by Pearl Jones
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Aspen Mountain Press
www.aspenmountainpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by Pearl Jones
First published in 2007, 2007
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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WARNING
This e-Book contains sexually graphic scenes and adult language. Store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.
Reach Out
and
Touch Someone
Pearl Jones
Aspen Mountain Press
Reach Out and Touch Someone
Copyright © 2007 Pearl Jones
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Aspen Mountain Press
PO Box 473543
Aurora CO 80047-3543
www.AspenMountainPress.com
First edition, August 2007
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and / or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the publisher's express permission.
ISBN: 978-1-60168-054-9
Released in the United States of America
Editor: Nikita Gordyn
Cover artist: Nikita Gordyn
Chapter One
Jackie could have sworn the light was laughing at her. It blinked, maddening malevolent red. A mechanical voice grated, “You've got voice mail.” Again.
"Yes, I know that, you idiot machine. What I don't know is who called, or what they want, or how to make you spit it out!” Images of impatient clients filled her mind. Damn it, they hire us so they won't have to worry about things getting done. What sort of goddess can't answer her clients’ prayers?
Easy: One who's gone deaf. Or whose box has a screw loose! The business was built on quality, on being good enough to nearly anticipate needs. To “answer prayers before church lets out,” as her partner put it. Without messages, that simply wasn't possible, and failure was a weight on her shoulders. Even the more ordinary sort of coordinator had to handle her client's concerns the first time they were mentioned, and the business Jackie and her partner had built was far from ordinary. Their clients expected them not only to respond instantly, but to identify potential problems and solve them before they became actual ones. Which I can't do if I don't know what's going on in people's lives. Argh!
Her partner, the irrepressible Carrie-Anne, called out a good-bye, adding that she'd call in once she and her lover reached the resort. “So you can let me know if you need any little thing. Or not so little, eh? Maybe I'll bring you home a souvenir."
The outside door slammed, cutting off silvery laughter, and Jackie was alone in the office. “Except for you, you ... you thing.” She glared at the telephone. The lack of a decent epithet was one more frustration in the long list of same—most of which, she felt, were less worrisome than this. What matter the lack of a home life? That could wait, and had, long enough. This, though, this was business. Without her messages, how was she supposed to get anything done, meet her clients’ every need? Handle crises, take advantage of opportunities, work? “Damn it, you have to tell me what they said!"
Anger surged as she watched the light's inexorable blink. For two days now, it had blinked just that way—and once more was just that one too many. She threw her mug, fortunately empty, at the wall. It exploded into a hundred pieces, several of which came hurtling back at her; she yelped and ducked and huddled beneath her desk, laughing wearily at her own antics. What she really wanted to throw, of course, was the phone, but she didn't dare. With her luck, the messages would turn out to have been stored only in that one physical telephone unit, rather than in some less-destructible computer system somewhere.
She'd called the company first thing the day before, as soon as she'd discovered the problem; no joy. “Our operators are all busy helping other customers. If you'd like to hold...” and hold she had, all afternoon, until the message changed. “Our business hours are from eight a.m. to six p.m. Eastern. If you'd like to leave a message..."
"And what are they going to do, leave me voice mail telling how to get my voice mail?” She had left a message, of course, for all the good it had done, explaining what had happened and leaving her cell, pager, home, and fax numbers, and Carrie-Anne's numbers, too, just in case. All that effort was wasted, though; no one had called.
Early that morning, she'd checked the company's service agreement. Teams of lawyers had earned their fees on that document, obviously, and not one of them on behalf of the customers. There were charges for any service calls, no matter the problem; substantial penalties for severing contracts; no redress for loss of service. Ack. “Last time we let the beefcake make a decision.” Carrie-Anne's hunky but thick-headed beau had signed the deal in his position as office manager. “There has to be some way around this.” Though she was too aggravated to try to find one, she promised herself she would. Later. Unless she first managed to get one of those lawyers in a room with a cauldron conveniently filled with boiling oil!
The phone interrupted her raving. At least the ringer works. She picked up, forcing a smile so she'd sound friendly to the caller. “Deas ex Machina, facilitators extraordinaire. Good morning. What prayer can we answer for you today?"
"Hello, I'd like to talk to you about your health insurance."
It wasn't even a real person, just a recording. Appalled, Jackie stared at the phone. Machines making sales calls now? “I think I'll become a Luddite.” The declaration might have had more force had she not been sitting in a leather chair with a vibrating lumbar pillow, in an office where even the lights were controlled by computer. In fact, the only low-tech things in the entire suite were the mugs hanging from little hooks in the break room and the yoga mat her partner kept rolled up and tucked away in a corner of the reception area.
