POWER SURGE
Anna Jennings Super Novel – Book One
E.J. WHITMER
POWER SURGE Copyright © 2015 by E.J. Whitmer.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information visit : www.ejwhit.com
Book and cover design by EJWhitmer Design
ISBN: 978-1505911268
First Edition: March 2015
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For my husband.
Thank you for being my own foxy superhero, even if you choose to wear your underwear inside your pants.
I love you.
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
INTRODUCTION
CLARK KENT WAS A FOX.Seriously. The man could go from the nerdy-chic look of a newspaper reporter to liberty blue, spandex tights and still send hearts a-flutter. Granted, saving the world and being an all-around good guy didn’t hurt his image. But seriously. The man was a fox. And really, ignoring the Michael Keaton years, Bruce Wayne was pretty foxy himself. It’s no wonder when people think of superheroes, they automatically picture tall, dark, dramatically handsome men, flying around the city, rescuing beautiful women from their eminent demises.
I’ve spent my whole life envisioning said heroes. Growing up with four older brothers meant my world practically revolved around super heroes and villains. It also meant that at any time, I had four courageous, handsome and cunning champions to save me from evil. Whether I was stuck in a tree, being bullied at school, getting felt up by Jimmy Holstrom at recess, or crying over spilled ice cream, my personal super heroes were always there to swoop in and save me.
I’m twenty-eight now and still getting caught in trees, bullied by coworkers and crying over spilled ice cream. Jimmy Holstrom moved away in seventh grade, so he isn’t an issue anymore. (And really, I’d give up donuts for a month to be felt up right now.) Decades later, my brothers still swoop in to rescue me on a near daily basis.
Yet somehow, twenty-eight years of being rescued hasn’t taught me to butt out of sticky situations. It hasn’t taught me to think twice before climbing trees or to use sarcasm sparingly.
But really, what’s my motivation? Careful people don’t have cool scars to show off. They don’t have exciting childhood stories to tell nieces and nephews. They don’t appreciate the gift of life and how quickly it can be taken away. And they certainly don’t get rescued by foxy super heroes who wear their underwear outside of their pants.
1
Normalcy is a cat butt.
My name is Anna Jennings and I’ve been a semi-professional “damsel in distress” for as long as I can remember. In addition to teaching me to appreciate life and live dangerously, my brothers taught me to be tough, selfish when I need to be and stubborn as hell. They also (perhaps inadvertently) taught me how to be one of the guys, a trait that landed me in my current position as Creative Director for Tuff Enuff magazine.
In the three years since I started with Tuff Enuff, the men’s magazine has risen from fourth to first in the nation in its category. The tough love my brothers gave me throughout life enabled me to fight to land and secure my position as the youngest Director on staff at Vance Publishing, the company that owns Tuff Enuff. Sure, I used connections to get in the door. My brother Michael was college roommates with my current boss, Eric Blake. But who gets anywhere without connections?
Besides, I worked my ass off during the first few years of my career to establish a solid reputation on Chicago’s design scene. Multiple internships throughout college, a position in graphic design with a well-known advertising agency, and six years of free-lance design work served as the backbone of my blossoming career.
Still, it’s a tough business and leaping to Director-level before hitting thirty has certainly stirred waves. I can handle it though and I can handle the flack that comes with being a young female working for a men’s magazine. On any given day, I’ll have my head patted in dismissal, my ass patted in both dismissal and suggestion and my ideas pushed to the side without a second glance. But numbers don’t lie and my numbers show I kick ass at my job.
I try to ignore the numbers as they relate to my personal life. The problem with “being one of the guys” is that that’s how I’m thought of. (That and the kid sister of one of the four Nightmare Jennings Boys.) I like to tell myself I’m too career-oriented to have time for a man. And truthfully, I work an average of sixty hours a week. It’s hard enough to spend time with family and friends, exercise, take care of my cat Figaro and find time for myself.
The long hours and constant criticism have been worth it, though. My school loans are paid off, my credit is spotless and I bought my first place four years ago. Real estate in Chicago doesn’t come cheap, especially if you want to live an urban lifestyle on the Loop. So I scrimped and hoarded away money during my pauper years to save for a down payment on my loft, where I’ve been living with Figaro and my half-dead fern, LaFern.
While I consider myself unpredictable and often impulsive, I am extremely comfortable with routine. Having each step of my day meticulously planned out is one of the major things that keeps me sane. (That and the glass of Malbec I reward myself with every night.)
Up until two weeks ago, I had a half-way steady schedule. Wake up at 4:45am. Exercise at 5:15am. Showered, pampered and in my desk at work by 7:30am. Leave work at 6:30pm. Eat dinner at 7:00pm. Then settle down on the couch to watch a little TV while finishing up some take-home work. I’m in bed every night by 10:30pm and up the next morning to do it all again.
Up until two weeks ago, my routine was working just fine. My jeans fit. My loft was clean. Figaro was happy. (As happy as a cat can be.) Work was going well. Then karma snuck up and bit me in the ass.
