Demons Within [For Love of Authority] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)

by Rhiannon Ayers

  “Yes, of course, dear. You must be the young man Mr. McAlister told us he was expecting. He actually got an emergency call from the London office this morning, so he asked Ms. McKenna to speak with you instead. She’s right this way.” And she marched purposefully around the desk, grabbed his forearm, and hauled him down an adjoining hallway.

  Allen could do no more than follow her woodenly, his psyche in too much turmoil to do anything but function on autopilot. The brash, foul-mouthed guy who’d called him five days ago was Tatum McAlister? As in, one of the named partners of the firm, Tatum McAlister? One of the owners of the best advertising agency in the United States had called him, personally, and told him to “get his ass here” by 9:00 a.m.?

  His brain refused to process it.

  After following his escort dazedly for some minutes, he finally realized the hallway they traversed ran between a series of opulent conference rooms. Each had a huge marble table surrounded by black leather captain’s chairs, and each was equipped with a seventy-two-inch flat-screen TV mounted high on one wall with heavy-duty speakers mounted in each corner. The walls were decorated with breathtaking photos of some of Houston’s most famous buildings, monuments, and tourist attractions. There was even one of a crowd outside the Houston Zoo, a little girl’s elated face the focal point of the entire composition. Her shining eyes and death grip around her well-loved toy giraffe were a clear testament that she was ecstatic to be there.

  Wait a minute…

  Allen stopped dead in his tracks, blinking foolishly. It couldn’t be. Just because he’d taken a similar photo several years ago didn’t mean it was the same one. Sure, he’d posted it to his Facebook page, so it was definitely out there on the World Wide Web, but that couldn’t possibly mean…

  “There are more, you know,” his matronly escort told him smugly. Allen could only stare at her, dumb. She smiled kindly. “Why do you think Mr. McAlister called you? He and Ms. McKenna have been trying to track you down for months. Your photos are on every wall in this office, practically on every wall in this entire building. The fact that you’re a completely untrained, raw, natural talent makes you a diamond in the rough to their eyes. If you ever checked your Facebook e-mail box, you’d already know they’ve been trying to hire you.”

  Feeling lightheaded, Allen immediately flashed back to the first time he noticed there was an unfamiliar contact sending him e-mails over Facebook. Since the subject line always read, “Call Us Today!” he’d automatically assumed it was spam and deleted it without opening it. Never in a million years had he expected it to be a freaking job offer from his dream company. He stared helplessly into the kind blue eyes of the woman beside him, completely at a loss.

  She gave him another fond smile and patted his shoulder almost affectionately. “You’ll get used to us, dear. My name is Beatrice. I’m Ms. McKenna’s personal assistant. I’m certain we’ll be seeing a lot of each other once you get settled in here. All the Mc’s are very hands-on with their employees, and I’m certain you’ll find your feet in no time.”

  Allen made a sound that couldn’t possibly be as embarrassing as a whimper. He swallowed hard and tried to gather his scattered wits. Beatrice gestured ahead of them.

  “Ms. McKenna asked to meet with you in the oval conference room. Why don’t I get you settled and rustle up a glass of water to help calm those nerves. You’ll need all your wits about you if you’re going to withstand a meeting with her, trust me.”

  She trotted off again and Allen followed in a stupefied fog. Now that he was looking for it, he realized that every photo was one of his. There was his high-angle shot of the Pennzoil building, its signature peaked roofs carving perfect triangles into a deep blue, cloudless sky. And there was his photo of the Wortham Theatre, showing workers in the process of taking down a show marquee and replacing it with new signage. He’d snapped the shot because, at that moment, the only letters left on the huge white board read “What The?” and he’d been tickled thinking how people would fill in the blank. Now, with the photo blown up so large, he could clearly see he’d not only caught the funny sign, he’d caught the amused expressions on the workers’ faces. It was clear as day they’d meant to leave the sign just as it was for as long as possible, amusing themselves as they performed their tedious task. It couldn’t have worked out better even if he’d actually planned it.