Jackie cleaned up the shards of the cup she had broken, muttering that it was probably time to switch to decaf, and sat down to work. A number of her clients were e-mail accessible; she sent out an apology, explaining the problem and requesting that people call her cell or pager (numbers attached) or reply with their requests. A flurry of responses ate the next hours, and for long minutes at a time, she forgot her irritation with the phone.
Eventually, her body announced a need for a bathroom break. She parked her cell phone in the charger and headed off to the rest room.
Of course, the office phone rang just when she was at a point where stopping was not possible. It had been that sort of day. She pushed, trying to void her bladder at speed so she could catch the phone before the sixth ring when it would switch to voice-mail—and she blessed Carrie-Anne's beefcake for setting the lag time that long. Hurry, hurry. Two. Why did I drink so much? Three. The fourth ring never came. “No!"
Yes.
Maybe the caller just hung up. That's possible, isn't it? Maybe? But she knew: the voice mail had picked up.
"Not today. Please, not today.” Not when she was alone in the office, wait
ing for a new client who was not e-mail savvy, and refused to become so, to make his needs known. Big-fish clients weren't so thick on the ground she could afford to upset one by not being reachable! And what little she'd seen of him suggested that he would not be the sort to try calling again, or using alternate numbers—no, he'd have called, said his piece, and expected her to take it from there. Or else.
And it's not like I can just call him and ask if he has anything he wants to say! She'd actually done that once, when she was new to the biz, called a client to check up. The sort of person who put a facilitator on retainer didn't want to have to think about her. Ever. Except when called upon directly, her job was to be invisible, to take care of whatever needed doing and fade away. Not so much a goddess as a fairy godmother—minus the sparkles—making things magically come right.
"Only I don't know if there's anything that needs doing,” Jackie glared at the phone, stubbornly silent now that she was within grabbing distance, “because you won't tell me."
She stayed in the office until nine, trying every now and again to make the phone spit out her messages, or at least to let her change the outgoing speech. She'd have loved to leave a message explaining the problem, complete with the name of the service provider, and wouldn't have suffered a moment's guilt over it. Unfortunately, the phone no longer recognized her password, or Carrie's, or even the code they'd selected for beefy-boy: 1111.
By the time she left, her headache had spread down her neck and shoulders, and she could barely see past the pain.
* * * *
The next day was much the same as the last, only more so, her prayers for a miraculously repaired telephone unanswered. Her headache didn't completely fade overnight, and only got worse as the the day wore on. She skipped breakfast and had no appetite for lunch; Advil was all that appealed. Even coffee made her queasy, and the vibrating chair she loved nearly made her ill. By two o'clock, she was seriously considering quitting—at least for a day or two, until they got the phones fixed, or paid the penalties and signed with a new service. But then, wonder of wonders, a knock came at the office door.
She rose from the yoga pad where she'd been trying to stretch her aches away and went to see who it was. Clients didn't tend to drop in, but there was always that chance. Or it could have been a salesman, or a courier, or even a friend stopping by. She tried to focus on the pleasant possibilities; being mad at the world was simply too much work. Easier to save her ire for the damned phone.
Looking through the clear-glass panel in the door, she saw an even more welcome sight than a florist with roses in hand: the man's badge bore his picture above the phone company logo. Not a bad picture, either; it looked like him. Rugged, strong, capable. Big. Thanks be. He waved when he saw her, his hand as large as both of hers, and her knees went weak. She tried to tell herself it was only from exhaustion, or relief, but her eyes were still on his hands as she opened the door. She'd never seen hands so large. Not that they were outsized or anything, he was altogether a big guy. Built like a redwood, she decided, and tried not to imagine climbing his trunk.
"There you are.” His greeting sounded, oddly, like approval. She blinked, trying to shake away a rising sense of comfort she didn't, couldn't, fathom. “Understand you have a problem with your phones?"
Even has a tree-voice. Yum. She converted her grin to a frown by thinking about the messages held hostage by his company's phone system. “You could say that.” Belated realization dawned: she had just let a very large man into the otherwise empty office. “Hey, shouldn't you have called first?"
"I tried.” His smile was a bright flash of pearl-white teeth and humor. “Went straight to voice mail, didn't even ring once."
"Oh, bloody, dripping hell. It rang an hour ago.” Or had it been two? Or three? “I give up. Either murder me or fix the thing, whichever."
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound like friendly thunder rumbling through the room. “Well, since you've given me the choice and all, I think I'd prefer to do my job. I get dizzy at the sight of blood. Squeamish, you know."
She giggled a little herself. Squeamish? Not a word she'd heard a guy use before. Ever. “There's always strangling,” she suggested, looking at those wonderfully large hands. A tingle ran through her.
"Suppose I could use a phone cord, if I decide to branch out.” He walked to the receptionist's desk. “Damn. An X series. What's the worst problem?"
"It won't spit up my voice—"
"Mail. Right. Say no more.” He set his soft-sided case very gently down on the desk, and pulled out the chair.
