Judging Books Read online

  Judging Books

  Shay Savage

  Copyright © 2017 Shay Savage

  All Rights Reserved

  Editing : Chayasara

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without the express permission of the author, Shay Savage —except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover art by Jada D'Lee Designs

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1—Preparation

  Chapter 2—Ride

  Chapter 3—Interview

  Chapter 4—Decision

  Chapter 5—Explanation

  Chapter 6—Bonding

  Chapter 7—Evaluate

  Chapter 8—Fear

  Chapter 9—Obligation

  Chapter 10—Read

  Chapter 11—Escape

  Chapter 12—Time

  Chapter 13—Heartache

  Chapter 14—Escalate

  Chapter 15—Fascination

  Chapter 16—Allure

  Chapter 17—Longing

  Chapter 18—Logic

  Chapter 19—Chances

  Chapter 20—Acceptance

  Chapter 21—Resolve

  Chapter 22—Position

  Chapter 23—Expectations

  Chapter 24—Deals

  Chapter 25—Incident

  Chapter 26—Enlighten

  Chapter 27—Meaning

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  About the Author

  Chapter 1—Preparation

  “I do believe you are nearly perfect.”

  Presley twirled a makeup brush between her perfectly manicured nails before laying it down on the bathroom counter. She tossed her platinum blonde hair off her shoulder before standing and motioning me to the mirror in her bedroom.

  I glanced at the large, freestanding mirror in front of me and turned to the left and then the right. After spending years looking at myself in styles ranging from collegiate casual to evening formal, seeing myself in a conservative, corporate suit seemed strange. Hair up, simple diamond stud earrings, scarf around my neck…I barely recognized myself. Only the labels on the Versace suit and Prada purse were familiar.

  I’d hardly call myself “perfect” though. Not “nearly perfect” either.

  I smiled at my reflection, going for that look of confidence someone with a master’s degree in accounting should have when applying for a job. Smooth and easygoing, as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

  Inside, my heart pounded and my stomach churned this morning’s takeout crepes from Barney’s Bakery. I wished I had just stayed at my own apartment last night instead of agreeing to stay here and let Presley fix me up for my interview.

  “Ashlyn?” Presley placed her hand on my arm. “You all right?”

  “Nervous.”

  “Whatever for?” Presley looked genuinely confused. “It’s not like you aren’t going to get the job.”

  “I still want to interview well. I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m talking about, and I don’t want to embarrass Dad. I feel like I’m representing the whole Dragonov family.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Presley was dismissive in her tone and a flippant wave of her hand.

  “I’ve never even had a job before,” I said. “I never so much as babysat a neighbor’s kid, delivered a pizza, or asked if anyone wanted fries with their order. If Dad didn’t hand me cash for whatever I wanted, I simply used the credit card.”

  “You and me both, sister.” Presley laughed. “I’m not even sure if I’ll get a job after graduation. According to your dad’s company, my trust fund pretty much covers me for life and then some. I’m thinking about going to the Virgin Islands or maybe Puerto Rico and just chilling for a while.”

  “Didn’t the last round of hurricanes make that a little difficult?”

  “I figure I can help out,” Presley said with a shrug.

  Trust fund lifestyle aside, Presley was often the first in line when it came to those she considered less fortunate, which were most people. She had a thing for five-kilometer walks and political fundraisers.

  “Are you going to help distribute supplies?”

  “I figure there’s probably a lot of people who won’t be able to fix up their homes or businesses. Zoey’s been talking about combining her broadcasting degree with her newfound love of house-flipping and starting up a new reality TV show. If we can offer people who want to relocate good prices for their homes…well, real estate is always a good investment.”

  “Couldn’t that be considered…I don’t know…taking advantage of the situation?”

  “Someone has to do it.” Presley tucked her hair behind her ear. “Ashlyn, you should go with. I bet we would need an accountant. Screw Daddy Dragonov’s company.”

  “That is so not in the cards.”

  “Just for a month or two,” Presley said. She was always good at pressing an issue. “It would be good to give yourself options.”

  “No can do,” I replied. “I’ll start work just two weeks after graduation, and I still need to find a new apartment before our lease expires. I refuse to move back home. I’m not going to be one of those people who live with daddy into their thirties.”

  “Always want to prove something to everyone, don’t you?”

  “Just to myself.” My words were a lie but only partially. I did want to prove to myself that I could do well on my own without Dad’s backing. Inside, I knew I wanted others to look at me and realize I had done it on my own, too.

  I took a deep breath and looked back in the mirror. At least I looked the part of a highly paid executive. If I added up the money spent on this single outfit, I would find something close to the gross national product of a small country.

  “Are we done here?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Presley tapped her finger against her lips and shook her head. “One change needed.”

  I continued to stare at my reflection as Presley disappeared into her giant walk-in closet and rummaged around in the back. She returned with a pair of shoes.

