L.A. Fire
Authors: Sarah Bailey
L.A. Fire
by Sarah Bailey
Copyright 2013
ã
, by Sarah Bailey
Cover photo Copyright
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, by Shutterstock
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This book is
a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place,
events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Contents
“You’re
not seriously wearing
that
to work,” my roommate Angela said, peering
over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror. Our eyes locked, and she
raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.
“Don’t mess,” I said. “The outfit’s good. Sleek. Conservative. Perfect for
first impressions.” She critically raked my body with her eyes, taking in my fitted
black dress, matching pumps, and silver, short sleeved jacket. Finally she
shook her head.
“Uh uh,” she said. “Perfect maybe for a Goth bar in Manhattan. But this is L.A.
The black has got to go. It’s too depressing.”
I let out a deep, exasperated sigh and started tapping my foot on the hardwood
floor of my bedroom. “Fine,” I said, my voice skeptical.“Show me what you’ve
got in mind. But remember that I’m going to be working as an assistant at a
talent agency, not bartending on the Sunset Strip.”
Angela smirked at me and put her hands on her hips. I couldn’t help noticing
her very long, exquisitely manicured red nails. “Are you poking fun at my job?”
she asked sternly, but the playful glint in her eye gave away her amusement.
I flashed her a wide smile and said “No darlin’. I seriously appreciate your
job. I mean, who else do I have to get me into one of the swankest clubs in
town? It’s just, well, your closet is full of loud prints and slinky clothes.
Not exactly professional, you know?”
Angela cocked her head at an angle, giving me a questioning look. “So now I’m a
one trick pony? Please. I know fashion. For any occasion. Give me a sec. I’ve
got just the thing for you.”
She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with an amber sheath dress, a
cream Prada scarf and beige suede Jimmy Choo peep-toe stilettos. I had about
five minutes to get out the door to my new job, so I ripped off my dress and
pulled on the amber number.
“Check you out!” she said, nodding in approval. “That’s unbelievably hot. And
professional. Now put on the pumps.” I did. She made a motion with her finger
for me to do a twirl. “You pass inspection,” she said, looking satisfied.
“Classic and smokin’ hot.”
“Thanks babe,” I said, pulling her into a quick hug and then grabbing my purse.
Have a wicked first day,” she yelled as I rushed down the hall to the front
door. “I’ll see you tonight at the bar to toast to your fabulous new job!”
“Sure thing!” I yelled back, grabbing my steaming coffee mug from the kitchen,
and then bolting out the door.
***
When I got to my car in the basement of the condo we were renting, I noticed
that I had only fifteen minutes to get to work. I jumped into my blue Mini
Cooper, a present from my parents for my twenty-third birthday, started the
engine, and raced out of the parking lot, my tires squealing.
This was it. The first day of my career. I’d landed my dream job. In my dream
city. I’d been in LA for four years already, studying communications at UCLA.
My parents wanted me to move back to Manhattan after graduation, saying they
could help me find an internship at a respectable literary agency. But that’s
not what I wanted to do. L.A. was the place for me.
Gliding along the streets of West L.A., my windows down, I was reminded of
everything I loved about the place. The warm, sensuous breeze in my hair, the
endless royal palm trees lining the main streets, their leaves lit up by the
scorching sun, the honey and mint smell of eucalyptus, so rich and seductive,
swirling in the air. Even from several blocks away, I could also taste the
brine of the ocean in the air with each breath I took.
And then there was the crazy, vibrant mix and clash of cultures and lifestyles.
And the glamour. And the whole place brimming with creative and talented
people, some just waiting to be discovered. And that’s what I wanted to do.
Discover talent. I already knew I was good at it. While in school, I’d gained a
spot on a screenwriting competition judge’s panel because one of my profs said
I had great instincts. I’d handpicked three student screenplays out of several
hundred that I thought had great promise, and all three authors of those
screenplays had gone on to sign Hollywood deals. None of the projects had made
it to the big screen. They were all still in development. But still. My skills
had gotten noticed. My new boss, Paul, was also impressed by that feat, which
is probably the main thing that made him pick me out of hundreds of applicants
for the job. And I really didn’t want to disappoint. Which is why I had to be
on time.
