Seven Days - The Beginning (Jess & Liam's Story, #1)

by Fanny Lee Savage

  Seven Days

  ~

  A Madam Jolie Playhouse Novella

  Jess and Liam’s Story – The Beginning

  Book 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 © Fanny Lee Savage

  2nd Edition Published by Fanny Lee Savage

  This book was previously published under the Pen Name - F.L. Black

  Second Edition 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Art

  Fanny Lee Savage

  Image Courtesy of:

  Stockbymh | Dreamstime.com

  NOTE TO READERS

  18+ Warning:

  ADULTS ONLY

  This novella is intended to be an erotic fantasy, set in a fictional location with fictional characters, for 18 and up readers.

  Contains explicit depictions of sex, strong language, and mild BDSM.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Disclaimer

  Meet the Men

  Chapter 1 | Day Seven

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 | Day Six

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 | Five days remaining...

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 | Four days remaining...

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Four Days

  About the Author

  For Hire

  Other Books by Fanny Lee Savage

  Meet the Men

  of

  F.E.A.R. Enterprises

  Liam Firth

  Cameron Ellis

  Kye Adams

  Evren Rockwell

  Chapter 1

  Day Seven

  My mother once told me never trust a man who can dance. As I read over the catalog I found on the wood coffee table in the waiting room outside the office of F.E.A.R. Enterprises, I wonder, does this rule apply to all men? Or, just men who are already too good-looking, wealthy, and accomplished in this otherwise shitty world?

  This little lesson my mother told me comes to mind as I thumb through the CEO’s bio. Printed in black ink on shiny gray paper, the brochure states: Mr. Firth likes to tango, fish, and conquer the entire world of architectural design with his partners, Ellis, Adams, and Rockwell—hence the F.E.A.R. Logo. Actually, that’s not what it says but it might as well.

  What it reads is: Liam Firth is a master sportsman (insert picture of him fishing), and went to Julliard (which made me think of dance) before he transferred out to California to attend the Academy of Art University where he received his degree and started F.E.A.R. Enterprises with his buddies. The man comes from money, he was bred in it, bathed in it and used his trust fund to start his business after he moved back to Florida.

  If I weren't so nervous about why I was here, I’d probably be less biased, but I tend to get cynical and bitter when I’m anxious. My ever-wise mother says it’s because if I’m negative about something, I won’t be disappointed with the outcome. Sometimes the woman is spot on. It’s a shame she never went into psychology, and that her brilliant flashes into the human mind only come about when she’s high. Her favorite past-time consists of sipping from her box of convenient store wine, and barely holding on to her long cigarette as she spits out weirdly deep insights. Usually, these profound thoughts come after she’s gotten home from her night at Benny’s Bunny House.

  My bottle-blonde, forty-two-year-old mother, is a washed out stripper with a drug problem. It’s no wonder I’m a Negative Nelly and I’m so edgy all the time. And, I’ve never been as nervous as I am right now. Well, that’s not true. I’ve been ‘gut twisting, butterflies in my stomach making me want to puke nervous’ before, just never over anything as important as this. I’ve worked my ass off to get here, sitting in this sterile waiting room, with the blonde Barbie receptionist eyeing me under her black lashes.

  I paid my way through school with a scholarship, working hard and getting good grades, and altogether avoiding the men who came to our house after hours. The slimy ones who take my mother to her bedroom for a ‘nightcap’ and a few extra bucks, or another line, or whatever she can get her hands on. I finished school at the community college three months ago, and I’ll be damned if the background check they ran will make me lose this opportunity. The woman who birthed me has already taken enough, including my childhood, and what I’m sure would have developed into a great personality if I had been given half the chance.

  It’s not just a desire to raise myself up to higher society, but I want to dig myself out of becoming another statistic. All odds are against me. I’m poor, from a single mother, now throw in some daddy issues and the other problems that plague my relationships with men. Issues that stem from slimy hands attached to pervy men. I learned early on to lock my door and keep a bat just in case another man comes looking for my mom and finds my room instead. It was bad enough to put me off men for my all of twenty-two years on this earth.

  Despite my nerves and the odds stacked against me, I’m here because I don’t want to be my mother and I need the money. Bad. As in, ‘I now have a debt that isn’t my own but is now mine because I’m related’ kind of bad. My mommy dearest got herself into some mess, and now owes the biggest drug dealer in Florida a load of cash. Thirty-thousand large to be exact.

  “Mr. Firth is ready to see you Ms...” Barbie lets her voice trail off and looks down at her blank receptionist notepad. “Caughlin. Jessica Caughlin.”

  Here we go.

  I stand and run my hands down the gray pencil skirt and black blazer I bought yesterday morning at the thrift store near the trailer park. Then, adjust the satin ‘cost me too much money’ blue blouse I found as well. I shake my shoulders letting my dirty blonde hair fall over them, trying to ease the knots in my back.

