by Terra Wolf
Table of Contents
Abraham
Abraham
The Johnson Clan Book Two
Terra Wolf
COPYRIGHT
©2018 Terra Wolf
Abraham
All Rights Reserved worldwide.
No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.
This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Some may be used for parody purposes. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.
Parts of the story were previously published as Dirty Daddy by Ellie Wild
1
ABRAHAM
“The building really is a steal. The company’s going out of business, and the price they’re offering is all inclusive. They aren’t even trying to sell off the furniture on any of the levels in order to try and recoup money. The guy’s just fucking bailing.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very smart man to me,” I said. “I’ve got no issues buying from him the potential he doesn’t see.”
“That’s why I wanted to meet you at your office today instead of waiting until this afternoon. If I can secure this price, then we’ll have our pick of what they’ve got in that building to use. I can hire someone to haul out the rest of the shit, and we can get this project going.”
“Sounds like a plan. Does that mean the meeting this afternoon is canceled?” I asked. “Can you guys handle something like that without me there?”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson. We’ll be just fine once we’ve gotten your approval.”
“Then, you’ve got it,” I said.
“This’ll put you on the map.”
“My family’s already on the map,” I said. “Now, I want to be the map. I want people to come to me when they want something from that building. I’ve got massive plans for it.”
“Then, that is something we can do. All you need to do is-”
“Approve every single solitary change I want to make with the board, no matter what. Every faucet. Every piece of wallpaper-- which there will be none-- and every change of every toilet seat. Got it,” I said.
“I know you don’t like that part-”
“No, I don’t. I don’t like the fact that my family has owned and operated this company for decades and I’ve been an integral part of it for five years, and yet a table full of old ass rich men somehow get to decide whether I’ve done my job well enough. They don’t own this company. They aren’t the experts. They simply hold stock and invest consistently in our projects. If I was bad at my job, they wouldn’t keep investing. That’s proof enough, the fact that they’re all still sitting there,” I said.
“And I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Johnson, but that’s just the way things are.”
“Well, maybe things need to... change.” A yawn peeled from my lips even as I was saying it. I’d done this song and dance a million fucking times. Some independent idiot would come in and want to start their own complex or condominium station and try to pimp it out. They’d really do it up-- jet bathtubs in all the main bathrooms, king-sized beds. Really furnish up the place and rent out the rooms to businessmen.
What they didn’t understand was that businessmen who came to Charleston, South Carolina either stayed in hotels because they wanted to discreetly bang someone or they stayed in the home of whoever they were banging. They at least had a little tact. It’s called Southern Charm.
Luxury condominiums never worked anywhere in the city unless you were selling or renting them long-term.
It was the fifth property I’d acquired in the past five years of being actively involved in the family business. I’d come in to the owner panicking with his balls between his legs and he’d beg me for the best possible estimate I could provide. I’d buy him out, so he wouldn’t be in half the debt he’s currently in, then I’d take everything and turn it into what it should’ve been. The money I brought in from these projects could power an entire third-world country for ten years.
And I was about to make a shitload more money with this latest venture.
“Something boring you?”
“Yes. You. Get out. You’ve got my approval. Come back to me when the construction crew is ready to revamp. I control that part,” I said.
“Just make sure you write down a list of things you want to change and get it to me. I can run at least some of it by the board so you don’t have to be, you know, bored anymore. That’ll give you a bit more freedom to go ahead and get some things done.”
“Just write the word ‘everything’ on a sheet of paper and slide it across the table. I’m sure they’ll get the message then,” I said.
The guy I was talking to was my project manager. I didn’t know his name, and I didn’t care. He was a full-time worker when I needed him, and he sat on my board taking up space when I didn’t. Honestly, I was really hoping he’d bring me something more interesting. I’d always wanted to revamp a theater or an opera house. Something in the entertainment industry that hadn’t sold itself out just yet to the modern era of entertainment.
I could bring a richness back to the arts that had long been lost. Every time I went to the symphony or the opera they were always trying to raise funds because they couldn't get enough asses in those seats. Sure, there were people who found that kind of thing stuffy. But, choirs and symphonies alike were updating themselves to become more appealing to the masses.
But those fucking amphitheaters and concert halls. They looked like something out of a dusty 1940s sleazy sex joint.
I could sink my bored-ass teeth into a project like that.
I started running a sect of my parents’ business when I was twenty-five years old, after having successfully finished business school and proving to my father that I understood the industry. To be honest, they were damn lucky to not only have my current business training but also my modern style. Someone had to keep them in check so their properties didn’t end up like one of those amphitheaters.
