The Sirens of SaSS Anthology

by Anthology

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  MY FATE

  THE SIREN’S ASSISTANT

  REKINDLE

  HOT CHICK FOR HIRE

  SIREN’S KISS

  UNA NOTTE

  HOPE SURFACING

  SHAKEDOWN

  THE CLIENT

  THE SIDEWINDER’S SIREN

  ROCKSTAR ON POINTE

  THE SHERIFF AND THE COUGAR

  SUGAR

  REMEMBER WITH ME

  SIREN’S SONG

  HOUSE ARREST

  SAVAGE HOPE

  Copyright © Amy Marie 2018 and all Contributing Authors

  The Sirens of SaSS Anthology By #SaSS18 Contributing Authors

  Self-publishing.

  SaSS.Signing@yahoo.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Robin Harper with Wicked by Design

  www.wickedbydesigncovers.com

  Formatting: Angel’s Indie Formatting

  Photograph Courtesy of Eric Battershell

  http://www.ericbattershellphotography.com/

  Model: Chris Williamson

  Stock Image: Shutterstock

  DEDICATION

  For all the beautiful and strong daughters, sisters, and mothers…

  And though she be but little, she is fierce…

  -William Shakespeare

  FOREWORD

  By Hazel James

  For all the differences authors have, one thing many of us agree on is that publishing a book is a bit like standing outside naked—we’re just out there with everyone staring at our goods thinking, “Dang, I really hope they like what they see.”

  But last year, I took that one step further. I stood out there, alone and naked, with a laser pointer highlighting alllllll the bad stuff…except it wasn’t about my books. It was about me—my depression and anxiety—and that made the fear of negative feedback even worse. I was my very own version of that Discovery channel show, “Naked and Afraid.”

  But to my surprise, there was no judgment. Instead, it was comment after comment from dear friends and complete strangers who were dealing with the exact same things. One of my friends said, “I thought you had it all together. I’m not glad you’re struggling, but I’m glad to know I’m not the only person who is.”

  It turns out I wasn’t alone at all, and if I was naked…well, so was everyone else.

  Almost 44 million adults in America experience mental illness in a given year.* That’s one in five people. In comparison, about 38 million people live in the state of California.

  Talk about eye-opening. It’s exhausting to constantly pretend everything is fine when it’s not, but we’re so conditioned to be strong and self-sufficient that asking for help becomes a monumental task—one that we’re ashamed of. But what if the scenario was different? What if you were stranded on the highway with a flat tire? If you didn’t have the right tools or knowledge, calling for a tow truck makes perfect sense. It works the same way with mental health.

  Something in my body wasn’t working right. I completely lost interest in the two activities I loved most—reading and writing. The problem was I didn’t have the means to fix it by myself, so I went to my doctor. When I left my appointment, I wasn’t ashamed to have been diagnosed with depression. I was relieved. I finally had a name for what I was feeling, and more importantly, a plan to get back to the old me.

  I’m still not sure what made me talk about it publicly, but I’m grateful I did because that was the moment I realized that I’m not defined by my depression, but rather what I do about it.

  In this case, I’ll continue sharing my story because that’s what I do as an author. I tell stories. I connect with readers by giving a voice to those who don’t have one on their own. And maybe that’s you.

  If you’re dealing with a mental illness, I can promise you three things:

  You matter.

  You’re not crazy.

  You’re not alone.

  Our book community is filled with people who have been in your shoes. We may not know how to change your flat tire, but we don’t mind sitting with you while you wait for the tow truck. All you have to do is ask.