  The fact that he hadn’t planned it, that indeed it was one of his singular impulse shots, uploaded to his Facebook account because he thought it was funny, not because it was a particularly good photo—that made it ten times more overwhelming to find it here, in this building.

  If he got too many more shocks today, he’d have a heart attack. Or an aneurism. Or maybe both.

  Beatrice finally led him to a huge, oval-shaped conference room at the very end of the immense hallway. Floor-to-ceiling windows graced three-quarters of the circumference of the room, offering a spectacular view of the city skyline. The table was shiny black marble veined with silver, surrounded by ten black leather captain’s chairs. There was no TV in this particular room, no sound system either. Obviously, it was meant for internal office meetings, not client presentations. He wondered how many other intimidated new hires had had their first interview in this daunting room.

  He also wondered how many of them had run away screaming, too terrified to wait for their interviewer to arrive.

  Beatrice sat him near the head of the table and disappeared for a moment, returning almost immediately with a bottle of FIJI water and a glass of ice. There must be a kitchenette somewhere nearby, otherwise there was no way that little old woman could haul ass up and down that endless hallway in thirty seconds flat. She poured for him, then pressed the ice-cold glass into his hands with a little reassuring squeeze.

  “Ms. McKenna will be here momentarily. Try to relax, dear. You’ll do just fine.”

  And she left him alone.

  Allen carefully set the full glass on the shiny black tabletop, lest his shaking hands betray him and he spill water all over his crotch. Then he waited in a state of nervous anticipation mixed with a liberal dose of dread, half-convinced he’d wake up any moment and realize his first day at his new job hadn’t even started yet, that discovering his photos on the walls of MM&M had been a figment of his own imagination. None of this could be real.

  And yet, a tiny voice inside him insisted, it was.

  Wrenching his mind away from his growing panic, Allen forced himself to breathe deeply and recall all the facts he’d read about the founding partners of the company. Sandra McKenna was a well-endowed woman in her late sixties, with shock-white hair and startling green eyes. From what he’d gathered, she was the mastermind behind the entire company, having cajoled her partners into forming the corporation with promises of imminent success. She’d gone to Harvard, Yale, and Oxford, earning a stunning variety of degrees along the way, everything from a master’s in fine arts to a PhD in global economics. That she was a creative genius on top of everything else just sealed the deal. She was a singularly spectacular woman, one who had carved her own success out of life with bare hands, brains, and a whole hell of a lot of pure willpower. Allen was in awe of her accomplishments—and rightfully intimidated that she would find him totally, completely unacceptable.

  He had no degrees. No accolades but for a few first-place prizes for winning a couple of small-town photography competitions. He had no formal skills other than hammering nails and hauling I-beams across a construction yard. To date, his single greatest accomplishment was running away from home at the age of fourteen to escape the hell that was his home life. That he’d survived living on the streets for two years until a kindly foreman for a small construction company took him under his wing was irrelevant. He’d chosen the path he’d walked. No one had forced him to become a homeless runaway. He took no pride in having lived through his horrible choices, only in that he’d had the guts to get out of his abusive father’s house when he did.

  Running away was nothi
ng to be proud of. Allen was a coward. He couldn’t stand up to his father, so instead he’d taken off in the dead of night, terrified the old man was going to chase him down and run him over with his shiny new Cadillac. That neither he nor his equally evil mother had come looking for him spoke volumes for how worthless he truly was in the grand scheme of things.

  They hadn’t been sorry to see him go.

  Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Allen sat straighter in his chair and folded his shaking hands on the table, trying to look professional instead of twitchy as hell. Those kinds of thoughts had no place in his head at this moment. He was not that scared little boy anymore. He was a new man, a new Allen, and damned if he wasn’t going to take this chance by the throat and throttle it into submission.

  Feeling somehow better about his choices—and his chances—he waited for the woman who would hand him his destiny.

