ass on that paper, he got excited, his tailor-made dress pants looking extra tight in the front. But I’m not sure if that was just my imagination and wishful thinking.

Whatever the case, my need for adventure and thrills has finally landed me in hot water. Scalding, boiling hot, and I’m both the crazed stalker and the bunny in this ugly scenario.

What was I thinking?

You weren’t, my traitorous brain answers.

For all the blissful buzz successfully completing a dare brings, the failure of one has never felt quite so acutely sharp.

The elevator, never the fastest of machines, seems to take even longer. When it finally dings and lets me out on the ground floor, Tiffany’s already waiting at the doors, almost hopping back and forth in nervous excitement.

“Where have you been?” she whispers urgently. “It’s been over thirty minutes since you went upstairs!”

“Let’s go,” I hiss, pushing her out the door and toward my car in the parking lot. I start Cammie up and gun it for the open road.

I glance in the rearview mirror, admitting to myself that I’m checking for Colton’s blue Lotus. When the road behind us is empty, I quickly relay everything that happened, and Tiffany’s jaw drops open further and further, first with delight and then horror.

“Close your mouth, Tiff, or you’ll go catching flies. Or dicks,” I say, tapping under her chin with my fingertips.

“Please say we’re not fired. I so do not want to be slinging wings down at Hooters or something.”

“Don’t go dry cleaning those orange bootie shorts just yet,” I reply, reminding Tiffany that between her freshman and sophomore years in college, she did ‘sling wings’ for money. “And I think you’re safe, at least. I’m definitely not, though.”

Tiff lets out a long, pent up breath before tugging on my arm. “Well, what happened then?”

Making the turn toward the highway, I shake my head. “I don’t know what happened. He grilled me for a few and then told me to leave. Said I’ll have to wait and see?”

“Wait and see?” Tiff fumes as she roots around in her purse for her omnipresent emergency packet of peanut butter cheese crackers. She’s a stress eater and always has a snack with her just in case the shit hits the fan, which it most definitely has. “What the hell does that mean?” she asks through a spray of orange crumbs.

Tiff offers me one of her crackers, a massive generosity on her part, so I take it, even though my stomach’s too tied up in knots to really want food right now. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I think he’s going to fire me, but I think he wants to fuck with my head some before he does. Honestly, I think I’m gonna be the one wearing orange shorts! Worse than that, though, Dad’s gonna kill me!”

Tiffany stews for a second, her brain working through everything I’ve just told her as I take the exit for her apartment. “Okay, calm down, chica,” Tiffany says, suddenly relaxing and waving away my worry. My hands tighten on the wheel in response, doing the opposite of what she says.

“I think this is actually a good sign. If he was going to fire you, he would’ve done so already. He would’ve called security and HR immediately and done it all right then, escorting you out in a blaze of shame and glory. That he didn’t do that probably means that he’s not going to. The question is . . . what is he going to do?”

Tiffany casually pops a peanut butter and cheese cracker sandwich in her mouth and munches loudly, swigging from her water bottle to make sure she doesn’t have any orange flecks on her teeth. “He’s a cocky, arrogant bastard who has you dead to rights. How’s he going to use that?”

One does not disrespect Colton Wolfe like I did and get away with it, it appears.

Which means he’s up to something, and it must be worse than getting fired. It just scares me what it could be, especially considering how interested he was in the fact that I’m Daniel Stryker’s daughter.

I drop Tiffany off with a promise to let her know if anything happens to change things. As she goes inside, I hear her loud voice. “Ace, did you even move off the couch today?”

I cringe, thinking that she’s got her own drama to deal with. Maybe she should give those orange shorts to Ace? I think I heard about a male version of Hooters once? Tallywackers, it was called, I think. Dad bods are all the rage, so maybe Ace could work there and do a little wing slinging of his own, far away from Tiffany’s screeching.

The next day dawns bright and sunny, the antithesis of my mood. Sophie must’ve stayed away from my tossing and turning self, so at least I wake up without a hairball today. It’s the only bright spot in my grumpiness.

