by C. C. Avanti
Beverly Hills Confessional
Part One: Discipline
By
C.C. Avanti
Copyright © 2012 by C.C. Avanti
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form or by any means without express written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Original Cover Photography © Can Stock Photo Inc. / Forgiss
Disclaimer: This book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content. It is intended only for those age 18 years or older.
1
When I first arrived in Beverly Hills I was as intimidated as any 22-year old from a rural Midwest town could be. Everything around me seemed larger than life: the houses, the cars, the people, and especially the price tags. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter here. I quickly realized that if I was going to have any chance of making something of myself in this place, it was going to need a lot more money than what I'd been making back home.
Home had been Valley View, a faceless, generic small town in the middle of nowhere. It was anywhere USA and I couldn't wait to get the heck out of there...for more reasons than one. As soon as the timing was right, I loaded up my VW Golf and headed west. Despite my age and inexperience, I knew it was going to take a whole lot more than a head full of dreams to make things happen. It would need hard work, discipline, determination and more than likely a little bit of luck.
After securing a small apartment - for about the same price of what I could rent a large house for back home - I set about my job search. To begin with, I told myself, I'd have to be open to taking pretty much anything that came my way. My office skills were pretty good; I could type fast and was well-organized, but I was well aware that the few assistant positions I'd held back home weren't about to impress anyone in this zip code.
I also knew my image was going to need a major makeover. What passed for high fashion in Valley View would only be laughed at or ignored on these gilded streets. The first time I strolled down Rodeo Drive, I was simultaneously stunned by the sight of all the exclusive, high-end storefronts and the glamorous, perfect women shopping in them, while at the same time slightly mortified by the fact that no one seemed to notice I was even there. Men and women both, they'd look through me, past me, but never at me. I felt invisible.
Something would have to change.
* * *
2
Using my inconspicuousness to my advantage, I began carrying a notepad and pen with me wherever I went. Each time I sat down at a sidewalk cafe, sipping an espresso or a glass of Evian, trying to look as sophisticated and cosmopolitan as I could - even if no one was bothering to take any notice - I'd be sizing up all the women I'd see passing me by. With each one I'd take notes on what they wore, their skirt length, style, color, their makeup, hairstyle, shoes, heels, everything. If anyone was watching me, they probably thought I was a novelist or a screenwriter, busily scribbling down my latest inspiration - which I guess in a way I was. Anyway, the thought of that made me smile.
If I was conducting my research in one of the exclusive stores on Rodeo Drive, I'd use my phone instead. I'd browse the displays and mannequins along with everyone else in the store, the only difference was that I was more interested in the clothes on the shoppers than those on the racks. I'd type away furiously into my phone, looking to all the world like I was answering an important text, when all the while I was taking notes on the woman standing next to me.
Someone else might've used magazines or the store merchandise for their research, but I preferred my method. The way I saw it, the stores and magazines were all trying to sell a look; the women I saw on the street already had one.
Once I figured I'd collected enough data, I compiled all of my research and filtered out the most popular looks and styles being worn by the beautiful, rich women around me. Armed with this data, I then headed across town to the H&M store and put together an entirely new wardrobe for myself that, despite not having those same high-end designer labels inside of them, would at least allow me to appear to be one of them, living the glamorous life.
I'd always kept my hair long, which was great, but its natural dark chestnut color - much as I liked it - had to go. I didn't know if blondes had more fun, but from my experience they certainly got more attention, so blonde I went. I also needed to stop my lazy habit of tying it back every morning. From now on it would have to look styled, conditioned and perfect every time I stepped outside.
Then, with just a few, small, but strikingly effective changes to my makeup routine, I was good to go. I took a look in my bathroom mirror at the all new Alyssa Rockford I'd created and I couldn't help but feel proud. And excited. Very excited.
I gave myself a smile and a wink in the mirror, slipped on a pair of faux Jackie O sunglasses, and stepped outside into the warm, dazzling Beverly Hills sunshine, ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
* * *
3
Time's running out, that annoying voice in the back of my head kept telling me. But as much as I didn't want to hear it, I knew it was all too true. The money I'd brought with me was dwindling away at an alarmingly fast rate, and unless something happened soon, I was going to be in bad shape. I'd applied for more than two dozen positions since I'd arrived - some I was qualified for, others not so much - but not one of them had called me in even for a first-round interview. I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't a conspiracy against me or I'd been blacklisted somewhere. Was fate somehow colluding to send me right back home to Valley View with an empty bank account and my tail between my legs? If it was, it wasn't going to happen without a fight. A big fight. The thought of going home terrified me. I didn't even like calling it that. That place wasn't home anymore, it was just back. And there was no going back.
I sat down, dispirited, at an outside table at a little cafe I'd been to on a number of occasions. Very soon, a cute, Latin-looking waiter appeared. He seemed to recognize me.
"May I bring you the menu, Madame?" he asked with a smile.