My parents, Kane and Lucinda Johnson, are the owners of the successful hotel chain, Shyft. Our family serves people all over the country, but most of our clients are high-end shifters. It’s bullshit that my kind needs a safe haven in this day and age, but the Johnsons were making a hell of a killing off of that haven, so I’ll take it.
Now-- at thirty years of age-- I was one of the largest and wealthiest real estate moguls in the country. I specialized in all things real estate, not just hotels like my parents, but my passion was buying out all of the failures other people create just so I could make them better.
Honestly? I thought the family business would be more exciting than it had proven to be. When I was a kid my four siblings and I saw them serving sophisticated shifter elite and treating them. I thought they were, like, superheroes or some shit. They were providing not only luxury, but also a community. A place where a bear could be a bear, without humans thinking we were savage. Truth was we were more sophisticated than they’d ever be.
But holy fuck, running a hotel, even a hotel mainly occupied by shifters, was boring. You had to answer questions like ‘where did this masseuse receive their certification from?’ or ‘how quickly can the bellboy get my luggage from the limo to my room?’
Bitch, I don’t know. I’m not the masseuse or the bellboy. Do you want the service or not?
&nbs
p; That’s why, when I finally had my own share in the company and single-handedly brought it to the soaring heights it flies now, I now hired people to handle all that shit and moved on to other types of real estate. The realtors that worked underneath me didn’t work for a salary, but they were paid some of the highest commissions in the city. I had real estate agents knocking down my fucking door just to put in their application in case someone quit. Not having a salary forced them to sell, and the high commission percentage let them know how much I appreciated their enthusiasm for selling.
It was a win-win scenario.
But, even though I got that part of the business off my back, I still had to deal with other types of bullshit. Like stocks and the shareholders and boring ass boardroom meetings. Holy hell, the old men around here loved their board meetings. And those suckers weren’t like, five or ten minutes.
I fucking sat in a boardroom meeting for four hours last week.
Four hours!
Last fucking week!
It was so monotonous that my bear was practically falling asleep.
But, now that the meeting this afternoon was canceled, I decided to take an early day. I could already feel my stress levels rising just thinking about the board meetings to come. I’d need to approve everything through them to make sure everyone was on board before I’d be able to do any of the shit I actually liked doing, which was making everything better than it was in the beginning.
I was a fixer.
An improver.
The club downtown, The Wild, boasted of some of the finest women this city had to offer. They were vetted by appearance at the door by the bouncers and there was always someone willing to sit in the billionaires’ lap. Shifter or not, they’d do anything to get into the VIP area with me, especially when I was known for wining and dining them in the evenings.
You know, before giving into my raw, animalistic tendencies and fucking them stupid into the mattress, ruining them for any other man in their lives.
So, in order to blow off some steam, that was exactly where I was headed. I was going to find me a nice piece of ass to come sit on my lap. I was going to feed her wines and decadent fruits that she’d suck between her lips before I pulled out my cock and mesmerized her with it. Never had a woman refused the thick dick I had packing underneath my pants, and I could feel it.
Tonight was my night. I was going to find me a little crimson-lipped beauty with long legs for hours and hair that dripped down her back. I was going to wrap my hands within it while I took her from behind, then I’d hold her close to make her feel special before making her breakfast and escorting her out.
If she was going to be my little slut for the evening, the least I could do was treat her with respect in the morning.
My bear roared greedily at the mere idea of it as I climbed into the seat of my car, and I started home so I could get ready.
I had a bed to make just so I could mark it with some lucky woman’s lipstick.
2
SUMMER
I still couldn’t believe I’d snagged this job. The Wild was the classiest lounge in town, and the club’s owner only took on the most talented individuals. I enjoyed it because it was more cabaret than stripper: the nudity was always implied and there weren’t any rooms where men could take us back afterwards and pay us for anything. Many clubs around the city were just like that, but not here.
Here, I could flourish in my craft without having to worry about being taken advantage of.
I smoothed my long brown hair back from my face and tied it into a low ponytail before I began applying my makeup. With the harsh lighting a stage afforded, sometimes it was necessary to contour and put a little heavier makeup on. This was my debut number, so all lights would be on me, and that meant I really had to make sure my eyes popped. My eyes were the number one thing men complimented me on. They were these light baby blues that would make any man look ice cold.
But on me, with my red lips and my rosy cheeks, they added a sense of mystery.
Especially when I teased my hair out.
I applied my makeup bases and let them sit while I curled my hair in my hot rollers. People were coming up and introducing themselves, giving me their luck and wishing me well. The thing about this club was that you got one shot: they didn’t hire you unless you could drive the crowd wild with your particular flair. The clientele that came to let off some steam and enjoy the show were of the highest class in the city. And many of them were shifters as well. They weren’t an easy breed of man to wow, but the club was lacking a true, sensual woman to really command the stage.