And now I’m standing in my office, covered in cuts and bruises, staring at an email from my boss in which he attached a picture of me crammed into a pink and orange spandex suit like an overstuffed bratwurst. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the cape draped across my shoulders didn’t come close to hiding three or four dimples on my ass. The icing on the cake? The cherry on the sundae? The sugar on the cottage cheese? The entire senior management team was copied in on the email.
No big deal. It’s not like a small group of people who could have me fired now have access to the most unflattering picture since Kim Kardashian’s greased-up ass broke the internet.
You’d think when you save someone’s life they’d say thank you. Maybe they’d take you to lunch or get you one of those baskets full of cut-up fruit dunked in chocolate. Apparently not.
Maybe I should back up. Like I said, a couple of weeks ago, I had a routine. In fact, I can pinpoint the precise day that routine went to hell. It was two Mondays ago.
The previous weekend was amazing. My team landed a deal with a huge outdoor clothing manufacturer, MMGea
r, and I somehow landed a date for the next week with Brock Coyle, the face of MMGear.
The Saturday before, despite it being February in Chicago, was a crisp 40 degrees with sunshine and only a slight breeze. I spent the weekend ice skating with my niece Nicole, drinking too much wine with my mother and shopping for outrageously expensive shoes with my best gal pals, Lea and Jo.
I went to bed that Sunday relaxed and extremely content and awoke the next morning to a cat butt. Apparently by spending the weekend relaxing and taking time for myself, I neglected to dote and fawn over Figaro. When Fig feels put upon, he shows his distaste by sitting on my chest, pointing his butt in my face and waiting for me to wake up.
Fig feels put upon more often than not, so waking up to a cat butt has kind of become part of my routine. God that’s sad. Anyway, I woke up to a cat butt and reached over to switch off my alarm, knocking over a glass of water on my nightstand. Perfect. After a fast clean up, I poured Fig some feline crunchies and ransacked my closet to find clothes for the day.
Mondays are my fat days. I work my butt off at the gym and diet six days a week so I can pig out on Saturdays. This means every Sunday and Monday my pants are a bit too tight and I look about four months pregnant. So while some people report to work on Monday morning looking pressed and refreshed, I report to work in baggy sweaters and forgiving pants.
That day I opted for a new cashmere sweater and dark brown, linen slacks. It’s my “I’m professional yet bloated” look. After stuffing clothes and accessories in a gym bag, I grabbed a protein bar and bolted out the door.
Driving a car in Chicago is not fun. The traffic is nuts. People don’t watch where they’re going. Pedestrians just expect you to stop for them as they ignore traffic signals and bolt out in front of oncoming traffic. My brothers think I’m crazy for driving to work. I could walk. I could take a cab. This is true. However, my loft came with a parking space and I get free parking at work. More importantly, I am in serious love with my car.
Last year, after a particularly horrid breakup, I decided to treat myself with a brand new, cherry red Mini Cooper. It’s probably the cutest thing ever. My brothers threw a fit, of course, so I choose to drive to work every day just to prove that I do have a need for a vehicle.
Along with free parking, another plus side to working at Vance Publishing is we have an on-site work-out center. One of the negative sides is that if you choose to work out there, you also choose to work out with coworkers. This can be good, as proven by Luke in Operations who bench presses small cars with his shirt off. Or, more commonly, this can be bad, as proven by Seth in I.T. who sits outside the women’s locker rooms, eating Twinkies and hoping to catch a glimpse of a boob as the doors open and close.
That morning I walked in and literally ran straight into my boss, Eric Blake, who has about six inches and sixty pounds on me. I bounced off Blake’s chest, flew back about three feet and landed on my ass. He didn’t budge. I sat there stunned for a moment before Blake reached down to help me up, grinning like a fool.
“For being as athletic as you are, you really are the clumsiest person I know,” he said as he bent to retrieve my gym bag.
“I’m not clumsy,” I replied. “You just have an uncanny way of constantly being in my path.”
Blake smiled and shook his head as he handed me my bag and walked to the locker rooms.
No need for a warm-up. My blood was already pumping. Any woman at Vance Publishing would step on a puppy for a glance from Eric Blake. He is well over six feet tall and 200 pounds of muscle. His hair is a nearly-black, dark brown and always perfect, clipped short on the sides with a messy, yet organized frenzy on top. Dark eyebrows top gorgeous indigo eyes that could turn cold and intimidating in a snap. His sharp cheekbones end in a strong jaw below full, pouty lips. Last year he dabbled with facial hair and sported the “two day beard look” for a few months. You could literally hear the women moan as he walked across the floor. Ridiculous.
He may get my blood pumping a bit faster, but you won’t hear me moan over Eric Blake. I’d known him for over ten years. When I was a teenager he was my crush to end all crushes. Thank the Lord I got over that. Crushing on Eric Blake is bad news. First and foremost, he’s my boss. Second, he’s arrogant, as most ridiculously good-looking men are. Third, he’s married to my arch nemesis, Regina, the single most horrible person on the planet, and they have a four year old daughter together. Blake is filed under my “Look But Don’t Touch” folder which, unfortunately, is filled to overflowing.