Work brings coffee in quantities so massive that I’m running to pee every hour on the hour, which pisses Miranda off royally.

After lunch, she blows through and reminds Tiffany and me, “Back to work, girls.” Like we weren’t already busy, me with a copy job and Tiffany with the phone to her ear.

The afternoon drags out. Once the mailman comes by at two o’clock like he normally does and we prep the day’s FedEx shipment for Arnold, there’s precious little to do until five.

The boredom makes my nervousness even worse, because every time I hear the elevator ding or my phone beep with an internal call, I swear it’s HR with a pink slip and a reminder to leave my parking lot access card on my desk when I go.

At about four o’clock, I see Betty Roberts, one of the HR supervisors, emerge from the elevator and my heart stops in my throat. Oh, God, they picked now.

“Hey, Tiffany?” Betty says, pulling out a piece of paper. Tiffany, who’s playing this a lot cooler than I am, looks up. “Hey, we just got a call from the healthcare provider. Said they need to confirm your data, so could you fill this out for me, please?”

That little scare is nothing, though, when Ricky comes down forty-five minutes later. I’ve got my back turned to him, so when his hand claps down on my shoulder, I nearly jump over the reception desk in fear. “What the . . . Ricky!”

“Hey, glad you remembered my name,” Ricky jokes, taking a step back. “Daniel wants you to head upstairs, wants to see you in his office.”

“But I—”

“Tiff can handle the desk. Can’t you?” he says, leaning over to look at Tiffany, who nods, but her brows are knotted together as she looks from me to Ricky. “Daniel said he sent a request to Miranda to borrow you for some work, so come on,” Ricky says amiably, gesturing with his head for me to follow him.

Oh, fuck. I hadn’t thought of this option. I’ve imagined Colton firing me, blackmailing me, seducing me . . . okay, well, that last one might not be so bad.

But never did I think of him narcing on me.

If he’s told Dad, then Dad’s going to go through the roof. He might fire me himself. More importantly, though, my secret of being a daredevil junkie’s going to be exposed to my father . . . and that’s one conversation I definitely don’t want to have.

It’s stupid, but he thinks I outgrew that craziness long ago, grew up to be a responsible, productive member of society and all that jazz.

And I am. Mostly.

I just like a little walk on the wild side every once in a while, and there’s no harm in that . . . most of the time.

Dad’s the straight and narrow type, though, and won’t get that at all. I can already feel his disappointment in me, painful and heavy.

Miranda comes up, looking none too pleased to be pulled out of her office to help Tiffany. “Go on up, Elle. Tell your father hello.” It’s a slight jab, snarkiness that I’m only going upstairs by request because of my relationship with Executive Daniel Stryker, regardless of what official task Dad mentioned in his email request.

Even though I’ve already ruled her out, I mentally draw through Miranda’s name on my list of potential dates for Dad with a thick, black permanent marker. No bitchiness allowed.

“Hey, Miranda,” Ricky says, making big goo-goo eyes at her. “Anyone ever told you that you look just like a prime-time Shania Twain?”

What in the hell is Ricky talking about? I swear his tone sounds flirty, but that is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever heard, and I once actually had a guy tell me that my eyes were lickable.

Even eyeball licker had better game than Ricky.

Miranda blushes, flipping her hair and batting her heavily made up eyelashes. “Well, why, yes. Yes, they have. But not in years, you flatterer! Seems some people don’t even know who she is or what good music should be.”

She doesn’t look at Tiffany or me, but it feels like she’s talking about our recent discussions of Lizzo. For the record, I love her and her positivity. Tiffany is Team Cut a Bitch and prefers Cardi B and Nicki Minaj. I don’t turn the station for any of them. But Shania? Nope, you can keep that man of yours and his boots.

“Nineties country is the best,” Ricky says in all seriousness.

“Holy shit, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tiffany mutters under her breath. “Prime Shania Twain, my ass!”

“I heard that!” Miranda says, her smile fading slightly. “Don’t be mad our handsome Richard here’s got a good eye.” Miranda reaches out, patting Ricky’s bicep in a way that says she’s quite blatantly taking his measure, and I swear he flexes for her.

