by SM Johnson
Nervous
The New Dungeon
by SM Johnson
Smashwords 1st Edition 2017
© 2017 SM Johnson
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be reproduced, re-sold or given away to other people without prior written permission from above author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. For permissions, please contact SM Johnson via email at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, business establishments, and events are symbolic, metaphorical or coincidental.
1st edition published via Smashwords by SM Johnson, October 2017
Cover image: Tape over mouth by demidoff, Deposit Photos
Cover image: Fire burning phoenix by artnovi, Deposit Photos
Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only and does not reflect the model’s sexuality or lifestyle choices. Model is unknown to author.
Cover design: SM Johnson
Table of Contents
copyright info
synopsis
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
acknowledgements
about the author
other books by SM Johnson
Avery Phoenix
His employees call him the dragon behind his back.
His sister calls him a secret keeper.
His personal assistant says he's lucky she didn't quit the first month, like all the others assistants.
His brother-in-law tells him to keep his kinky sex games at home.
And Julian Sparks? He's too nervous to say anything at all.
It starts when shy, nervous remote reader Julian Sparks gets called to the home office of Phoenix & Phoenix, a long-standing New York literary agency. Julian recognized a manuscript that was a diamond in the rough, and Avery wants to thank him in person. But to Julian, 'in person' meetings are more terrifying than anything else, and it gets even worse when Avery notices Julian's nails are bitten to the quick.
Julian can't believe this is his life, or that Avery Phoenix, who makes everyone else nervous, actually makes him feel calmer than he's ever felt before.
It ends when - well, does it ever have to end?
Julian's falling for Avery in a big way, but Avery has some pretty big secrets, maybe big enough to send Julian scurrying for home.
chapter one
just breathe
My fingernails, all of them, were bitten to the quick. Every once in a while I forgot and started chewing them again. The shock of pain would remind me to stop, and I’d switch to chewing on my pen. Or the inside of my lower lip, or the tips of my actual fingers.
I’d never tried cigarettes, not a single puff, because I knew it would be a death sentence. I wasn’t stupid, just nervous.
“High strung,” my mother called me throughout my childhood and adolescence. “Nervous Nelly,” my step-father would correct her. “Gayer than the whole Pride parade. Julian the dickless wonder.”
Harsh, but kind of true. The thought of having to navigate a romantic or sexual relationship with another real person terrified me, so I just… didn’t. When high school became unbearable, I finished my education on-line. Once I graduated, I worked at the public library, shelving books and updating the computer card catalog. It was three years of near-bliss, but then my mother and step-father dropped the news on my head that they were selling the house and moving south, and I wasn’t welcome to join them. So even though I was a demonstrated failure at adulting, they shoved me out of the nest.
I wasn’t even mad at them, not really. I mean, clearly it was time I learned to manage on my own. But still. They kicked me out, sold the house, and that led directly to what happened next.
I followed the dragon’s decidedly unfriendly personal assistant down a terrifying hallway to the office where he, the dragon himself, Avery Phoenix, would eat me for lunch.
I sucked in a breath, counting to four. Held it for another count of four. Released it slowly through my nostrils, counting to six this time. Paused for a count of four.
Sometimes I needed to repeat this little exercise. Sometimes, when I fell into complete panic, I had to find something square or rectangular with my eyes to remind me to breathe. But one cycle was enough this time to slow my thoughts and remind myself of the truth.
Avery wasn’t a real dragon, just an editor, and half-owner of Phoenix & Phoenix Literary Agency.
Oh, and he was also my boss.
I clutched a thick manila envelope to my chest like it was a lifeline. Except it wasn’t. It was more like a suicide run.
I would have to speak directly to Avery Phoenix. My heart was in my throat, and I couldn’t seem to stop chewing the inside of my bottom lip. I probably looked like a basket case, a wreck. A Nervous Nelly.
I should have asked for the bathroom, but now it was too late. I was going to vomit, or wet myself, or cry. Hopefully not all three of those at once.
Breathe in and count to four…
My coping skills, especially concentrated breathing, helped me get through the two airports and two flights I’d needed to get here. Well, breathing, and an official-looking, middle-aged man wearing a short-sleeved white button-down shirt, a black tie, and a fancy cap. A man who recognized that I was overwhelmed and needed help. He chatted at me in his super calm voice all the way to Concourse G. It was a trek, but his competence was so reassuring that even my luggage cooperated. When we reached the security checkpoint, someone addressed him as “Captain,” and he touched his hat and answered, “Good morning. Would you walk my friend here through the screening and then to his departure gate?”
There was something about his calm, easy competence that quieted my nerves until I reached New York.