  I wanted to appear professional, put together—like I know what I’m doing. And I do know what I’m doing. I may not have an Ivy League education, but I’ve got an eye for architecture and anyone who looks at my designs knows it. I’m sure Mr. F.E.A.R. saw it and that’s why he and his partners overlooked my address, the small misdemeanor on my record and gave me a shot.

  This is what I tell myself as I pick up my portfolio and walk with a ‘straight as an arrow’ back to the office door. It’s frosted glass set in shiny wood like everything else in this building. Ms. Barbie comes around and knocks, then swings the door open.

  First impressions are the most important.

  I walk, making sure I look like I’m gliding into the office, but stop when I see no one is here to watch my grand show. The office is air conditioned to the point a penguin would be happy in here and completely and utterly white. The only color is gray and gray is not even a color. It is a muted tone, refusing to be light or dark, black or white. The shady gray in this room is either in the form of a carpet—like the one under Firth’s metal desk. It’s in the metal legs of chairs, and a lighter shiny gray in the weird industrial sculptures sitting off to the side. Says a lot about a man whose favorite colo
r is gray. Man might as well be wearing a sign on his head, announcing to the world he’s got commitment issues. And, secrets.

  “Have a seat and Mr. Firth will be in to see you shortly.” Barbie points to a white chair in front of the desk and disappears back into the waiting room.

  I sit as commanded and cross my legs, then uncross them. Don’t want to appear too sexual and make him think about where I’m coming from. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my upbringing, it’s more I wish I weren't such a cliché. Like if only my mom were just a stripper—a hot well-rounded one—or she was a druggie. Pick one, not both; don’t be so trailer trash typical.

  I cross my ankles and tuck my feet under the chair, placing my hands on my lap, and grip my leather bound portfolio. Looks like it’s back to waiting, so I take the time to inspect Mr. Firth’s office. You can tell a lot from a man’s office, I learned this from strung out psychology one-oh-one.

  Firth’s desk is completely metal, but it looks like it used to be some kind of a long carrying cart. There are large wheels attached to the crossed legs with little stops on the black rubber. His desk chair is a plush leather—which means he spends a lot of time in it and goes for comfort rather than a sleek and stylish look. The tall standing lamp hanging over his desk consists of a metal tripod holding up a long shabby pole, and from that; a modern cone light. It looks like someone grabbed the legs off an old-time camera stand, grabbed a piece of pipe and attached a light to it. Actually, that’s exactly what it is.

  I’ve never seen anything so neat and go to inspect it closer. My eyes catch the metal art placed on white stands around the room and I walk towards the sculptures. They are made of re-bar and bent metal pipes, rivets holding the pieces together. They all are. The artist took pieces of metal building materials and welded them together.

  “Do you like them?”

  A smooth, masculine voice comes from behind me and I spin. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Liam Firth is extremely handsome. I’ve seen his pictures online from when I was putting in my application for the job, but they don’t do him justice. Mr. Firth is not just good-looking. He’s staring into the sun, burn you alive hot. His brown tousled hair shines gold in the halogen lights of the office and he keeps it a bit too long. A strong jaw, model cheekbones all put together with a sultry mouth. He’s much taller than my barely five and a half inches. His white button up shirt looks cotton—not what I was expecting, and he’s poured himself into a pair of jeans. Nice jeans. So nice, they hug all his male parts to perfection and he’s got his hands shoved into them, giving an air of authoritative arrogance. I glance to his feet—loafers. His entire outfit looks like he stepped off his yacht where he was doing a magazine shoot, and hopped on his helicopter to fly here when he remembered we had this meeting.

  “The sculpture style is called Industrial Chic,” he says.

  I realize I haven’t spoken and I’m doing it again, being negative. I offer my hand, looking back up to his face, and my cheeks start to heat since I was obviously checking him out. “Jessica Caughlin.”

  Firth holds my eyes, the light color burning through me. My eyes are blue, not sparkling ocean blue, just blue. His are sepia. Not light brown, but a vintage bronze, sparkling with mysteries.

  I blink again. The pictures online don’t do him justice at all.

  He pulls a tanned hand from his pocket and grips mine. I glance down to strong fingers wrapping around mine with a solid grip. Sadly, there are no sparks, music doesn’t fade in from off screen and I don’t swoon. Well, yeah, I swoon but not to where he notices. I hope.

  “It’s lovely to meet you Ms. Caughlin, please sit.” Firth gestures to the white chair in front of his desk and takes the one next to me.

  Some people think this tactic gives a more personal feel to an interview. Like we’re just two people who are going to talk. Have a conversation as if I’m not trying to convince this bazillionaire I’m the very best person to assist his assistant for the only paid internship the company offers in this division. Like my good grades are enough to overshadow my community college degree. Never mind I have barely any CAD experience. If he finds me suitable, then I have to convince his assistant I’m the right woman for the job.

  Firth nods to the leather portfolio in my lap. “I was impressed by your building designs, Ms. Caughlin. You have an eye for detail.”

  I smile because I do and start to thank him, but he holds his hand up, stopping me.