"Thank you, no, I'm not hungry - just a Perrier," I lied, hoping my stomach wouldn't choose that moment to growl and give me away. One of the few good things about being broke and female in Beverly Hills is that you can sit in a restaurant and not eat and no one will think you're watching your wallet...only your weight.
As depressing as things were on the economic front, there had been at least one positive change in my circumstances: I was now visible. Since my personal makeover there'd been a dramatic turnaround in the way I was perceived by the beautiful people around me. They saw me as one of them. All of those square-jawed, handsome young guys driving by in their German and Italian cars would now notice me. Heads would turn my way as they sped by; sometimes a tinted window would be lowered, hungry eyes seeking me out, letting me know just what they were hungry for. Even the women would glance in my direction when they thought I wasn't looking, sizing me up, gauging my threat potential.
The waiter soon reappeared with my drink, and it was back to reality. There was lunch: a glass of sparkling water. As I took a sip, telling myself how filling the bubbles would feel once I'd finished it, I noticed my cell phone buzzing madly on the table in front of me. I picked it up and saw that it was from the 310 area code. This was good. I immediately answered it.
"Is this Alyssa Rockford?" an officious-sounding voice asked.<
br />
"Yes, yes it is!" I answered, a little too eagerly.
"This is Ms. Chalmers from Cavanaugh Worldwide. I'm following up on your recent application."
"Great! Thank you!" I said stupidly.
"We'd like to see you tomorrow morning at 8:30am."
"Oh, that's fantastic! Thank you so much!" I squealed, still sounding like an overexcited schoolgirl.
"Dress appropriately," she said bluntly, before hanging up the phone and denying me the opportunity of asking what that meant exactly.
Oh, who cares, I thought, throwing my phone back down on the table. This is big, this is positive, this is good news! But a few moments later another realization soon swept over me: I had no idea who or what Cavanaugh Worldwide was. Was it even legit? I couldn't even remember ever applying to a company by that name. Maybe I had, but just forgot. And then again, maybe I hadn't. I started feeling uneasy. I grabbed my phone off the table, pulled up the web and Googled Cavanaugh Worldwide. Within seconds their website appeared at the top of the search page, right above its Wikipedia entry. It was legit alright. It was also one of the biggest PR firms in the entire country. Holy crap!
After it had sunk in, I called the waiter back and ordered an endive salad and a glass of house white. I didn't have the job yet, it was only an interview...but it was an interview. And as we all know, you've got to celebrate the good things that happen while you can, right?
* * *
4
The second I got home I booted up my laptop and began researching everything I could find on the mysterious Cavanaugh Worldwide PR firm. It turned out they weren't just big, they were gigantic. Their client list was a who's who of anyone that's anyone in the entertainment industry: movie stars, musicians, writers, celebrities, designers - you name it.
But for me the most impressive thing of all was revealed when I clicked on the "Who We Are" link on the company website. Right at the very top of the list of their officers and managers was the picture and bio of the Chairman and CEO himself, Brett Cavanaugh. What a shock! What a picture! No graying, balding, wrinkling old stuffed shirt here. Not even close.
First of all, the guy had to be under thirty-five years old - at least when the picture was taken. But more than that, he had one of those faces that just stops you dead in your tracks; one so awesomely handsome it almost seems hard to believe your eyes. Could anyone really be that cute? That incredibly hot?
His hair was somewhere between light brown and dark blond, thick, with a slight curl to it in places that gave him a slightly wild, carefree attitude. His eyes were large and pale blue with heavy lids that gave them that sleepy, sexy, come-to-bed look. And then there was the nose. It was a strong, firm nose, larger than average, but somehow it fit his powerful, masculine face perfectly. It was the commanding central feature of a face that made your body ache with desire as soon as you looked upon it. How could a guy look so cute and adorable yet at the same time have such a commanding, powerful aura?
I wanted to find out.
* * *
5
The following morning I arrived at the offices of Cavanaugh Worldwide on Wilshire Boulevard. From the outside the building, like so many in LA, seemed fairly plain and nondescript. But inside, the lobby was the epitome of everything chic and contemporary...and expensive. Naturally.
I took the elevator to the fifth floor and stepped up to the reception area. The pretty blonde behind the desk greeted me with a broad smile, her teeth so dazzlingly white that I found myself focusing on them rather than her eyes.
"Good morning and welcome to Cavanaugh Worldwide," she beamed. "How can I help you?"
"Alyssa Rockford. I'm a bit early, actually, but I'm here for an 8:30am with a Miss Chalmers," I said nervously.
"Of course. Please take a seat. I'll let her know you're here."
As I sat and tried to calm my nerves, I recalled Miss Chalmers' request the day before that I dress appropriately. I'd fretted about it all evening. Did "appropriately" mean dress conservatively? Or did it mean this is a glamorous, A-list PR firm in Beverly Hills, so dress like you'd fit in around here? In the end I'd settled for an outfit that seemed to land somewhere between the two - sexily serious, rather than seriously sexy.
