Fearsome
Authors: S. A. Wolfe
Fearsome
By: S.A. Wolfe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2013 S.A. Wolfe
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
http://www.sa-wolfe.com
Cover Design by Damonza
Editing and Formatting by C&D Editing
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Jessica Channing’s big city life should be more exciting than sixty-hour work weeks and popcorn nights with her girlfriends, but it’s not. She has worked hard fulfilling her role as a child prodigy and graduating college years before her peers. She’s the good girl, the brilliant girl.
Unfortunately, she’s also the dateless young woman.
That all changes with one phone call. Jess’s rigid, predictable life upends when she must visit a small, obscure town to deal with a relative’s death. This isn’t just any little speck of a town, though. Long lost memories come crashing down on Jess’s world when two men, the Blackard brothers, seem to lure her in.
Dylan is cover model handsome, and pursues Jess the minute she comes to town. Then there is tall, dark and gorgeous Carson, who hides his own secrets behind his hardened reserve.
For someone who has been governed by her own obsessive behaviors and fears, Jess lets her guard down and jumps at the opportunity to have an affair with a man she actually finds attractive for a change.
There’s just one problem. Jess discovers that she can’t have a simple romantic fling because true passion does indeed come with some very big strings attached to it. She will have to own up to her own truths about love and face the two extraordinary men; both troubled in their own ways and both determined to have her.
Genre: Romance
This novel contains graphic sexual content and strong language. It is intended for mature readers.
One
There are young women in this city who are able to grab on to careers and romance with the zeal and ambition of an Olympic athlete. I, however,
am not one of those women. I’ll admit that I’m able to excel in parts of that equation, to a degree. I grew up in New York City, primed with a top notch education which has afforded me the ability to secure a great job in technology due to hard work and blessed prodigy talents, yet it hasn’t made up for my less than stellar personal life.
The phone call from my Aunt Virginia’s lawyer comes one afternoon when I am having an especially miserable day at work. Sitting in my cubby, surrounded by a dozen other techies also hunched over their computer monitors, I listen as Archibald Bixby informs me that my aunt died peacefully in her own bed a week ago and that she bequeathed all of her money and possessions to me. He’s sorry he couldn’t tell me sooner, but he had to follow Aunt Virginia’s instructions.
I have a blurry image of my aunt. She was actually my great aunt; a generation older than my parents, and the last time I saw her I was six. I remember running through her big, old Victorian home, exploring the different rooms and all the remarkable things she collected. Artwork was everywhere. She was a painter and, over the years, she had collected other artists’ work. It made me think of her house as something fanciful.
Before I can delve further into my foggy memories, Mr. Bixby’s request that I come to his office brings me back to the present. He thinks it will be best if I meet him in person where he can fill me in on the details of my aunt’s will. He says that my aunt left me her home and a significant amount of resources. He even suggests I pack enough to stay for a while so I can think things over.
“Think what over?” I ask.
“Miss Channing. May I call you Jessica?” he asks then, without waiting for my response, continues on, “Well, let’s just say that Ginnie had some nice ideas for you and it’s my job to convey her message to you as best I can. I think, when you arrive here, you’ll understand more of what I’m trying to say. You’ll want time to let this percolate on the brain, as they say, so pack a few suitcases and think of this as an extended vacation. I’ll pick you up at the bus stop.”
I take the subway back to my five-floor walk-up on Waverly while wondering why Mr. Bixby even assumes I have the luxury of taking a vacation, extended or otherwise. I don’t. I’ve been working for 5 Alpha for almost two years, ever since I graduated college. I may have been smart enough to finish college and graduate school several years before my peers, but I’m still a cubicle-grunt at work. The hours are long and the opportunity to move up is highly competitive. It requires an obscene devotion to the firm, including working weekends and nights; whatever it takes to debug the computer code we write all day and in our sleep.
I’m good at it and I get my share of mentoring from the management who like my ideas, but mostly, I stand out because I came to 5 Alpha at the age of nineteen, right out of M.I.T. My colleagues at 5 Alpha are all from the top of their graduate school classes, however, none of them are under the age of twenty-four and seventy percent of the employees are men. You’d think that would be appealing for a young woman, but to be honest, sometimes I still feel like I’m in high school and I haven’t caught up with everyone else. Occasionally, I feel like the little duckling trailing behind, afraid to cross the road with the other, bigger ducks. Yes, I am a pathetic, nerdy girl who still compares herself to ducks.