  Little did he know he was about to get a whole fucking hell of a lot more than he ever bargained for.

  The woman who walked into the conference room a few minutes later was most definitely not the elderly Ms. Sandra McKenna. Miles of thick auburn hair framed a heart-shaped face dominated by the most beautiful pair of green eyes he’d ever seen. Her plump, kissable red lips were curved in a welcoming smile, her high cheekbones touched with the barest hint of blush. Luscious curves were lovingly molded by a pinstriped black pencil skirt, her dainty feet clad in sexy blue kitten heels. Her dark-blue silk blouse had the top button left undone, revealing a mouth-watering glimpse of her ample cleavage. At five foot five, she wasn’t overly tall, but neither was she petite. She was, quite simply, stunning.

  He stood on wobbly knees as she approached, grateful his loose slacks hid the growing proof of his instant attraction. His heart, which had been swimming somewhere around his stomach with the depth of his anxiety, suddenly clawed its way into his chest and began a frantic attempt to beat out of his rib cage.

  For the very first time, he understood the meaning of the phrase love at first sight.

  The woman gave him a soul-wrenching smile and held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Heras. I’m Sidri McKenna. Before you ask, yes, Sandra McKenna is my mother, and no, I am not one of the managing partners of the firm. I’m simply the Creative Director, overseeing all the creative departments in all five of our offices. I’m so glad I finally have the chance to talk to you. I’ve been a fan of yours for a very long time.”

  He took her proffered hand, mildly amazed his fingers didn’t catch on fire just from touching her. Allen’s throat closed tight at the wave of lust that overtook his entire body just hearing the sultry, deeply feminine tone of her voice. His cock swelled, fire licking through his lower belly as sweat pooled at the base of his spine. He felt dizzy, lightheaded as all the blood rushed from his big head to his little one between one breath and the next. He stood there like a dumbass, unable to speak as he fought the urge to grab her and kiss her senseless.

  Where the hell was this attraction coming from? He’d never reacted so strongly to someone he’d just met. And yet, after just one look at this woman he didn’t even know, he was ready to drop to his knees and worship at the altar of her perfection. He didn’t know what to do, how to deal with this overwhelming, instantaneous lust.

  Fortunately for him, Sidri didn’t seem to expect a response, because she gestured for him to reclaim his chair before settling in the one next to him. His knees gave out on the way down, so he ended up sitting down harder and faster than he’d intended. At least the damn chair hadn’t rolled out from under him. The very last thing he needed was a Three Stooges move like that to seal the deal on his first impression. Swallowing past the lust and gravel in his throat, Allen finally managed a smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. McKenna. I’m honored.”

  She waved that away as if it were trivial. He watched her settle back in her chair, her sexy-as-hell legs crossed at the knee, forcing her tight skirt up to mid-thigh. After catching one tantalizing glimpse of white lace at the top of her stockings, he forcibly trained his gaze on her face. Not that that was any help. Sidri was so achingly beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Resting her elbows on the low arms of her chair, Sidri steepled her fingers under her chin and regarded him seriously.

  “Well, now that the formalities of introduction are out of the way, we can move right on to business.” Then she pinned him with that unwavering green stare. “I’m trying to decide if you’re just a clueless imbecile, or if you’ve intentionally made yourself a pain in my ass. Which is it, Mr. Heras?”

  Chapter 2

  Sitting in his custom-made office chair two years later, Allen could still vividly recall that first conversation. He smiled ruefully, remembering his shock and terror at hearing Sidri’s blunt assessment of him. Unable to articulate a response, he’d simply stared at her, eyes wide and mouth moving soundlessly, as she regarded him with obvious annoyance.

  * * * *

  Two Years Earlier

  Mortified, Allen half rose from his chair, mumbling, “I’m sorry. I should go…”

  To his amazement, Sidri grinned. “Oh, stop it. Sit down, Allen. I’m teasing you. Though, you most definitely have been a pain in my ass. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been trying to get in touch with you?” At her raised eyebrow, he shook his head dumbly. She huffed out a laugh.