When I finally pulled into the parking lot of Cooper McGregor, I noticed I only
had two minutes to spare. And there was a line up to get in. Damn it. I started
tapping my hands on the wheel in frustration, all the while staring up at the
imposing glass and steel building where I’d be working. Then I noticed parking
for the day was $20, and I knew I only had $25 dollars in my purse. Great. I’d
be late today, and I’d have to skip lunch. Fabulous start. I finally made it
into the lot, and pulled my car into the first empty space. Grabbing my coffee,
I raced toward the building, my heart slamming against my ribs, and the
butterflies in my stomach doing a cirque du soleil trapeze act.
***
I’d been so freaked out about being late for work, I’d forgotten to take a
final appraising look at my own reflection. Luckily there was a mirror in the
elevator, and I was the only one in it. Angela was right. The amber sheath
dress was perfect. It made my 5‘4 frame look longer, and accentuated my curves
in a way that wasn’t obscene or unprofessional. Right as I reached the eleventh
floor, I quickly raked my fingers through my curly brown hair, wiped off some excess
lip gloss, and then marched out of the elevator, ready to face the world.
As I pushed through the glass doors to the office of Cooper McGregor, the
receptionist flashed me a huge smile. “How can I help you?” she asked. She was
new. Or at least this was the first time I’d seen her. I couldn’t help notice
that with her sleek black hair, cherry colored lips, and dramatically lined
almond eyes, she was a real stunner. She also had exquisite taste in clothes.
She was dressed in a Kirna Zabete shift dress with billowing flower-patterned
sleeves.
“I’m Sarah Stevens. Today’s my first day working for Paul Cooper,” I said,
trying to sound smooth and confident, but the shake to my voice betrayed my
nerves. She gave me another winning smile and then motioned towards a corner
with a long brown leather couch.
“Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Cooper know you’re here.”
As I sunk into the plush couch, I took in my surroundings. The décor had the
same impact on me as it did the first time I waited in this very spot for my
interview. It was overwhelmingly elegant. The floors were made of Italian
marble, the ceilings were high, and the walls were painted a rich beige. I
could tell the leather armchairs across from me were antiques, as were the
Chinese flower jars. Taking small sips of my coffee, which was as vital to me
in the morning as breathing, I relaxed back into the couch, and took some deep
breaths to help calm my nerves.
I was just settling in when I heard approaching footsteps. I looked up, my eyes
taking in powerful strides, and quickly travelling from an expensive purple tie
up to the chiseled face of an absolute god. Our eyes met. His were a clear
blue; breathtaking, and fierce. He held my gaze, and wouldn’t let go. I was
taking a sip of coffee, and my lip started trembling, the coffee spilling down
the front of my dress. I muttered ‘shit’ under my breath, and started rummaging
in my purse for something to wipe myself off with. I could feel my cheeks flush
with embarrassment. Black leather oxfords approached me, and came to a stop
directly in front of me. I looked up, and when our eyes met again, my heart
started slamming in my chest. Those eyes were magnetic. I couldn’t look away.
He examined me closely, and I saw a flicker of amusement cross his face. He had
dark wavy hair, a strong jaw line, and the most sensuous lips I’d ever seen on
a man. His shoulders were broad, his arms and torso obviously muscular beneath
his perfectly tailored Hugo Boss suit. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled
out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Here. Use this,” he said, offering it to
me. I hesitated for a moment, still dumbstruck by the devastating hotness of
this man in front of me. When I finally took the handkerchief from him, our
fingers brushed, and I felt my whole body shiver with pleasure.
“Thanks,” I said, quietly, afraid that my voice would tremble and betray the
effect he was having on me. Then I looked down, and realized the coffee had
also dribbled onto my chest. I started trying to wipe myself dry, but I was a
mess. The coffee had already seeped into the dress. As I dabbed away, I could
feel his eyes taking in my curves, my body.