BOURBON AND THE BEAR - Preview

A Tulsa Immortals Story

By Audra Hart

Copyright © 2018 Audra Hart Publications

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Unedited Preview subject to revision

I hope to have this book ready for publication by Christmas time of 2018

 

CHAPTER 1 – Patty

 

Okay, so sue me.  I am daydreaming at work, again, when the phone on my desk buzzes obnoxiously making me yelp in surprise.  Really, Patty?  Your own phone startled you?  This is getting ridiculous.  I roll my eyes at myself before I answer the phone.   My assistant, Aoife Murphy, is on the line to inform me that our boss, John Lyon, president and CEO of Lyon Media Marketing and Public Relations, wants to see me in his office.  I thank Aoife before hanging up and glancing at the clock. I barely suppress an exhausted sigh when I see that it already after five o’clock. 

Oh well, duty calls and all that.  Immediately.  I pick up my files for the Appleton Grove Foods account and my laptop containing our campaign mock ups before heading out the door.  A quick dash into the ladies, reveals my chignon is holding up reasonably well and the charcoal pencil skirt topped with a sedate gray silk blouse, which I donned at two A.M., are both reasonably unwrinkled and sans coffee stains. 

That, in and of itself, it almost a miracle.  Especially since I have been at my desk since three A.M. this morning putting the finishing touches on my proposal for the Appleton account.  No, I did not come in to work that early because my boss is a slave driver.  Nope.  I did it because I had to.  Over the last two months, I have realized that once everyone else arrives at the office, I have a lot of trouble concentrating.  So I have begun coming in crazy early to get the lion’s share of my work done before the noises, nauseating scents of perfumes and colognes, and the overwhelmingly negative energy of my co-workers make it difficult to focus. The account which the company’s CEO has apparently taken a sudden and surprising interest in is right on track and the customer has no complaints about our services, that I am aware of.  But, why else would John Lyon call a junior account exec to his office?  Why else would John Lyon even know of my existence in the grand scheme of things?

Despite the fact that I am damned good at my job and have literally worked my way up through the ranks from an intern position in the mail room a little over five years ago to the position of junior account executive with my own small team under me, I know I am not a big of a deal around here.  Lyon Media Marketing and Public Relations deals with some of the biggest names in Los Angeles.  Everyone from superstars of film and music to Fortune 500 companies.  Nope.  A junior exec in charge of five mid-size accounts would not normally come to the interest of John Lyon. 

Crap.  Did Karney Appleton trump up some false complaint against me after I turned down his not so subtle advance the other day?  Double crap.

Exiting the washroom, I head for the express elevator to go to the top floor, where all the big wigs have their offices.  Punching in the code I have never used until today, I sigh softly in relief that it actually works when the elevator’s doors open for me.  On the way up, my belly suddenly begins to do acrobatic flops and that weird feeling, that another consciousness is struggling for control, has decided to put in an appearance!  Crap.  Don’t faint.  Don’t faint.  Don’t faint. 

Wonderful!  The voice is back! Jeez!  Am I losing my mind?  I begin the deep breathing exercises I learned in yoga class, and find that I am feeling a bit better by the time the elevator opens unto the top floor.  I nearly jump out of my skin when I realize Mr. Lyon’s assistant is waiting for me.  WTF?

Following the ultra-chic, blond office drone, I desperately scrabble around in my mind to discover just why I might be in such big trouble with the top Lyon in the company’s food chain.  You’ve done nothing wrong.  Stop panicking.  Well, at least the voice is comforting in her comments today.  Normally, she’s urging me to do crazy things like strip off my clothes and run in the desert at night, or lick the UPS guys when he delivers my packages from Amazon.  UGH!  I push all thoughts of the voice and strange urges regarding the desert and the sexy delivery guy when the blond assistant opens the door to the executive suite and indicates I should go in.  My steps falter, sorta, and I gulp down my anxiety while lifting my chin to face my doom with some dignity. 

Dramatic much?  Don’t worry, I doubt the bad kitty will eat you or anything.  And now the voice is coping attitude again.  Yay.  Lucky me. 