  “Seriously?” I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes at the monstrosities in Presley’s hands. Three-inch heels with pointy toes seemed a bit much for a job interview.

  “Definitely. You can never go wrong with Louboutin.”

  “There are steps leading up to the office building, you know.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “Ugh.” I grabbed the shoes from her fingers, sat down on a nearby chair, and put them on. I stood up, wobbled for a moment before getting my balance, and looked back in the mirror.

  Presley was right. The shoes made the outfit.

  “Now that is the look of an up-and-coming CFO!”

  “I won’t start as the CFO.” I shook my head and laughed. “I’ll be her assistant until she retires.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Presley said. “She should have retired last year.”

  “She’s only sixty.”

  “Right. Practically dead.”

  “That is my aunt you’re talking about.” I scowled, but Presley only shrugged.

  Presley plopped down on the edge of the bed and grabbed her phone. Her fingers flew over the touch screen for a few minutes as I flattened my skirt out with my hands and walked a few steps in the shoes. They weren’t too uncomfortable, and I wasn’t planning on walking in them very much. I should be fine.

  I glanced at my childhood friend. She had nar
rowed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. I wondered who she was texting with so emphatically and hoped she wasn’t going to demand pictures of my outfit to send to our friends. I appreciated her help, but I never liked being the center of attention like she did.

  “Club Mania tonight.” Presley leaned back and dropped her phone on the duvet beside her.

  “I don’t know how long the interview will last,” I said. “Dad will probably want me to go out for dinner or something afterward.”

  “So? Come later.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see you there.” She stood, grabbed her phone again, tapped furiously for a few seconds, and then grabbed her purse. “Gotta run. Chem lab starts soon, and I need a mocha. You can let yourself out. Good luck and all that. See you tonight!”

  I watched as Presley, the straight A chemistry PhD candidate, exited the room with a parting wave and a two thousand dollar backpack to hold her books. A moment later, I heard the apartment door close.

  I checked my phone for the time and decided to review my notes before heading to the office for my interview. Everyone assumed I already had the job in my pocket, which was mostly accurate, but I couldn’t completely blow the interview and make my father justify hiring me anyway. I also wanted to make sure I got the assistant CFO job and not some underling starter position, or it would take that much more time to become the head of the financial department.

  Nepotism was certainly evident at my father’s company, but I also knew my shit, and I planned on proving that today.

  I sighed. I needed to get moving so I wouldn’t be late.

  I picked up my leather briefcase full of actual, physical copies of my resume—on linen paper, which I thought was ridiculous in this day and age, but my advisor told me to do it anyway. On the way down the hall, I dug for the fob to my Saab and tried not to fall over in the ridiculous shoes.

  In the parking garage for Presley’s apartment, my slick black Saab near the back wall sat off on its own with the trunk partially open. Apparently, neither Presley nor I had realized we hadn’t closed it after retrieving our shopping bags last night.

  I slammed the trunk and lowered myself into the driver’s seat, automatically placing my foot on the brake. It felt weird, and I realized the high-heeled shoes were going to interfere with my ability to drive. Reaching down, I bumped my head on the steering wheel as I tried to get the shoes off and then scraped my leg with one of the spiked heels as I sat up.

  “Ugh!” I tossed the shoes onto the passenger seat along with my purse and briefcase, placed my foot back on the brake, and pushed the start button.

  Nothing happened.

  I pushed the button over and over again, but all I heard was a clicking sound. I knew I had filled up the tank earlier in the week, so I definitely had gas. My father insisted on regular car maintenance, and it had been in the shop for a tune-up within the last two months.

  The car simply wouldn’t start.

  I grabbed my phone, ready to call roadside assistance to come and fix whatever was going on, but the first thing I noticed was the time. I had given myself plenty of time to drive to Dragonov Financial but not enough time to wait for someone to figure out what was wrong with my car. If I left immediately, I would just barely have enough time to reach the office on foot before my interview.

  “Shit!” I reached over, grabbed the heels, put them back on my feet, and abandoned the car. For a moment, I stood just outside the parking garage, noticing the sudden pain from my left heel. There was no way I was going to be able to walk in these things, but I also couldn’t take them off and head down the city street; my stockings would be ruined! There wasn’t any time to run back up to the apartment to get any other shoes.

  Once again, I glanced at my phone for the time. I only had a few minutes to get to my interview on time, and there wasn’t a choice. I was going to have to walk.

  In these shoes.

  Quickly.

  Chapter 2—Ride

  Damn these heels.

  I walked as quickly as I could, given the three-inch stilettos Presley forced onto my feet, mumbling under my breath as I went.

  “I mean, seriously? It’s not like this is the sort of job interview where you don’t know if you are going to end up with the position. I mean, when your father already owns the company, chances of you getting the job you want once you graduate are really pretty good. Why are you so nervous?”