  *Information taken from the National Alliance on Mental Illness

  MY FATE

  By Julie Mishler

  This could have been my fate

  On a cold winter day

  Nine years ago

  In the blink of an eye

  I could have lost it all

  Was it luck

  Or did I have a guardian angel

  Flying alongside of me

  I was spared

  From what could have been tragic

  From something

  That could have been so much worse

  I may never know why

  My injuries were minor

  But the damage had just begun

  The person who walked away

  From the crushed metal and broken glass

  Was not the same woman

  Who left the house that day

  A downward spiral ensued

  Ripping through my body

  Waging war on my mind

  Fear of everything

  Instilled itself inside of me

  The bruises faded

  The abrasions healed

  The stitches were removed

  A cast on my wrist

  Became my new nemesis

  And anxiety became

  My new best friend

  Scars are permanent reminders

  Of what happened that day

  The path I stepped onto

  That December day

  Has not been easy

  The years have gone by

  Each with more obstacles

  Challenges threatening to break

  What is left of me

  I have been weak

  I have fallen and crumbled

  I have laid down and not gotten up

  Slowly I am learning how

  To stand back up

  To conquer my fears

  One by one

  I will forever be damaged

  But I will never be broken

  I am imperfectly perfect

  Flawed to perfection

  My fate

  Has yet to be determined

  I will not give up

  Whatever is thrown my way

  I know now

  That I have the strength

  Inside of me

  To stand up and fight

  It was always there

  All along

  Hiding behind fear

  Waiting to emerge

  ~Julz~

  THE SIREN’S ASSISTANT

  A novella by Amy Marie

  Chapter One

  Mason

  The early morning light shines through the floor to ceiling glass windows, in the office that should be mine, as a paper copy of Liv Marx’s schedule for the day drops onto her neatly organized desk. It seems ludicrous to be here an hour before her, but if I don’t complete all that’s required before she arrives, then I’ll be forced to listen to her bitch all day long. Nobody wants that. God forbid she looks at the online calendar I update every morning for her or doesn’t have a piping hot cup of black coffee waiting at precisely eight o’clock when she arrives for the day. I’ve been on
the end of her wrath, and it’s not pretty. You would think she wouldn’t be such a bitch…she knows my father is a partner at this firm, which is why I hardly ever take her rants seriously.

  It really sucks having to cater to a woman whose job you desperately wanted. Over twenty years ago, my dad started Finn, Vale, and Sidman Firm with two of his buddies from college. I thought I would have an in. That I wouldn’t have to be the assistant to a woman who graduated just two years before me at the University of Virginia. We both graduated with honors and received our Bachelors in Architecture but instead of hiring me on the spot, like I thought my dad would, he made me her assistant. His reason? As the head of the firm, he doesn’t want to show favoritism, and I need to “work my way from the bottom” like he did. What a bunch of bullshit. So, now instead of designing buildings and printing up my own appointments for the day, I’m scheduling them for someone who doesn’t appreciate how much I fucking tolerate from her. I know I need to be patient, bide my time and play my cards right so my dad will see me taking it seriously, but sometimes Liv makes it too damn hard. Not to mention she is hot as hell, which makes me hard.

  We call her The Siren, which fits her to the exact definition in the dictionary: a seductively beautiful or charming woman, especially one who beguiles men. Beautiful, fuck yes. Her long auburn hair is usually pulled back into some low bun at the nape of her neck or falls in waves after work hours when she thinks no one is still in the office. Her dark green eyes offset the freckles that are haphazardly strewn about her heart-shaped face. Her body, which is tight and toned from taking spin classes every morning at five thirty, is usually hidden by the skirt suits she wears that are just one size too big. I suspect, hell I know, it’s so people take her seriously in this mostly testosterone-fueled workplace.

  I pick up a picture on her desk. It’s the only one she keeps here, and I get semi-hard every time I look at it. The image of her on the beach, with her hair pulled up into a mess of curls, in a barely there bikini on the beach of Bermuda, has been the star of my late night fantasies recently. Despite how much of a bitch she is sometimes, this captured moment in time shows how sexy she is underneath the mask she wears around the office. At times when she is going off on one of her tangents, I imagine her in this swimsuit, on her knees, taking my cock into her mouth to shut her up. When I’m alone, I fantasize about putting duct tape over her mouth and watching her writhe in front of me as I take her from behind. There is something seriously twisted about masturbating to images of your boss, who on a good day you barely tolerate, but I know the hate fucking would set us on fire. I think I see it sometimes from her as well. The way she bites her lip when I lean over her or the shudder of her body when I squeeze by her in the staff lounge. She may be a hardass, but she is still a woman. A feisty, smart, dedicated, hardworking shrew of a woman and for some unknown reason, despite all that, I’ve recently taken to liking her on a deeper level.

  The elevator chimes from down the hallway alerting me that someone is arriving. I don’t have to glance down the hall to know it’s her since there isn’t anyone else who would think twice about coming in the office before nine o’clock in the morning. I guess in her quest to prove herself, she decided that getting here an hour before everyone would show how dedicated she is to the job, thus making her assistant arrive an hour and a half earlier to do menial things that I could do throughout the normal working hours. Like opening her blinds, watering her plants, and making sure all her pens are facing the right way. I think she has a touch of OCD if you ask me. In doing all this, do I get to leave early? Hell no. While most in the office have an eight to nine hour work day, mine is almost eleven. On salary, not hourly. I’m the first in and last out. She doesn’t even allow me to take more than an hour for lunch to make up for the extra time I give in the morning. I just can’t wait to finally acquire my own accounts one day and get out from underneath this frustratingly beautiful woman.

  That last thought brings more dirty thoughts into my head. I close my eyes involuntarily and picture her straddling me as I sit in her chair. Her head is thrown back in ecstasy as I grip her hips and slam them onto my own. Her breasts bounce, and I slide my tongue out taking in what I imagine is a pretty pink nipple. My breathing deepens with each second I live out this fantasy, but it’s all washed away as soon as I hear her speak, which is why in most of my fantasies I cover her mouth.