As I step over threshold, I realize all of the big dogs…er, cats, are here.  Wow!  John Lyon is not alone.  His VPs and brothers, are also here.  While John Lyon is busy on the phone, Thomas Lyon strides across the room to greet me with a welcoming expression on his handsome, coulda been a male model, face before he leads me to take a seat in a plush chair facing the massive Cherrywood desk of the company’s president.  William Lyon, another brother and top company exec, who also happens to have a face and body that would be at home in the movies or on the cover of a magazine, is seated casually on the corner of his brother’s desk to my right and is eyeing me with open speculation. 

When William Lyon notices the file and laptop which I am white knuckling on my lap, he smirks knowingly.  The bastard knows I am worried about being summoned to the company president’s office.  Oddly, I get the feeling that all three of these men are playing some game with me… like a cat plays with a mouse.  More like the way a lion plays with a wounded wildebeest on the African plain.  And there goes my overly active imagination again.  While having the ability to think out of the box is great for my job, it makes for some wild and crazy thoughts flying through my head in stressful situations.  Such as the one I find myself in right now.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Ms. Carmichael?”  This question comes from Thomas Lyon.  Turning to face the sexy exec with surfer boy good looks, I decline the offer with a smile and a confident, “No, thank you.”  That is when I notice that under Thomas Lyon welcoming demeanor, lurks another knowing smirk.  What is going on with these guys?  Jeez, am I losing my job? 

No way! the voice chimes in boisterously.  You kick ass at this job and these prime specimens know it!  YAY!  The crazy voice is being positive again.

“Did you enjoy your vacation in Tulsa?” William asks, almost knowingly.

Why in the heck is asking about my three weeks off back in June?  Jeez, that’s been almost two months now.  “I did,” I say with a placid smile pasted on my face.  “I grew up in Tulsa.  HR’s insistence that I use some my accumulated vacation time came at a very opportune time.”  I smile fondly in recollection of my time back in Oklahoma.  “A friend from high school was getting married, and her cousin was supposed to be one her bridesmaids but was injured in car accident and couldn’t fulfill her obligation to the bridal party.  So, I agreed to step in.”  UGH!  Why am I blathering on about this stuff?  Because you still feel guilty for taking three weeks off work, even though you did not have a choice.  Company policies and all that, I remind myself immediately.

“Yes, I must say,” Thomas chimes in.  “We have been reviewing your records from HR and speaking with your supervisors from over the years you have been in our employ, as well as the team members who now work under you.  We are most impressed with your work ethic and meteoric progress in our company.”

“I enjoy my job,” I say genuinely.  “I strive to do well.”

“At the expense of your personal life, it would seem,” William cuts in rudely.

“Not at all,” I say, struggling to keep the defensive note out of my voice.

“Really?” Thomas asks, not unkindly.  “You’ve been with Lyon for over five years and those three weeks in June are the only days off you’ve taken in that entire time.  Not even a sick day or a personal day.  Nothing in five years.”

Okay?  What does he want me to say?  Is it suddenly a crime to be a hard worker?

“Yes, and now Jefferies, the head of security informs us that you have been coming in to work between three and five in the morning for almost two months.” Thomas supplies helpfully.  “And yet, you always leave at five or later.”

“I have a relatively inexperienced team,” I offer by way of explanation.  “And we have been lucky enough to land three new accounts in the past two months.”

“Still,” William scoffs.  “It is somewhat bizarre behavior on your part, don’t you think?”

“No,” I lie through my teeth.  There is no way in hell that I am going to admit to these men that I suddenly function better when the building is nearly empty.  That by the time the rest of the company shows up to begin their work day, I’ve already completed the lion’s share of my work thanks to my early hours and working at home.  That once the sounds, scents and… uh… energies of my co-workers fill the building I struggle to do more than pace like a caged lion or sit at my desk to day dream about hunting in the midnight jungle.  On four paws.  That I sit around and day dream about being a giant jungle cat.  That ever since I came back from Tulsa, my life has gone crazy.  That I am afraid I am losing my flipping mind? 

Nope.  Not gonna say any of those things.

That is when John Lyon terminates his phone call and looks up to meet my eyes, what I see in his gaze has me suppressing an involuntary gasp.  His eyes are glowing.  Like my brother Ben’s and some of his friends’ eyes do at times.  WTF? 

