by Liv Bennett
PLEASURE EXTRAORDINAIRE 1
LIV BENNETT
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014 by Liv Bennett
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 - The Contract
2 - The Condition
3 - The Encounter
4 - The Decision
5 - The Interrogation
6 - The Sex Bomb
7 - Lies - ACE
8 - The Heartache
9 - The Game
10 - Ice and Fire
11 - The Lover
Excerpt from The Pursuit of Passion
About the author
1 - The Contract
Iron Slap.
That’s what they call me, because I killed a woman with just the slap of my hand. It wasn’t the slap that killed her actually. It was the hook that pierced her head that took her life in a matter of seconds.
However, for some reason, that crucial fact didn’t register in people’s minds. When I say people, I mean millions of them, because Macey Williams, the woman I killed, had put up a video recorder so the entire world could witness her barbarity as she tried to kill my sister. But it turned out to be just the opposite of what she’d initially aimed for, and instead, recorded how her life was sucked out of her lungs.
As a result of the video spreading like wildfire, here I am, stopped almost every time I show up in public by strangers asking for a picture of my glorious hand, or an autograph drawn by the said hand. Some folks go as far as asking me to slap them. And not always on the face. I would gladly honor those airheads’ wishes if I was sure my hand wouldn’t hurt.
Some YouTube guy made an amateur music video of the brief second of my hand hitting the face of my sister’s kidnapper, using a horrible electronic melody of his own creation as the background music, and that ridiculous video has gotten over twenty million viewers. That’s nothing compared to the two-hundred and twenty-five-million visitors the original video had received in its one-week life on YouTube, before it was banned for violating the website’s terms and regulations against violence.
It’s amazing how such a simple, self-defensive act made me famous nationwide. I have been approached by insurance companies, detergent manufacturers, food chains, and whatnot to appear in their commercials. Hell, even a tow truck company wanted to use my hand as their logo. I’d think it was funny, only it wasn’t. I haven’t, and will never, use the fame of the hand I killed someone with to make money.
Not that I feel what I did was wrong.
Having been haunted by guilt for the majority of my life for being the cause of my mother’s death—because she died while giving birth to me—not even a drop of guilt has formed in my heart for intentionally causing Macey’s death. If I hadn’t killed her, she would have killed my sister.
Now, over eight months after the incident, my life has settled into some sort of normality. I’ve recently moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Miracle Mile, the same district in Los Angeles where Taylor, my sister, lives with her husband. The only thing missing to complete the feel of normality is a job.
My resume rocks for a recent graduate with a double major in Math and Statistics, but the dark-haired, middle-aged recruitment officer who’s interviewing me right now looks as if she has a truck driver sitting across her, wanting to fill the data-analyst post.
“Miss Doheny, you have an excellent background in programming,” she says with an expression less than enthusiastic attached to her words. Her suit is as black as her long hair, and her shirt a crisp white. No wrinkles apparent. Her sterile office with its modern furniture is just a continuation of her perfectionism.
I just nod, because I don’t feel like saying ‘thank you,’ as there’s nothing to thank her for— she’s just stating the facts.
“Please, tell us about your previous work. It says on your resume that you worked for only one year in a New York based company. Is there a specific reason for not continuing your duties for longer?”
There’s only one reason why she’s asking that question directly, and that’s because she knows why I left that job.
“I took up the post, knowing that I was going to leave it someday, because I wanted to come back to L.A. sooner or later.”
It’s not the answer she was fishing for. I can see it in the slight twitch of the corner of her lips, the brief narrowing of her eyes.
“I see.” She lifts a hand and places it on the black desk, tapping her perfectly manicured nails lightly on the surface. “How was your relationship with your former co-workers? Did you get along with everyone on your team? Positive interpersonal relationships among co-workers are of vital importance for us, since you’ll have to work together for several hours a day under extreme stress.”
Extreme stress, my ass! It’s not like they’re saving lives in an emergency department on a daily basis. “I have no problem cooperating with colleagues in a professional environment. I can assure you that I’ll be supportive and encouraging of everything that’s related to my team’s success. But, if you want to know if I’ll just bow my head and won’t say anything if one of those co-workers tries to take advantage of me sexually, I’m going to have to disappoint you. My supervisor from my previous job tried exactly that and is now facing five years in jail.”
A smile of triumph curves up her lips, and her eyes brighten as if she’s just found a treasure. Perhaps I should have just kept my mouth shut and my face straight. But, I’m sure she already knew that fact about my previous boss and his attempt at raping me, and if she rejects me for practicing my basic human rights by suing him, this isn’t the right workplace for me anyway.