  “Tatum found your photos first, on some random website, if I recall correctly. It took us forever to figure out you were a Houston native, and even longer to track down your name. Do you live off the grid on purpose?” she asked mildly, a tiny smirk gracing her plump lips. “Because your address and phone number aren’t listed anywhere as far as we were able to figure out. When Beatrice finally found your Facebook page, we were elated, certain we were finally going to get ahold of you. But six months later, you hadn’t answered a single one of our e-mails, and we still couldn’t find any other way of contacting you. We’d almost given up hope.

  “And then what do you know, out of the blue, your resume shows up on Beatrice’s computer. You should have seen her, that little old lady flying down the hallway with her iPad in hand, busting into a shareholders’ meeting and dragging me and Tatum out the door.” She smiled fondly. “Make no mistake, that woman is not someone you want to take lightly. She can wipe the floor with you.”

  Allen managed a strangled laugh, picturing the tiny gray-haired woman manhandling Sidri and Tatum wherever she wanted to make them go. Sidri returned his grin, and his heart did a woozy backflip up into his throat.

  “Anyway, that’s how we ended up finding you, and here you finally are, right where you belong.”

  The sincerity in Sidri’s voice nearly undid him. He’d never in his life felt so accepted, so wanted as he did right then. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start blubbering like a five-year-old girl. From some deep reserve of courage he didn’t even know he had, Allen managed a heartfelt “Thank you.”

  Sidri seemed to take pity on his inability to articulate his gratitude, because she kept right on talking. “No, Allen, thank you. In case it hasn’t become clear to you, MM&M is offering you a full-time position with our photography department. You’ll be placed under the wing of our Director of Photography, so you’ll be taught everything you need to know about the Photography Department specifically and the company in general. Your starting pay is $100,000, but I imagine you’ll jump up to $300,000 when you rise up from your beginner’s position as Keelan’s assistant. How does that sound to you?”

  Yep, he was definitely going to have a heart attack. Maybe a stroke. $300,000? Hell, he was barely making $30,000 at his current job and was damned grateful to be getting paid even that much. He didn’t know what he could possibly do with that much money. Allen stared at Sidri in shocked disbelief.

  She gave him an encouraging smile and plowed on. “We have full benefits, of course. Medical, dental, vision, and life, all of it fully covered by the company. You won’t even be responsible for co-pays since everyone gets
a flexible spending account to cover those kinds of expenses. We also match 100 percent of your 401k contributions each month, and you get twelve holidays and thirty sick days a year. Vacation time accrues eight hours every month, so every five months you get a full week off—paid, of course. We’ll also be providing you with a company car to use for business errands, a state-of-the-art desktop computer for the office, an awesome laptop for field work, and another computer to keep at home just in case you need to access your files when the office is closed. And when you graduate from being an assistant, you’ll be given the camera or cameras of your choice, and as many lenses, lights, and gadgets as you could possibly need. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

  God help him, he must be coming across as a mute imbecile with as many times as he’d been caught staring at her, mouth hanging open without the ability to speak. He gave himself a mental whap upside the head and finally stuttered, “Are you s–s–serious right now?”

  Sidri gave him a bright, understanding smile, her expression all business. “Let me state this plainly, Allen. We want you. No, not want—need. Raw talent like yours is a one-in-a-billion, priceless miracle, do you understand that? We knew our photography department needed an upgrade, but until Tatum and I saw your photos, we had no idea what we were truly missing. We may be considered the best in the industry already, but with your talent on our team, we’ll become the most powerful agency on the planet. We need you to help us reinvent our approach to visual graphics, because your work is already setting the standard by which all other photographers gauge their success. And no, I am not exaggerating to inflate your ego. You are, quite simply, the best photographer we’ve ever seen, hands down. The fact that you’re this good with no formal training in photography and without a Fine Arts degree is staggering.”