  Halfway there, I considered smacking myself for not calling a cab or an Uber or something. The walk from my place to Dad’s office wasn’t really that far under normal circumstances, but contacting someone for a ride just hadn’t occurred to me in time.

  “It’s only a short walk,” I muttered. “It not like the subway is a better option. I should have called a cab, but it was only a twenty-minute walk, and hailing a taxi usually took a half hour.”

  I was babbling like an idiot, and some homeless guy with a pair of socks on his hands and a mangy dog curled up next to him looked at me like I was the crazy one. I shut my mouth and continued on.

  “Holy shit, she is fuckhawt.”

  I didn’t even look over at the group of boys on the corner. Every city seemed to have a group of such kids—tattoos, piercings everywhere, chain smoking and generally looking like they exist just to piss off their parents. Usually they were on skateboards though this group seemed to prefer BMX bicycles.

  Of course, the light changed right at that moment, and I was stuck standing next to them, waiting for the walk signal. I refused to look over in their direction though I could still hear them talking and trying to get my attention. I ignored them and stared straight ahead at the red hand denying me access to the other side of the road. I wondered if there might be a proverbial chicken nearby so I could staple myself to it.

  “Hey,” a soft voice said beside me. I startled. I hadn’t even heard him come up, but when I looked to my right, one of the boys was right next to me.

  He was standing up on the bicycle with one wheel high up in the air, balancing on the pedals as easily as if he were standing on the ground. He was wearing a faded pair of ripped jeans with one pant-leg completely missing, making the garment a half pair of shorts. His shirt was also faded with the logo of some metal band on the front.

  When I looked up at his face, I was surprised to see he was a little older than I had originally assumed. I always figured groups of boys hanging out on the corner ranged from about fourteen to sixteen, but this one had to be out of high school. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble covering his cheeks and neck, long and unruly black hair tied up in a man-bun, and intense, bright green eyes. His full bottom lip was adorned with a pair of thin silver hoops through the left side, and a matching hoop went through his eyebrow. Three more hung from the lobe of his right ear. There was some dark, swirling tattoo wrapping around his left arm and something more colorful just peeking out of the collar of his T-shirt, but I couldn’t make out the details of either design. There was a thin, gold chain around his neck, the front of which was tucked into his shirt with the chain pulled tight at the front, the lump of a charm of some sort hiding underneath the fabric.

  “Would you go to dinner with me?”

  “Excuse me?” There was no way I had heard him right. I mean—guys with piercings and tattoos didn’t walk up to women wearing suits and heels to ask them out for dinner.

  “See, you’re really, really pretty.” He shrugged, twisting his hips a little and making the bicycle spin in a full circle before facing me again. “And my buddy CeeCee says if you’re pretty on the outside, you’re probably ugly on the inside. I just want to see if he’s right.”

  I stared unabashed at him.

  “I don’t think he’s right,” the boy said, clarifying. “I know a great place to eat, and it would be perfect for you.”

  “Perfect for me?” I heard myself echo his words.

  “I think you’d like to go someplace where you aren’t expected to wear those kinds of
shoes.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t like wearing them,” he said, shrugging and swiveling the bike again.

  “How do you know that?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

  “The way you kept looking at them. I was actually waiting for you to tell them to fuck off or something.” He laughed. “I mean, you look at them like you hate them, like maybe the heels impaled your dog on your birthday or something.”

  I heard a chime and looked across at the “Don’t Walk” sign and realized I had just missed my opportunity to get across the street.

  “Dammit!” I mumbled. I turned back to him. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m really in a hurry, and I don’t have time for this right now.”

  “Why are you in a hurry?”

  “I have a job interview, and it starts in ten minutes,” I said, wondering why I was even telling him these things. “And I am willing to admit these shoes aren’t helping me get there on time.”

  “You want a ride?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” he said. “Then you wouldn’t be late, and your feet wouldn’t hurt.”

  “You have a car?” I asked stupidly. I knew he didn’t have a car around here. There wasn’t even a parking garage within six blocks.

  He laughed.

  “On my bike, goofball.” Half his mouth turned up in the most incredible smile I had ever seen in my life. Granted, lots of people have nice smiles. Lots of guys have those “panty dropping” looks that make girls want to throw their undergarments at them if they were up on a stage in front of a microphone. Most popular actors have one of those looks, too, but I had never seen a smile quite like this one.

  Aside from the luscious curling of half of his perfectly formed lips, his smile didn’t just light up his eyes, like any good genuine smile will do; it lit up his whole face. He positively glowed as he tilted his head slightly to one side and looked at me with one eyebrow cocked. I could have sworn the sun even peeked out from behind a cloud at that point and lit up his hair as well.

  His tongue popped out of his mouth and fiddled with the rings embedded in his lip, and he glanced down at the sidewalk for a moment before looking back up at me. The combined gestures gave him an odd combination of both cocky and shy all at the same time. Can looks be ambiguous?