She asks me a few more questions about my experience with software without really listening to my answers, because she already got the answer she’d wanted to hear. She must have already crossed me off her final list of candidates, and I can’t blame her for acting out of caution. For all she knows, I might be one of those crazy gold-diggers who won’t refrain from lying about a non-existent sexual harassment case to squeeze money from companies. And, with the fame I have, if I file a lawsuit against them, the company’s prestige will be destroyed in a matter of days.
After the lawsuit, the work environment at the company became unbearable with colleagues talking behind my back, insinuating that I started i
t all by seducing him. There was nothing I could do except leave and look for another job. That proved to be a wishful thinking, because no other company wanted to hire me. I became completely unemployable in the entire New York State, and it would probably be wise for me to accept the fact that it’s the same here in Los Angeles. I should start considering the embarrassing option of asking my sister for a post at her construction company.
Reluctantly, I shake hands with the interviewer at the end of the briefest interview I’ve ever attended and leave her office. Tears sting my eyes, but I work hard not to cry as I walk past the cubicles. I studied my ass off to finish two degrees and then worked more than sixty hours a week as an employee for a full year. For what? To end up having to ask my sister for a job?
I walk toward the bus stop, since my fifteen-year-old coupe is broken, and sit on a bench beside an elderly Latina lady. Construction workers behind us whistle shamelessly and say something I don’t understand despite the four semesters of Spanish I took at college. I ignore them and return to my self-pity session.
Every month, I pay twenty-five hundred for my tuition loan, fifteen-hundred for rent for the smallest one-bedroom apartment in L.A., and another five hundred for everything else. The longer I stay unemployed, the less chance I’ll have to land a job, and the settlement I received from the sexual-harassment lawsuit will be used up before I can invest it in something productive. The fact that I’m uninsured is another big factor that’s more a fear than a motivator.
The bus comes, and I help the lady get on it and then settle in a seat in the back row. My phone rings with an incoming email, and I tap on the screen to read it. An ad from an airline, as if I can afford to go on vacation at the moment. I scroll down the inbox to delete all the other spam mail but stop when I notice an email from Hawkins Media Group. It was sent to me two weeks ago, but I haven’t noticed it until now.
“A position opened up at Hawkins Media Group that matches your profile. I’d like to invite you to an interview at our headquarters in Sherman Oaks on behalf of Michael Hawkins. Please, contact me as soon as possible to set up your interview with Mr. Hawkins.
Julie Meadow,
Assistant to Michael E. Hawkins.
Hawkins Media Group”
I read the email again with a strong suspicion about its authenticity. It’s most likely another spam or a cruel joke from a friend, since no detail is provided about the nature of the job post except for the fact that it matches my profile. How do they know my profile? Oh, I see. They might have seen my resume on Linkedin. And Michael Hawkins did offer me a job interview about eight months ago at a business lunch he had with Taylor. How silly of me that I completely forgot about that.
I call Taylor’s secretary and ask for the phone number of Michael Hawkins’ assistant. It’s the same number as on the email. Does that mean the email isn’t actually some spam? There’s only one way to find out. I call the number, and a woman with a deep, confident voice answers the phone.
“Michael Hawkins’ office. Julie Meadow is speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hello. This is Lindsay Doheny. I received an email from you about a possible job interview, and I wanted to make sure it’s real and not spam.”
“Hello, Ms. Doheny. I’m glad you called back. The email is real. A position opened up a few weeks ago, and Mr. Hawkins personally recommended you. We would be pleased to have you over for an interview. Would three p.m. work for you?”
“You mean today? In two hours?”
“Yes. Mr. Hawkins has the afternoon free today. He’ll be leaving for Atlanta tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.” If I can arrive home in half hour, I’ll have only an hour to shower and change into fresh clothes and another half hour for the ride to the HGM headquarters. “Do you need me to bring any documents with me to the interview?”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll send a company vehicle to pick you up for the interview.”
“Really? Is that normal? What kind of position am I going to be interviewed for?”
“I’m not aware of the details, but Mr. Hawkins will gladly provide you with all the necessary information during the interview.”
After I give her my address for the company car to pick me up and thank her, I disconnect, eyeing the phone in my hands suspiciously. A chauffeur will drive me to the interview where the CEO will be present? It’s unusual, unless Michael Hawkins is planning to recruit me as his CFO.
I shouldn’t get my hopes high, but since I don’t have anything else planned for the afternoon, the interview will be a nice distraction, even an additional opportunity to practice my interpersonal skills. Not that I’m lacking any practice in the interview department after having been interviewed more than twenty times in the last couple of months. And, if I actually manage to land a job, I’ll forget all those frustrating interviews ever happened.