Jackie stood for a moment, watching him. He was dressed like any modern techie, in anonymous chinos and button-down shirt, and he might have seemed average to some people, if a little oversized; to her, he was a knight in armor and a wizard rolled up into one. At least, he will be if he can fix the phone!
The fluid weight in her belly suggested that wasn't the only thing that needed his attention. Down, girl. This isn't some porno flick, and he's not the pizza guy. You don't even know the man—she checked his badge—B. Muir. Ha! I knew it: redwoods. “Any relation?"
"To...?” He looked up from the cord he was tracing with blunt-tipped fingers; she stared at the vision of earth-brown hair and sky-blue eyes and suntanned skin and a smile brighter than daylight, and her breath fled. At last, she managed to nod toward the badge decorating his chest. His smile, impossibly, brightened. “Yeah. Every family should have a story.” And he turned back to the phone.
Jackie half-fell into her chair. The saint of the US Park system like some dotty but cherished old grand-uncle—I'm in love. It occurred to her that the reaction was uncharacteristically intense, but she decided she didn't care. It'd been a long couple of days, and she deserved a break; fantasizing about the phone guy would do as well as anything.
Besides, she always had liked men with strong hands.
* * * *
Her cell phone rang a couple of times, and her Blackberry vibrated for attention; she worked on autopilot, her higher functions all engaged with Muir. What do you say, Carrie-Anne, can I keep him? The thought made her grin—she didn't mean it, of course, not really, but sometimes, it was nice to be able to think such things.
She and her partner had both been single for years, pouring their efforts into building their business; they'd joked about picking out trophy husbands once they made their first million, or establishing harems, or hiring “very personal assistants.” The beefcake had been unexpected, but it seemed to be working out. Jackie was happy for her friend, but had no intention of going out to find a similar model for herself.
Not that Muir was exactly beefcake. He was huge and well-built, certainly, but without the bulging gym-spawned muscles characteristic of that breed. And he had a neck, unlike most body builders. She let her gaze linger on his collarbones, briefly exposed as he moved.
"Ah.” He pushed a button, and the voice-mail's welcome message ran, Carrie-Anne's voice explaining that the goddesses were out for the evening, but would attend to “any little thing” just as soon as they could. Jackie waited, but that seemed to be the extent of his current miracle; the machine didn't spit out any calls. He frowned, pushed a button, and Carrie-Anne's voice began again. Head cocked to one side, he listened; nodded. “This is Carrie's place, her and her partner's.” His hands continued their poking and prodding as he smiled at her. “Very nice to meet you."
She heard what he did not say, the predictable Oh, so you're that Jackie, and felt her lips curve in a smile of her own. “How do you know her?"
"We do yoga together."
Jackie froze; her mind raced. This solid piece of a man did yoga? So if I climbed him like a tree, he could ... “Oh."
He nodded toward the mat. “And you?"
Her cheeks were hot again. “N-no, not, not really. I just, I needed to stretch. I've been here most of the past couple of days. Waiting for you, or some passing axe murderer.” Axes and trees. What's next, trains and tunnels? She shook
her head, or tried, wincing as something in her neck popped. “Feels like I've been in here forever, you know?"
"Well, no, but I can imagine.” He flexed hands larger than seemed quite possible; she couldn't look away from them, imagining those huge palms cupped in places strangers shouldn't touch. Lost in reverie, she missed the first few words of his sentence, tuning in in time to hear “...friend clause?"
"Sorry?"
"Well, some guy you don't know offers to put his hands on you, you've got to worry. Even if he says it's just to help you relax. A friend vouches, you don't worry as much. Clear?"
As mud. “Su-ure."
"I could help you work out that pinch in your neck, if you'd trust me. Thing is, it's not enough to say it, you'd have to mean it—because otherwise, you'd just tense up more, and it'd hurt."
Those hands on me? Yum. Where? Why? Who cares? “'Friend clause'?"
"We have a friend in common. If you trust her taste in friends...” He gestured, those beautiful huge palms gently curved into shallow bowls waiting to be filled, inviting her to finish his thought.
"Neat argument; I can't say I don't, since I'm one of them! But...” She glared at the phone, beefy-boy's bright idea. “I don't trust her taste in men."
Muir just smiled. “Not an issue, I promise you.” His gaze was warm as he looked her up and down. “Carrie's no more my type than I am hers. Which is probably part of why we're friends, come to think of it.” He waggled his fingers. “Yea or nay?"
The thought of those hands on her was intoxicating. She couldn't remember having decided to say yes, but heard the too-breathy, telling sound of her voice saying it.
"Ah, not that chair, I don't think.” If he knew what thoughts were running through her mind, he showed no sign of it, helping her to rise, placing her in one of the straight-backed chairs they kept for guests they didn't like. “Good. Firm support, I won't have to be so gentle."