In fact, I stayed calm until this morning, when I’d put on black pants that might pass for office slacks, and the only shirt I owned that had a collar. It was purple, and not a particularly nice purple, but I’d brought nothing better. I kicked myself for not shopping for something better to wear to meet my boss.
I’d been employed by Phoenix & Phoenix for less than six months, picking through the electronic slush pile from my rented room in St. Paul, Minnesota. The job required only reading and sending quick, concise emails. At first the emails went to my direct supervisor, and later to specific editors as I got a feeling for what they liked. I also learned to write compassionate rejection letters. I had no direct contact with Avery Phoenix. None. Ever. And that was fine with me.
Unfortunately, one of my recommendations made it all the way to Avery Phoenix, and had resulted in more than one publishing house making offers to the author for her book. This was fantastic for the author, but a terrible stroke of bad luck for me.
Because it was one more coffin nail that led to this meeting.
Why did
I have to read that one? Why me? It led to all this awkward attention, which was the last thing I wanted.
I just wanted to listen to music, read from the slush pile, and write kind, encouraging rejection letters.
And now this.
This.
I’d been flown to New York. Put up in a much nicer hotel than I deserved, and now was being led to the executioner. A person who shouldn’t even know of my existence.
I licked my sore lips, fought back a wave of nausea, and tried to steady the gait of my shaking legs so I didn’t trip over my feet.
Didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I clutched the envelope with both of them, holding it against my chest as if it were a precious thing.
I’d been instructed to bring a paper copy of the best story I’d read since being employed by Phoenix & Phoenix.
So I did. In one ridiculous moment of bravery I’d printed out a novella that I’d never been able to get out of my head, despite the fact that I’d emailed the author, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ The writing was beautiful, the story well-edited, but it wasn’t the kind of submission Phoenix & Phoenix was interested in. Too raw. Too gritty. Too gay. ‘Try submitting to X,Y,Z. Tell them it’s been vetted by Phoenix & Phoenix, but isn’t a good fit for this agency. Good luck to you in placing this wonderful book. You’ll find a home for it somewhere soon, yadda yadda.’
I wished I’d brought something else. Something mainstream. Something acceptable.
The personal assistant tapped on the door at the end of that long, long hallway.
“Enter!” barked a voice from the other side.
“You’re on your own from here,” my escort said.
Gee, thanks.
“And stop shaking. He doesn’t bite.” She smiled, and then shrugged as if reconsidering that idea. “Well, not too hard.”
She opened the door inward and directed me inside with a wave of her arm. I took one step into the office, and she gave me a not-reassuring push, then pulled the door closed behind me.
The first thing I saw was a swirling blue and white mural on the wall opposite me. And then a man, rising gracefully from behind an elegant dark wood desk. As soon as I focused on him, the rest of the room fell away. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Perhaps the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen.
I wasn’t going to be able to speak. Like, at all.
“Avery Phoenix,” he said, and came around the desk to approach me. His dark hair was a little too long, his blue eyes a little too intense. His hand, when he held it out, was a little too intimidating.
Men shake hands. I know that, but I just stood there, frozen in my anxiety, unable to let go of the envelope. I should have brought something else. Oh, my God, I should have brought anything else.
I needed to shake his hand. He was standing there, waiting, and was going to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I tried to let go of the envelope, I did. But all I managed was to peel my pinky loose and give him the tiniest, gayest finger-wave in history.
I didn’t like shaking people’s hands. Sometimes I worried about germs, but I wasn’t necessarily obsessive-compulsive. Mostly I was just that awkward around people. My handshake was limp and timid anyway, with sweaty palms. Who needed that? It wasn’t a good first impression.
Not that I was making a good first impression.
Avery Phoenix dropped his hand to his side for a split second, then lifted it again, palm up. “You have something for me?”
I shook my head.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“The envelope?”
Oh, shit. That. The story.
The muscles of my bent arms felt like they were locked in place, but somehow I managed to loosen my fingers. The envelope slid down my torso, and Avery Phoenix caught it, as if he rescued slipping envelopes on a daily basis.
“It’s bloody,” he said, and peered into my face.
How did he know it was a horror story? How could he possibly know that?
“Uh. Um. W-w-well.”
Great. Stuttering. If I couldn’t talk, maybe it was better to just be silent.
“Sparks? You are Mr. Sparks, right? The remote reader from Minnesota, the one who found ‘This Terrible Juncture’?”
I’d gotten an email, thanking me for recognizing a great novel in the making, for pulling it from the slush feed and passing it to the submissions department. It’s slated for publication early next year. The email also warmly suggested that I could expect a bonus for the find. It was signed Avery Phoenix.