When I enter my pre-war building, I smell a mixture of burnt microwave popcorn and curry, which I’m pretty sure comes from my apartment. There’s also an undercurrent odor of pot, most likely from the stoner who lives below me.
I live in a great part of Greenwich Village, surrounded by brownstones that are being renovated by their wealthy owners, and I’m in close proximity to lively restaurants and shops. When you’re in my aging building, though, you know you’re in a place that caters to recent college grads.
The carpeting on the hollow staircase is a tattered, old, red brocade style that reminds me of lounge singers from the 1940’s and the wooden banister wobbles as I grip it on my hike up to the apartment I share with two other girls, Kate and Marissa.
Our apartment is quiet when I let myself in; no TV blaring a primetime reality show that my roomies love to watch and no sounds of churning, burping water pipes, which always happens when someone is in the closet-sized bathroom. There are remnants of the destroyed popcorn left on the coffee table, clothes tossed onto the couch and there is a selection of strapless bras and slinky dresses displayed across a few kitchen chairs.
I can easily imagine what precipitated this. My roommates, after a dinner of burnt popcorn and disastrous, homemade chicken curry, decided to go out to a club, I’m sure. Naturally, they wouldn’t wait for me because, as my roommates and I have been through many times, at a few months shy of my twenty-first birthday, I’m still not old enough to go out dancing and drinking with them. Of course,
sometimes
I’m able to slip in when a bouncer thinks I’m pretty and opens the velvet rope for me, but all too often, the female bartenders have gotten me tossed out not long after.
I can’t blame my friends for going without me. They’re twenty-three and want to get on with growing up and meeting men and, as much as they try to include me, sometimes it must feel like they have a little sister tagging along.
I pack the two very small suitcases I own with the few clothes I tend to wear constantly and stock my art box with paint tubes, brushes and my portfolio case with special watercolor paper. If inspiration strikes, maybe I’ll get some painting done in the fresh country air. I complete a quick tidying of the apartment, picking up discarded clothing and washing the dishes, finishing with some light dusting.
I leave my roommates a note about my trip to Hera, New York with the assumption that I will return in a few days, and if I don’t, to make inquiries and send out a search party for their “little sister”. I also text my boss and let him know that I’ve had a death in the family and expect to be out of the office for a few days. He replies immediately, telling me to take all the time I need.
That’s one very good thing about my job. Even though my boss, Nathan, flirts too much with me, he tries to be the boss everyone likes, so he’s very accommodating. Sometimes I think he favors me more than the others and it’s probably the universal perception that I am very young, therefore I must be very naïve and need all the guidance I can get.
Before bed, I double check on the computer for the bus schedule that will take me out of New York City and drop me off in Hera. I envision stepping off at a dusty bus stop surrounded by fields of wheat and not a single soul nearby, other than maybe a three-legged dog. Of course, that’s ridiculous. The Catskills area is known for some of its very affluent country towns. A lot of New Yorkers set up second homes there while tourists vacation in the posh spa resorts in places like New Paltz.
I really can’t remember Hera very well, though, so the idea of leaving a city of nine million people and going to a town of less than a thousand sounds more ominous than it should. Especially when, much to my dismay, there’s no mass transportation. For a girl who has an unused driver’s license because I take the train everywhere, I have a hard time wrapping my head around a town without a subway system.
Sleep comes late, I’m too anxious thinking about my aunt who is a distant image in my memory bank. I lie in bed on the first warm night of summer, listening to the street life through the open window; laughing couples, groups of friends talking too loudly and honking cars. These are the same sounds that have kept me company while I studied, lived and worked in the city most of my life; graduating high school at fourteen, graduating Columbia at seventeen and finishing my masters at M.I.T. at nineteen. I am the math geek that no one, especially me, ever dreams of being.
I also wonder why my parents haven’t called me. Surely they must have been informed about Aunt Virginia’s death. It’s just as well, we rarely speak and, when we do, it’s generic small talk about my work.