If I weren’t embroiled in an HR-worthy situation of my own, I might be a little concerned about this scenario playing out in front of my very eyes.

“Oh, please.”

“I just know a fine woman when I see one,” Ricky says. He looks Miranda up and down, licking his lips slightly. “The good Lord knew he was making something special when he created you.”

Miranda seems as if she’s about to faint from Ricky’s outrageousness, but Tiffany isn’t amused.

“Someone kill me now,” Tiffany mutters, fishing around on the desk to find a letter opener. “Here, just put it through my ear so that I don’t have to listen to this any longer than necessary!”

Despite my being anxious, it takes everything in me not to laugh. “I don’t think we need to go that far. Right, Ricky?”

“Sure, sure,” Ricky says, laughing along while giving Miranda a wink. “Okay, let me walk Princess Stryker up, and I’ll be back to see if I can still sweep you off your feet in a few, how’s that sound?”

In the elevator, I look over at Ricky. “You know she’s forty something, right?”

“And?” Ricky asks, not ashamed at all. “You might not see it since she’s your boss, but Miranda’s a total MILF. She’s the sort of woman who can teach a man things about things.”

I can’t. Ricky and Miranda and sex all in one sentence. Just no. So I make a hardline play I already know the outcome of.

“You trying to learn things, Ricky? Here’s the best two tips you need . . . one, when you think there’s been enough foreplay and you’re ready to move on, you’re halfway there. And two, make best friends with her clit. Pet it, pat it, lick it, suck it, and then do it all again. You need to worship that little button and things will be A-Okay.”

Ricky makes a strange sound, like he’s choking on the words trying to get out of his throat. Finally, he manages to say, “Don’t say shit like that, Elle.”

I smile pleasantly, wearing my innocence like the sweetheart I’m not. “What? You were talking about having S-E-X with my boss. I think that warrants a bit of birds and bees talk. Wanna discuss the G-spot or prostates next?”

He rolls his eyes and the rest of the elevator ride is silent.

Except in my head, where once the distraction of giving Ricky shit is gone, my brain goes into hyperdrive imagining all sorts of worst-case scenarios about this meeting with Dad.

We get to the top floor, and I let Ricky escort me down to Dad’s office.

My first thought as I step inside is that it’s a half-step down from Colton’s. Not that the view’s any worse. They’re almost equally arranged on the long hallway that makes up the fifth floor of the Fox Building, and they’re equal in size.

But there’s just a little difference in their choices. Dad’s gone for more functional furniture, the opulent oak and brass replaced with the blacks, whites, and steels of a more modern aesthetic. All of it’s high end. It’s not like the decorator Dad hired went to IKEA, but still . . . it feels cold compared to the warmth of Colton’s office.

“What’s up, Dad?” I ask as I sit down nervously on the couch at his behest. At least it’s soft leather. But that doesn’t mean this is a warm and fuzzy ‘check in with my baby girl’ situation. No, I’m certain he’s about to unleash an unholy ass chewing upon me. I just know it.

He closes his laptop and stands up, going around to the minifridge by the window and taking out two bottles of his latest obsession, some nasty tasting, healthy green juice. “Nothing much, honey. I just wanted to see you and figured you could use a juice break at the end of the day. How’re you doing?”

I’m so surprised that I freeze, and Dad shakes the glass bottle in front of me before I remember to take it. “Uhm, fine, Dad. You know, busy but . . . fine, I guess.”

I’m so confused. On one hand, I certainly don’t want him to ream me out over this whole thing with Colton. I don’t even want him to know about it. On the other hand, if he’s really calling me up for afternoon juice chats, we need to have a serious discussion about boundaries and professionalism at work.

“Oh,” Dad says, slightly disappointed, and I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to shove me off.

Just yell at me already, I want to say.

But Dad’s nonchalant as he says, “I know you’re busy these days, but do you think you could squeeze me in for a cheeseburger down at Frankie’s Burger Hut?”