“Why have you been hiding your light under a bushel, Ms. Carmichael?” John Lyon demands gruffly.  Man oh man, I do not like the way he stressed my last name.  More importantly though, the man’s entire vibe suddenly feels… dangerous.  In fact, this weird little moment feels so life changing and maybe even deadly, that I nearly fly out of my seat and run for the door.  Again, WTF?  What is going on right now?

But I do not get up and run.  Hell, I don’t even bare my neck like some ancient primal instinct seems to be urging me to do.  Instead, I meet the man’s gaze levelly, which has now turned back to a normal shade of brown, to say; “I do not understand what you mean, Mr. Lyon.” 

Good girl!  The inner voice cheers.  He is not our Prime.  We do not cower before him. 

WTF?  I need to check myself into Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital at UCLA to get a scan done on my head, or something. 

John Lyon simply rises to his feet and calmly walks around his desk, never taking his captivating gaze from my face, to casually lean against the edge of his massive desk with his powerful looking hands resting at his sides.  Now, I am indeed feeling trapped.  Thomas is still in the chair at my left, John is directly before me leaning against his desk – but now his arms are crossed, while William remains indolently perched at the corner of the desk to my right.  And all three of them seem to be towering over me.  Waiting.  Expectant.  Taunting. 

When a snarl, yes, I said a snarl – like an animal, rumbles deep in my chest before it tears from my lips, my hand flies up to cover my mouth.  Great!  Now I really will be fired.  Instead, of demanding to know why I am suddenly making animal noises, the three men simply chuckle.

“The kitten has claws,” William smirks approvingly.  “Good to know.”

What the hell is with people wanting to call me Kitten?  That is my family’s pet name for me.  In fact, my middle name, Gatita, means kitten in Spanish.  I guess it was meant to be a nod to my South American origins.  Anyway, I have always hated being called Kitten. 

Well, I hated being called Kitten until a certain burly bear of a biker began calling me Kitten over shots of bourbon and later in his bed.

I give myself a mental shake to clear those unwanted memories from my mind.  Suddenly, being summoned to the company president’s office makes sense.  Somehow, the heads of Lyon Media Marketing and Public Relations have discovered who my parents are.  Now, they think they can use me to get close to Carmichael Energy.  No doubt, every PR firm in the country would love to land that account.  Really?  I’ve been dragged up here because of who I am and not because of the work I have done? 

I’m so pissed off at this realization that I nearly tell these men that my only connection to my family’s international mega-corporation is by virtual of being adopted by Foster and Lily Carmichael at age five.  My only knowledge of Carmichael Energy’s inner workings come from what I read in the business section of the Los Angeles Times, the Wall Street Journal, or the occasional article in US Business News.  If they think they can use me to land CE for a client, they couldn’t be more wrong.

But before I can open my mouth to say anything truly stupid, the gorgeous blond office drone raps sharply on the office door before entering with sleek silver binder and a laptop in her hands.  John Lyon smiles warmly at the blond and pushes off the edge of the desk to walk past me and accept the binder and the computer.  “Thank you, Anita.  Is everything else ready?”

“Indeed, sir.  Eee-fa Murphy, has the other files and will pick up Ms. Carmichael at her apartment to drive to the airport in a little over two hours.”  I almost smirk at the awkward way that Anita pronounces my assistant’s name.  I can recall Aoife telling me, “It’s like Eva, but use the soft sound of an F, not the sharp sound of the V. Ee-fa.”  Somehow, I completely miss the little tidbit about the airport.

“Very good.  Thank you for all of your hard work, Anita.”  There isn’t a smidgen of doubt in my mind that the man’s appreciation is genuine. I watch as he lifts his left hand to check his Rolex before saying; “It’s nearly six o’clock.  Go home to your family.”  In that moment, I am almost envious of the praise and appreciation he has shown to his assistant.  I’ve been with this company for over five years, and until recently, it was almost as though I were ghost.  My performance reviews have always been excellent, and my steadily increasing salary has reflected those reviews.  However, while it is true that I have earned promotion after promotion, none of the execs I have dealt with have ever given me more than cursory nod to acknowledge my capabilities or hard work.  And yet, this lovely office assistant gets warm praise for completing perfectly ordinary duties that go along with her job. 