I run to my apartment and hurry while getting ready for interview number two of the day. The company vehicle, a black stretch car no less, arrives at exactly two thirty in front of my apartment building, and a middle-aged man with blond hair and brown eyes climbs out, walks around, and opens the door for me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Doheny. I’m Seth. I’ll be your driver today.”
“Nice meeting you, Seth.” Feeling a little dizzy at the unusual kindness of the driver, I nod and get in the back seat. This is not normal. No way.
Michael Hawkins, the owner and the CEO of Hawkins Media Group that runs two TV networks, one music recording label, and several smaller-sized advertising agencies throughout California, is sending out the latest-model stretch car for me, and I’d be a dumbass if I seriously believed he’s considering me for a job related to my majors.
I remember, with a cringe because he was actually flirting with me that day, the only occasion we met: I had accompanied my sister to a business lunch. I didn’t mind it at the time, after all, he’s a gorgeous man, tall, athletic, and mature. And, I bet he knows what he’s doing in bed. I might have felt a little attraction to him during the lunch, but those superficial qualities shouldn’t matter to me if we’re to establish a work relationship.
During the twenty-eight-minute drive, I count the number of red cars I see on the way. I spot exactly one hundred-and-six red cars, if I don’t count that one car that had two black doors but was red everywhere else. I have to eliminate it, or I’ll end up having an odd number and my job interview will flop.
Among all the numbers, it can’t be a number that ends with seven because I hate seven. My birthdate, which is also the date of my mother’s death, falls on the seventh of June. I found out the truth about my mother’s death when I was seven. That jerk of a colleague in the previous company where I worked tried to rape me on the seventh of February. Macey Williams kidnapped Taylor and me on the seventh of May. And surprise, surprise, the street number of the house where Macey held us captive ended with seven as well. It was a clear sign that I shouldn’t have entered the house in the first place. And, there are many more things that aren’t just coincidence about seven. Not to mention the deadly sins that are what? Seven. Nothing ever good comes of anything related to seven.
That’s why I’m keeping that clown of a car out of my total sum, and the imminent interview will be nothing but a light conversation filled with laughter and compliments about my work ethic, accomplishments, and well, good looks. Of course the flattery about my looks should come from Michael and Michael alone, or I may have to file for another sexual harassment lawsuit and that would most likely label me as unemployable for eternity in California, as well.
I straighten my black pencil skirt and adjust my matching-color clutch under my arm as I climb the stairs in front of the high-rise that’s only the most luxurious building I’ve ever seen. The girl at the front desk greets me with a full-tooth smile and informs her colleague of my arrival through her earphone. “Take the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor and check in with the secretary. She’ll direct you to Mr. Hawkins’ office.”
I wasn’t aware that the interview would be held in Michael’s office. I should probably stop calling him Michael in my head to prevent any accidental slips of the tongue. I thank the girl and hurry straight for the elevators.
When the elevator doors open, I’m confronted with a tall and very slim girl who, judging by her extravagant looks and the familiarity of her face, must be working in front of the camera or in fashion. Her leather jacket and skinny jeans make me feel too overdressed in my black skirt suit.
I step in, nodding at her briefly. She doesn’t return my gesture, just flips her long, dyed-blonde hair behind her shoulder. I notice the button for the floor twenty-four is already pressed, which means she’s going up to the same floor as I am. I feel her heavy stare on me as I hit the button for the doors to close.
The twenty-fourth floor? Very high for my edgy nervous, but at least it’s not an odd number. I inhale the strong scent of the girl’s cologne, willing my nerves to calm.
“I wouldn’t bother going all the way up. My father isn’t in today,” the girl says, glancing at her long, pink nails with a bored expression on her face, and I realize why she’s so familiar. She’s Chloe Hawkins. Michael’s, ahem, Mr. Hawkins’ only daughter.
“Okay. Thanks for the information,” I reply, hoping the disappointment in my voice won’t show and stare up at the numbers on the pad. It might not be such a bad thing, after all. I’ll probably concentrate better on the interview questions without the distraction of a beautiful man.
I don’t know the first thing about her, so I shouldn’t judge her by the brief two-second vibe I’m getting from her, but I can say, almost with certainty, that she and I will never be BFFs.
I shove my shoulders back and lift my chin nonchalantly to keep a straight posture and stand as tall as I can be beside her five-eleven figure, regretting wearing flat pumps rather than high-heels.
The elevator doors slide open, and Chloe elegantly walks out of it, swaying her non-existent hips left and right. I follow her, hoping the secretary I’ve been told to see will be in that direction.