  “Let us cut to the chase,” he says. “F.E.A.R. Enterprises is my life. I’ve built this company from the ground up and I, along with the three other CEO’s, oversee all major decisions, all finances, and aspects of this business. I choose who will be placed, and where they will be put in my division.”

  Jesus. Control freak. Yet, oddly, he doesn’t give the aura of one. I can tell he’s a bit arrogant and he’s definitely the boss, but he’s soothing too. He doesn’t make me uncomfortable, exactly the opposite. I could be talking to anyone. A school teacher, a principle, a father, a brother, a sexy CEO.

  “While your portfolio has some very interesting ideas, you have little qualifications.”

  I open my mouth, but he holds his hand up again.

  “Qualifications which include things such as an extensive knowledge of CAD. The latest 3D rendering and design. In this area, I’m afraid you are weak.”

  I blink. Wow. He really doesn’t mess around.

  “I need someone who wants to learn and will do whatever it takes to make sure they are learning my way. Not what they were taught in school, but what I will teach you.”

  I nod, knowing he’s not through but want him to understand I get it and agree with whatever the hell he says. He can have my first born if it gives me this job.

  “Ms. Caughlin, I like your work. I suspect you will be able to follow my lead, learn quickly and ask questions, yet only when you truly need assistance, and not try to wash over the fact you weren’t paying attention.”

  I nod, again.

  “You will work directly with my assistant, but in the beginning with me.” His eyes slide from my face, over my suit and stop at my modest pumps. I try not to squirm, not ever having a potential boss so openly check me out. “This way, I know you are capable of holding responsibility.”

  It seems all I’m going to do is nod, since the way his eyes roamed over me has stolen my voice.

  Firth rises from the chair and moves behind his desk, then shoves a folder in my direction. He shoves his hands in those tight jeans and my eyes fall, of course, right to his zipper. “This is the latest design for the hospital wing at Regional. Find the error.”

  I don’t nod. Instead, I blink and glance back at his face. His brows quirk up, waiting for me to move.

  This is by far the weirdest interview I’ve ever had—not that I’ve had many. I pull myself up from the chair and stand over the open file, aware he’s watching and waiting. The blueprints are small, legal sized and not very detailed. It looks like the new wing won’t be real big or hold patient rooms, only offices and a large conference room. Clean lines, simplistic, no fluff. Right away, I see the problem, actually, I see two, but he said only one.

  The most obvious design flaw for a wing of offices is the entrance leads in from the ER. That’s poor planning. I point to the sheet. “Your entry needs to be moved to the other side, the front and a second entrance for conference room attendees should be added here.”

  “Yes.” Firth starts to pull the folder away, but I stop him, smacking my hand down on the file. Firth pauses and his dark brown brows knit together.

  Fuck. The man is gorgeous.

  “You have a problem here.” I point to the routing of the inner rooms and drop my gaze back to the blueprints. “You should move the location of the conference room to the last on the wing; its current location could pose a safety hazard. That and the view will suck. It says here the windows, which will be twelve feet high, will face the ER main entrance.”

  I glance up and see he’s not looking a
t the paper, but instead at me. Actually, he’s looking at my chest. Technically, the small opening in the top of my shirt where my modest cleavage peeks out. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here and my own nipples are hard from the blast of the AC coming behind me. At first I’m not sure if I should be insulted, or flattered this hot man is checking me out, but he doesn’t look away and I start sliding towards mildly uncomfortable.

  “I like what I see, Ms. Caughlin.” Firth moves his eyes up to my face and comes around the desk. My cheeks flush this time. “You have two weeks to get your personal life in order—putting in notices at your current place of employment, and then I expect your full attention after that.”

  Wait, I got the job?

  “We work late hours; often well into the night and the next day. Weekends are for your personal life, but I expect a certain level of decorum since you represent my company.”

  “You mean I got the internship?” I ask, half leaning on his metal desk for support.

  “Yes, Ms. Caughlin, you got the job.”

  I got the fucking job! I grin, all tension and nerves falling off me in chunks.

  “Do you have any questions?” Firth asks, and his lips turn up into a little comma.

  He says no questions unless it directly helps my learning process. I glance down to his desk. “I do have one.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

  “Your desk.” I tap the metal with my nail. “What was it used for before you turned it into the utilitarian grand centerpiece to your office?”

  Firth for whatever reason seems to like this question. I can tell because his lips quirk up into a large grin. “It is a gurney. It was used in the county morgue in the fifties.”

  Chapter 2

  My new boss likes creepy medical equipment and old building materials turned into shabby welded pieces of art. I tell my soon-to-be former boss I’m leaving, who’s surprisingly happy to be losing her best employee at the diner. Ginger knows how hard I’ve worked and has given me a lot of slack the last few years when I’ve come in with bags under my eyes and spilling food in customer’s laps. My co-workers do the same, but they are suffering from hangovers, and not the ‘I crammed too much schoolwork into one night’ kind.