"Miss Chalmers, your 8:30am is here whenever you're ready," the receptionist whispered into her headset, before looking back across at me a moment later. "She'll see you now, Ms. Rockford. Through here, second door on the left."
I tapped gently on the door I'd been directed to and was greeted by a brusque "Enter!" I then took a deep breath and did just that. As it turned out, however, Miss Chalmers was all bark and no bite. In fact she was almost motherly towards me. After I'd answered all of her questions as competently as I could, a smile formed across her thin lips as she handed me a stack of papers.
"Congratulations, Ms. Rockford, you're hired. Please fill these out and return here tomorrow morning at 9:00am to begin your first day at Cavanaugh Worldwide."
I was speechless. Overjoyed. I would have run around the desk and hugged her if it hadn't seemed unprofessional. That and the fact that she still scared me a bit. As I took the elevator down to the street level I felt completely invigorated. This was a major life victory!
When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, however, what I saw before me had me feeling more than invigorated - I was breathless.
There, standing right in front of me, was Brett Cavanaugh himself, hotter looking even than his picture, larger than life and unbearably sexy. A part of me just melted inside. His big blue eyes bore into mine. I looked down out of embarrassment, only to find myself gazing at the noticeably large bulge in the crotch of his jeans. I looked away, even more embarrassed, as he stood to one side.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice deep and warm. "I'm in your way."
"You're...I'm...No, not at all," I stuttered, sounding like a complete idiot. I shuffled my way awkwardly out of the elevator and towards the main entrance. When I reached the main door, I looked back over my shoulder just as the elevator doors were closing. For a few brief, mesmerizing seconds I saw those sexy, slightly sleepy blue eyes staring back at me, undressing me.
There was also something else about the way he looked at me. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was almost as if...as if he recognized me. Crazy, right?
Tomorrow couldn't come quick enough.
* * *
6
I was placed in a general pool of administrative staff and was given a small cubicle in what looked like a maze of them that spread out across most of the sixth floor. The floor below was mostly HR and meeting rooms, while the seventh housed the executive offices.
For my first day, I'd been tasked to sort through and cross-reference a number of client and employee business expenses. It wasn't exactly thrilling work, but hey, I was employed - I was making it happen for me. And in truth, it was pretty exciting seeing all of the names and places of where some of these expenses were charged. I could only imagine the kind of lives some of these people lived.
The day went by quickly, but all the while I kept hoping to catch another glimpse of the man in charge. But no such luck. With the executive offices on the floor above, there'd be no likelihood of us bumping into each other again except on the elevator, which lessened the odds dramatically. For a moment my mind wandered back to the previous day's encounter, hearing that deep, soft voice coming from that ruggedly handsome face, the commanding presence, the bulge in his...and then I snapped myself out of it, crossed my legs and stared hard at the monitor in front of me. This was priority. This was real life. This was rent.
* * *
7
Several weeks went by and I continued to be given new and different duties, all of which I was able to execute flawlessly. I took great pride in my work, and despite the odd lapse into daydreaming over Mr. Brett Cavanaugh, I was focused and professional in all that I did. Which is why the phone call from Miss Chalmers one afternoon came as something of a shock.
"I need to see you in my office in ten minutes. You can shut down your computer and bring any personal belongings with you," she said in her usual terse, monotone voice.
Shut down my computer? Was I being fired? What had I done? Had I screwed up something big without even realizing it? My heart began racing. I was suddenly seeing everything I'd worked so hard to build up fall to pieces before my eyes. Just like I had on my first day there, I stood outside of Miss Chalmers door, my heart pounding in my chest, and knocked gently on the door.
"Enter!"
I tentatively opened the door, babbling nervously as I did so. "Miss Chalmers, if I've for some reason done something that has--"
"Come, come, sit down, sit down!" she said, gesturing impatiently at me. "I've a busy afternoon, so I can't afford to waste time."
"Yes, of course Miss Chalmers," I said, sitting in the chair opposite hers, my heart full of dread.
"I'll get straight to the point. Mr. Cavanaugh's longtime assistant, Ms. Hartnell, has been involved in an automobile accident."
"Oh, no!" I cried instinctively. I'd never met her but it's always upsetting to hear of such things, and this particular kind of situation resonated with me on a very personal level.
"She's expected to survive but will unfortunately no longer be able to continue her duties supporting Mr. Cavanaugh, and so we must find him an immediate replacement."
"Yes, of course, but--"
"Therefore, Ms. Rockford, I'm formally offering you the position, effective immediately."
"Me?" I asked, more stunned than anything else.
"Yes. Your tenure here has been brief, which has made your rapid and impressive growth in performance all the more noteworthy. I just need a simple yes or no."
My mind was reeling. One minute I was convinced I was about to be fired, the next I'm being asked to support the CEO of the company. Not only that, but a super sexy, studly, hunky dream of a CEO; one who I'd often fantasize over, both in daydreams and in much hotter, much wetter nighttime versions. And now I was being asked to become His Girl Friday? Wow! Just wow! Just--