  “Mason.” She calls from the doorway, forcing me to look her way. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”

  Standing upright, I look her over from head to toe. She’s as polished as she is every other day when she arrives. Showered after her break of dawn workout, her hair is perfectly placed, eye makeup done precisely, with red lips to match her red skirt suit. Her emerald irises take me in with venom as though I have already pissed her off with just my presence. I have to admit it’s hot. There have been times when she comes in like a raging lunatic, I want to walk over to her, pull her hair out of its confines and twist it up between my fingertips and draw her head backward before biting her bottom lip. I know there should be therapists lining up to try to figure out why I want to claim this woman when she has such distaste for me, but I think it’s the challenge. I love a good challenge.

  “Good morning to you too, Ms. Marx.” I greet her with just as much malice. “I’m setting your printed schedule on your desk because it seems to be impossible for you to click the icon on your computer to find it, and I’ve made your coffee. I hope you enjoy my spit in it.”

  She lets out a loud huff and storms toward her desk essentially squeezing me out of her way. “You’re lucky your dad is my boss. I would have fired you months ago.”

  I invade her personal space, my chest grazing the side of her as she picks up her schedule. “Don’t kid yourself, Liv. No one else would put up with your bullshit.”

  As if on cue her body shivers at the slight contact. It’s just the reaction I was hoping for. She may be my superior, but if I ever got her in bed, I’d show her who’s boss. She takes one look at the picture I was just holding and picks it up. “Looking again at what you can’t have, I see.”

  I scoff, taking it from her hand and setting it back down. “More like reminding myself that underneath that tough, bitchy exterior, there is a real-life human.”

  Ignoring my jab, she takes a seat in her chair, sliding her legs underneath the desk. One look at her coffee in the FVS logo paper cup and she dumps its contents into the trash can.

  “I’d like you to make a fresh pot and bring me a new cup when it’s ready.” She commands before firing up her computer.

  I start to walk away, no longer wanting to poke the bear but she catches me just before I hit the door. “And I’d love it if none of your bodily fluids were in my coffee.”

  My brows raise, my mind going to deep and dark places. “Well where would you like my bodily flu…”

  She holds her finger up to stop me from what words are coming next. “Mason, just go.”

  I laugh all the way down the hall. It’s still eerily quiet, but I know soon this place will be bustling with men and women making the world more beautiful one building at a time. It makes me jealous. I know what my father is trying to do will help me in the long run. Paying my dues will give me the knowledge I need to know about the ins and outs of the business and hopefully, one day, I will become a partner. I just wish I didn’t have to work for a woman who when I see I want to stick my foot out and trip while simultaneously hoping it’s into a bed with me. Don’t get me wrong. This job is not beneath me. All I want is for my learning experience to be a positive one.

  Skipping the fresh pot request, I pour her more coffee after filling a second cup for myself and throwing creamer in mine. The elevator dings once again as I pass by bringing in the first wave of assistants and architects. I spot Mia Vale, a fellow errand runner and coffee retriever. She, like myself, is another spawn of a partner. Her dad, Mr. Vale, is a longtime friend of my dad’s so Mia and I grew up together. Unlike me, sh
e just finished up her junior year of college and is helping out on her summer break. A long time ago, she asked me on a date. Very brave on her part, but I just wasn’t interested. She is beautiful with blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a brain to rival the masterminds here, but she’s too sweet. I just don’t have any other explanation for it.

  “Hey, Mase.” She smiles while we walk alongside one another down the hall. “How’s your morning been?”

  I raise the hot beverages. “Well, The Siren believed me when I said I spit in her coffee so it’s been a good day.”

  She laughs at that. “Always messing with her. One day you’re going to get fired.”

  I shrug. “I doubt it. I think deep down she really likes me.” I tell her with a wink.

  Dropping my coffee onto my desk, I turn to take Liv hers. She looks at her computer and her brow is furrowed as she appears deep in thought. I say nothing when I set it down and she doesn’t look up when she says, “I need the Towne Center blueprints.”

  I pause. “Please?”

  Her eyes slowly rise to meet mine and she cocks her head to the side. “Please, what?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m telling you to ask me nicely.”

  She laughs. “Okay, Mason. Can you please do your job and get me the damn TC blueprints?”

  “Of course, Liv. I’d love to.”

  I don’t know why I push her buttons but to me it’s fun. Walking to her filing cabinet, I reach in and find what I’m looking for. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I drop the blue folder onto her desk before I make my way out. Halfway to the door, I read the text that came in.

  Ryan: Don’t forget to ask for the 4th of July weekend off.

  My head falls back in defeat. It’s exactly two weeks from today and yesterday was the cut off to ask for more than one day off in a row. I take a big breath and turn in the doorway.

  “Liv?” I call out, my voice laced with sweetness. Most wouldn’t call their bosses by their first name, but she insists and I only use Ms. Marx when I want to piss her off. Or Livvy. That one really irritates her.

  “Mason?” She responds, tapping her pen against the desk in annoyance.