Frankie’s . . . it has been ‘our place’ for what seems like ever. And Frankie does make some damn good burgers. But more importantly, Dad and I have always shared Frankie’s, never going alone or taking anyone else there, for some reason.

“Oh, uh . . . sure. How about lunch one day this week?” I offer.

Dad nods and takes a sip of his juice. How he manages to keep a straight face, I don’t know because I can smell it from here, like freshly mown grass and pepper and something . . . bitter. Blech.

“How about you? How’s everything?” I inch my toes off the cliff, tempting fate but wanting to get this show on the road.

“Well, I’ve got some potentially bad news there,” he says sullenly.

Oh, shit.

“Uh . . . what?”

Dad fidgets with the label on his bottle, a nervous tic from a man who doesn’t have them, which only makes more anxious. Good Lord, by the time he gets to yelling, I’m going to have an ugly case of the stress-induced shits.

“Remember how I’ve been telling you that I was pretty sure I had the HQ2 program sewn up? Looks like there may be a monkey wrench in the plan.”

Phew . . . I mean, I’m not doing backflips that his long held goal of running his own HQ is facing a setback, but it sounds like he at least doesn’t know about what I did in Colton Wolfe’s office. “I . . . I’m sorry to hear that. I know you’ve really been putting in a lot of work on things. So did they go with another plan?”

“No . . . no, just a delay right now,” Dad admits, smiling a little. “Guess I can thank my lucky stars for that. One of the other proposals was actually really good, and Mr. Fox wants to put a delay in the whole process so that he can hear more.”

“Oh . . . whose plan?”

He looks up at me, and I can feel the answer even before he opens his mouth. “Colton Wolfe.”

Karma . . . you really are a coldhearted bitch, you know that?

“I’m sorry,” I immediately apologize before shutting my mouth.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Dad says. “But I could use a little help, honey. I know you work for Miranda, but Miranda works for Wolfe, so you’re sort of in his chain of command. Can you do me a favor? If you hear anything, can you pass it along to your dear old dad?” He smiles as he says it, small crinkles popping beside his eyes, but he’s definitely nowhere near the old man he’s making himself out to be.

“Dad . . . are you sure? This doesn’t sound like you,” I ask, worried. I mean, I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. We’re all on the Fox team, but I’ve always seen him as Super Dad, and that includes a deep moral streak. This, though, seems like a gray area.

He leans toward me. “It’s fine, honey. Look, Wolfe is probably plotting against me as we speak. It’s only natural that I keep my eyes open. And I’m not asking you to go out of your way to do anything. I don’t want you snooping around or doing anything shady. I’m just saying if there are any hijinks coming out of his office, you let me know. I just want the best proposal for the company to get the vote, and I truly believe that’s my plan.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my ears open, and we’ll hit up Frankie’s soon?”

I realize that I think my dad just played me, at least a little bit. The check-in juice, the guilt-trip date, all to ask me to tell tales about whatever Colton Wolfe is planning. As if I have any clue about that.

No, my plan is to stay far, far away from Colton Wolfe so that I save my sanity and my job. Maybe if I stay out of his sight, I can stay out of his mind, and he’ll just forget yesterday even happened.

“Sounds great, honey. I love you,” Dad says, standing up. I follow suit, and he hugs me tight, still my Super Dad but a little more human, I realize.

Smiling, I set my unopened juice down and leave Dad’s office. I head down the hallway toward the elevator, knowing Tiffany’s gonna pump me for every morsel of the play-by-play of my conversation with Dad.

I’m almost there. I can see the buttons clearly against their metal plates when a distinctive British voice calls out to me.

“Miss Stryker? My office, please.”

My heart jumps into my throat, and I stumble slightly as I turn to see Colton Wolfe leaning against his outer office door, his arms crossed over his chest. The smirk on his face is pure arrogance, a display of ‘I know something you don’t’ that does not bode well for me.

Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

But where the fly in the infamous poem initially refused to give in to the spider’s welcome, I do not have that luxury because he’s both my boss and holding all the cards. Even without false flattery, I go into the spider’s parlor, hoping it’s not the last time I’ll be at Fox Industries.