Once my wayward hormones were under control, I dropped off my bag in the locker room and headed to spin class. An hour later, my legs were jello, my shirt was soaked and I was seriously regretting the large pepperoni pizza I devoured Saturday night.
As soon as I was able to walk like a normal person again, I took a quick shower and dried my long auburn hair. I’m not a huge makeup person. I was blessed with a normal sized nose and large blue eyes, so I never really felt the need to plaster on a bunch of crud to make me look different from who I really am. I threw on some powder and mascara, slicked on some shiny lip gloss and called it good. A quick check for panty lines and I was out the door, on my way to the 28th floor.
The best part about my job is definitely my office. I’m spoiled and I know it. I don’t have a corner, Eric Blake claimed that office, but I do have an entire wall of windows overlooking the Chicago skyline. It’s beautiful even on foggy days. In fact, the entire 28th floor is gorgeous. It’s open and airy and full of some of the best creative minds in the Midwest. Our employees are free to decorate their own space, so the floor is an explosion of colors and patterns and competing sports team mascots.
My office is done in vibrant colors and would be a complete mess if I didn’t have my assistant Mae. She’s essentially my Work Mom, except I can boss her around. As usual, Mae somehow knew the exact moment I arrived that Monday and met me at the elevator with a hug.
In general, I’m not a hugger. However, Mae is probably the most huggable person I’ve ever met. She’s a couple inches over five foot, keeps her silver gray hair trimmed in a neat bob and wears cardigans every single day. Her husband passed away ten years ago so Mae devotes her time to her teenage grandson, Connor. Unfortunately, Connor is kind of a shit. When he’s bored, he teaches Mae horrible words and lies to her about their definitions. Just last month he told her that “doggy style” was the same thing as taking your coffee black. The next morning, Eric Blake asked her to grab him a cup of coffee, to which she responded by asking if he enjoys it doggy style.
After my morning hug, I made my way to my office and booted up my computer. Mae followed me in with a cup of coffee and my granola crunchies. “So how was your weekend?” I asked, plopping down quite ungracefully in my desk chair.
Mae perched on the edge of one of my guest chairs and rubbed her hands together excitedly. “So good!” she cried. “Connor took me paintballing! It was totes cray cray.”
Did I mention Mae has begun to speak like the Connor the Shit?
I shot her an incredulous look. “Your grandson took his sixty-eight year old grandmother to a place where she could be shot by little plastic balls traveling at 200 miles an hour?”
Mae smiled proudly. “I’m pretty spry for my age. Plus, I’ve spent so many hours playing Halo with him, it was like second nature to me!”
She was so proud of herself, I found it impossible not to smile back. “So how many times did you get shot? I imagine your skin looks like a Dalmatian. Wanna have a bruise showdown? I went ice skating with my niece this weekend, fell on my rump about twenty times and now have a bruise shaped like Dustin Hoffman on my right butt cheek.”
Mae nodded excitedly and ran to shut the door while rolling up the sleeve of her cardigan. I stood and began tugging at my slacks so she could get a peek at my ass celebrity.
“Um… Anna,” said Mae from my doorway.
“I know right!? It looks just like him!” I turned to grin at Mae and promptly died on th
e spot. Eric Blake was standing in the doorway with a truly disgusted look on his face.
He opened and shut his mouth a few times trying to articulate what he wanted to say before he gave up and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Mae gave me a sympathetic smile, grabbed her coffee cup and left.
Do you ever just have the feeling that the day could only get worse? That one insignificant bad event is only the beginning and you just know it?
I knew it. I should have packed up and gone home for the day. I’d known Eric Blake for years. He’d seen me through my awkward high school days and was there the night I brought my first boyfriend to meet my parents. Pretty sure that situation took the cake.
I eyed my chocolate drawer and decided that while the situation was pretty damn embarrassing, it wasn’t binge-worthy. If I had a dollar for every time I thought about that drawer, I could retire and move to Tahiti.
Muttering a few choice curses, I logged in and checked my calendar. An eleven o’clock meeting with the photography team, lunch with the new outdoor clothing client, a two o’clock photo shoot to sit in on and a five o’clock deadline for copy and images for next week’s issue. Not bad. I’d get a couple hours to myself.
Curious, I checked Eric’s calendar to see if I’d have to deal with him in any of my daily adventures. Shit. Yes. He was in on the lunch with M. M. Gear. Thankfully, that was it. He would be booked throughout the rest of day and on into the night with a Senior Management meeting. After mouthing a heart-felt thank you to Baby Jesus, I sat down and got to work.
By the time ten forty-five came around, I had completed a section on camouflage lingerie, talked a model out of eating a Snickers and fired a designer for stealing fifteen hundred dollars worth of office supplies. I gave myself a mental pat on the back, grabbed my coffee and headed out the door for my eleven o’clock.
Power Surge (Anna Jennings Super Novel Book 1) Page 1