Meeee-yow!  The inner voice sneers.  Jealous much? 

As much as I hate to admit it, I think the crazy voice might be right.

“Thank you, Pri…” she cuts a curious glance at me before stuttering, “Uh… Sir.”  She turns to look at the other two men in the office and smiles warmly before gifting me with the same warm smile.  How in the world did I ever confuse this lovely woman for a dull, lifeless office drone?

Once Anita closes the door softly behind her, John Lyon places the binder and computer in the center of his desk walks out of my line of sight.  “I’m getting a brandy.  Thomas?  William?” 

The brothers join John at the small bar I noticed when I first arrived.  The well-appointed wet bar is tucked into a corner at the back of the massive office.  I want to turn just enough to watch these men, to figure out their game, but I don’t.  I do not want to give away how angry I am right now.  And not just because Mr. Big didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted a brandy.  Elitist Ass. 

This kind of behavior is exactly why I avoid most of my parent’s friends.  Oh, they always treat me like I am one of them, but I have seen over and over, how they keep themselves separate from those outside of their social circle.  And I hate it.  I hate it so much, I refuse to be a part of that world.

I must have been pretty deep in my dark thoughts about the elitist attitudes of the very rich because I did not hear the Lyon brothers approach with their drinks.  “Let’s move this conversation to the sitting area, shall we?” John Lyon invites amiably. 

Okay, this is not what I expected when I was called up the top floor today.  While I am not wholly comfortable sitting around with the three top execs of the company, after hours, while they are drinking, I am not really certain I have a choice if I want to keep my job.  Rising to my feet, I thank William when he takes the folders and laptop from my hands to set them on John’s desk next to the slick binder and the other laptop.  At the same time, Thomas gently grips my bicep to direct me to the comfy looking leather loveseat.  I am relieved when none of the men join me on the smallish loveseat.  Instead, John and William settle into the massive chesterfield camelback sofa, covered in supple black leather, which is situated directly across from me, while Thomas takes a matching high backed club chair to their right.

John leans forward to place his snifter on the glass insert of a very unusual kidney shaped, two-tiered coffee table, also fashioned of cherry wood.  The artfully crafted legs and odd design make me think of something that one would have seen in swanky office back in the fifties or sixties.  I cast a quick glance around and realize the entire office is filled with expensive antiques. Oh, there are plenty of modern touches, but the room feels as though it has remained virtually intact for decades.  Perhaps these furnishings were here when John Sr. led the company? 

Don’t worry about the stupid furniture! 

And the voice is back.  Lucky me. 

“I did not offer you a drink, Ms. Carmichael because every company exec who has come to me about you, mentions you do not attempt to socialize with company folk.  In fact, you rarely attend company social functions unless they are a required part of your job.  And on those few occasions you do join a company celebration, you never drink.  I simply assumed you would hold to that pattern.”

Okay, so knowing that execs have been talking to the company president about me is weird.  Really weird.  I am just a junior exec who handles mid to small size accounts.  So I simply smile politely and say; “I find it works best for me if I keep my work and social lives separate.  Not drinking at a work function reinforces that for me.”

John simply nods.  “Ms. Carmichael, had you not hidden the truth about yourself, you would not have had to work your way up from the mail room.  Especially not with your background and education.”  I bristle at the inference that I would ever use my family connections to obtain special treatment, but I remain silent.  “Quite frankly, before we learned the truth about you, you would have no doubt languished in Mid-Sized Accounts purgatory indefinitely.”

I simply shrug.  “I do not want anything I have not earned.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that.  It’s the nature of the beast.  However, there is no denying keeping your secret would have left you on the back burner for your entire career here at Lyon even though your work is exemplary.  Under different circumstances, I expect you would have been working here in the top floor, at least for the last year or two.”  Okay.  That’s definitely weird.  “But as things stand, now that we know your secret, we will make use of your leadership skills and ability to adapt in trying situations.  “We need someone like you to take care of an issue at our new offices in Tulsa.  You, my dear Kitten, are moving home.”