Don’t ever send anything directly to Avery Phoenix, they said in the on-line employee forum. He’s a fucking dragon, breathes fire, hates email. He’ll roast your ass. Maybe even fire you. Destroy your confidence. Shred your self-esteem.
As if I had either of those to spare.
Still. It had seemed rude not to acknowledge the email he sent me, though maybe my reply was a bit too chatty. And maybe that, too, was some of why I’d been invited to meet him. And so there I stood like a complete moron, unable to speak.
Oh, God. He’d asked a question, and I’d gotten lost in my head.
I nodded. “Julian, yes,” I whispered. And then, “How did you g-g-guess it’s horror?”
He looked confused.
“Y-y-you said it’s b-bloody.”
Goddamn stutter.
His face cleared, and he smiled at me. His teeth were a little too perfect. Just saying.
“The envelope, Jules. The envelope is bloody.”
Oh! My elbows were unlocked now and I looked at my hands. There were traces of blood on two of my fingertips. I curled my hands into fists and started to hide them behind my back, acutely embarrassed.
The inside of my head was stuttering, too. No one ever called me Jules. It sounded so casual, like a nick-name from a friend. Familiar, as if we knew one another intimately.
“Let me see,” he said. Only they weren’t the words of someone expressing concern. They were a command, ordered in a firm but pleasant voice.
I froze, and then, without thinking it through, held out my hands.
Avery Phoenix let the envelope drop to the floor as if it had suddenly become completely unimportant, and took a step closer to me. Too close. I could feel the heat of his body radiating from inside what looked like a very expensive suit. He had a presence that made him feel significantly taller than me, but he couldn’t be, because the knot of his understated, and oh, so tasteful tie was right at my eye level. And I wasn’t tall, by any means, at five foot four. I could smell his aftershave. The smell of him made my mouth water, crisp and clean and dangerous, like a blizzard brewing.
He took both of my hands in his and glared at them.
When he spoke, his voice dripped with disappointment. “Oh. Jules. What have you done?”
My heart fell to my toes, a dropping, sickening sensation.
I felt like I was ten or eleven years old again, and had done something patently stupid when I should have known better. Like the time I started a small grass fire in the yard.
A wave of shame crept over me. I pulled my hands from his and hid them behind my back.
“Excuse me.” Avery’s voice was soft, but something in the way he said those words made me feel like I’d done something wrong all over again.
His eyes stared into mine, brows knit, an expression I almost couldn’t identify. Was he angry with me? Had I actually done something wrong? Or insulted him in some way? What did my chewed nails matter to him, anyway?
“Jules.” That nickname again. It sounded intimate. He made it sound intimate. “Did I say I was finished?”
The shame intensified, until I could no longer look him in the eye. I dropped my gaze to the floor and presented my hands to him. There was a twist of dread in my stomach. A huge lump in my throat, and the sting of tears behind my eyes.
Avery-Fucking-Phoenix was angry with me.
The employee forum had a thread titled, “I survived the burn,” where employees call
ed Avery the dragon or AFP, for Avery-Fucking-Phoenix, and posted near-misses. Even as an employee who never went into the office, who wasn’t even in the same state as the office, I’d known who they were talking about.
I didn’t want to cry.
I didn’t want to talk.
I didn’t want to be here.
“When I ask a question I expect an answer.”
My eyes flew back to his. I had no idea what the question was.
He enlightened me, still holding both of my hands. “The question was ‘Did I say I was finished?’”
“No, sir,” I whispered, without stuttering.
I sounded as terrified as I felt.
He stared at my hands, running the pads of his thumbs across my fingertips. When he touched the most sensitive spots, my forearms twitched, an automatic response, the flinch of muscle and nerves wanting to jerk my hands away. I stopped myself from doing that.
“Why do you do this?”
I stared at my hands, my fingertips, which looked stubby and grubby compared to his. His fingers were long and elegant, fingernails neatly trimmed, filed flat edges perfectly aligned with his fingertips. The nail beds were a dull smooth sheen.
“J-just nervous, sir.”
“About this meeting?”
Obviously. I could hardly even talk. But the truth was my nails were always chewed to the quick.
I nodded, then added, “Everything, really.”
“Don’t do it anymore.” That same voice, the one of gentle but firm command.
I swallowed. That wasn’t a thing I could ever promise, and his order made me feel pathetically inadequate. “I can’t stop. I’ve tried,” I said. It came out sounding like a plea.
“Oh?” he said, one eyebrow quirked up like he didn’t believe me. He sighed. “Well. Now you’ve done it.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I studied the floor again. He seemed to be waiting for something, so I muttered, “What have I done?”