Not to make the men whoop and holler, but to make them speechless and drool.
That was my job: to fulfill that need for this club. If I could, I could quit my day job waitressing. I loved where I was, don’t get me wrong. But, it didn’t pay me the money I needed to live the life I wanted. The only kind of apartment I could afford was one with roommates in the shady part of town. I didn’t feel safe walking around, which meant I had to restrict myself to the day shifts-- which usually didn’t pay much.
I couldn’t decorate the way I wanted, I couldn’t sing in the shower like I wanted. I couldn’t even own some of the things I wanted, like a queen-sized bed or a little labradoodle. All my life, I’d wanted two things: my own place and my own puppy.
Working exclusively for The Wild would afford me that lifestyle. I could be happy doing just this. Doing what I love and living the way I wanted to live. I didn’t want a family, I didn’t want kids, and I didn’t want anything to tie me down. I wanted my stage, I wanted my puppy, and I wanted my home.
I let the hot rollers heat up my hair while I began putting on the rest of my makeup. I was a lounge singer all over town, which was why the club owner decided to give me a shot. My resume was massive, and I had a few recordings I could bring him when I came in for the interview. The only reason he called me up after I placed my application was because the last place I sung at was the Brandy Library.
Apparently, that was his favorite place to frequent when he wasn’t here.
I took the hot rollers out of my hair and teased it out before I started getting into my outfit. I pulled on black stockings that contrasted with my milky white skin and attached them to the hooks on my tight leather shorts. They stopped just underneath my buttcheeks-- enough to tease the men but still stay appropriate-- and the crimson red corset I hooked myself into matched the crimson red lipstick I was going to swipe onto my lips just before I walked on stage.
And the moment I hit the stage, the men began to whistle.
I stood there at the top of the steps, fog covering the stage. I was only afforded one paid number unless the crowd chanted to have me back, so I had to make sure it was a good one. I decided to go with a slow, sensual ballad since I was trying to stun the men speechless.
So, when my personal lounge arrangement of ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ began to play, I slowly began sashaying down the steps as my fingertips ran down the side railing.
All I did was slowly walk around stage and sing. The song was slow, the key was low, and every time I went down for a really low note I’d dip down and flick my finger underneath the chin of a man whose jaw was dropped to the floor. A couple of times I did a little twist when a sultry trumpet would pop up and make a sound, and by the time the song was over I was sitting on a stool in the middle of the room with my legs spread wide and my eyebrow cocked in the air.
For the briefest of moments, the room was silent. The song had stopped, I was holding my breath so my body wouldn’t falter, and then I heard it.
It was one voice in the back, and then it trickled into three. The entire back balcony got in on the chant just before it rumbled down to the main floor.
And I stood to my feet while they chanted my name.
“Summer! Summer! Summer! Summer! Summer!”
I slowly inched off the stool and blew a kiss to the crowd before I carefully turned on my heels and swayed my ass off stage. I nailed the
number, I knew I did, and while I was never one to toot my own horn, the owner would be an idiot not to hire me.
Wait until I got to tell him that was my own arrangement.
I slid my robe on in the back just as the club owner came bursting through. He had a massive smile on his face and he drew me in for a hug, singing my praises and asking me if I had another number prepared.
He hired me right on the spot, and I was ecstatic.
I decided to go celebrate with a drink after I walked up to the music booth. I handed him the track for the next number I would do later on in the evening, then I headed to the bar for a martini. I was one of the few women in town who actually enjoyed my martinis dry, and the bartenders were always sweethearts when I asked for extra olives. I was sitting there, waiting for my martini as I watched the next act go on, but there was a movement that caught the corner of my eye.
A handsome man sitting at the end who had swiveled his stool to look at me.
He was tall, and his shoulders were broad. His rippling muscles were threatening to bulge from the very expensive suit he had on, and his sandy blonde hair contrasted wonderfully with his tan skin. His dark, mysterious eyes stayed hooked on me, his thick fingers wrapped around a glass of amber liquid, and I delicately grabbed my martini glass.
My eyes couldn’t stop scanning him. He had a striking jawline that tapered into high cheekbones. The smirk on his face told me he was looking at exactly what he wanted to see for the evening, and he raised his glass to me in a toast. I raised my martini glass to him, blushing underneath his gaze. But, his eyes never left mine, even as we wrapped our lips around the edges of our glasses.
Oh, how his lips seemed to glide across the crystal glasses. I bet they would glide across my skin just as effortlessly, stained with the amber liquid he was drinking while he devoured me whole. I imagined that strong body covering me from the world, shrouding me from the reality of the apartment I’d have to eventually go back to.
