Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1) Read online

  Jason

  The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

  Jean Evergreen

  Copyright © 2017 by Jean Evergreen

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Advisory

  1. Seductive Reasoning

  2. The Rat Race

  3. The Pessimist and the Optimist

  4. Opposing Ends

  5. Unsettled

  6. The Texas Twister

  7. Things are Looking Up

  8. Why Always Roses

  9. Perspective

  10. The Ice Cage

  11. Single and Ready to Mingle

  12. Minimalism

  13. Morning Haze

  14. Is it a Date

  15. Nirvana

  16. Christmas Spirit Week

  17. A False Promise of Love

  18. Happy New Year

  19. Paris

  20. Where is Jason

  21. Survival Instinct

  22. Things Fall Apart

  23. Consequences

  24. Shattered

  25. The Phallicy

  26. In a Sentimental Mood

  27. Something That I Needed to Do

  28. A Hollywood Ending

  Thank you!

  29. Unfinished Business

  Advisory

  Please be advised, this book is meant for mature audiences. It contains graphic scenes, explicit language and references to violence.

  The Philistine Heart Saga is a dark romance that focuses on drama and suspense. It is not a feel good, light hearted read. If you are sensitive to adult content, or are easily “triggered,” this might not be a good book for you.

  1

  Seductive Reasoning

  The heat continues to swelter late into this midsummer night. Opening the window only seems to make my claustrophobic one bedroom duplex feel even more like a furnace. It’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to risk a neighbor walking by my window who might hear me. I had the fans going earlier, but they are loud and the night’s activities are far too intriguing for such a noisy distraction.

  “Seduce me,” Blake says, peering at me through slitted eyelids, licking his lips wet with anticipation. There’s something about the way he talks to me with his southern Texas drawl — so purposeful, commanding … dirty. He wants me to obey him, but he can’t have any real expectation that I will. He knows me too well for that.

  I sit with my legs crossed on the front edge of my bed, bouncing my leg off a knee. I look directly at Blake with a devilish smile, slowly shaking my head.

  “Do you really expect me to do as I’m told when you’re all the way over there, and I’m over here?” I ask, my eyes wide and innocent. “What kind of woman would that make me?”

  “My kind of woman,” Blake answers impishly.

  I run the back of my fingers down my throat, between my breasts, all the while feeling the slight dampness of my skin — perspiration from the humid night air. The floral lace material that barely covers me clings to my body giving me a sense of urgency to peel it off, so I’m fully liberated from the heavy, smothering burden of cloth.

  “That outfit looks nice on you.” A smile forms on my lips. The way Blake says nice amuses me. His I’s sound like A’s.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say with a teasing arch of the brow. “It’s the one you sent me.”

  “I know, I recognize the color. Red suits you.”

  Blake likes to buy my lingerie. Black is normally his color of choice. For some reason, this red teddy caught his eye. Though it’s not difficult to imagine why; with a neckline plunging down to my naval and high bikini cut, I would wager the only color on his mind when he made his purchase was nude.

  Uncrossing my legs, I sit with my knees together. “So you want me to seduce you?” I lift one of my legs in front of me, putting my four-inch stiletto heel fully on display. Blake buys my lingerie, but never my shoes. The only heels I have are black. I run my hands from my ankle to my thigh. I’m toying with Blake, but that’s our little game. He might ask, but that won’t get him what he wants. At least not right away.

  “I do,” Blake replies expectantly. “I want you to spread your legs, wide. Put your fingers in between your lips and start rubbing. Then I’ll start rubbing,” Blake says with a knowing smile.

  I open my legs, wide, just as Blake asks, lightly grazing my fingers across the inside of my thigh until I reach the soft lips between my legs. “Like this?” I ask, gingerly stroking myself up and down.

  “Yes,” Blake says brusquely. “I’d like to see more of you. That little outfit you have on, take it off.”

  I stand up slowly, provocatively, turning around to reveal the tenuous material on my back. The racerback straps and thong bottom leave little to the imagination. But then, it’s only meant to cover just enough for him to want to see more. I begin pulling the straps down, one arm at a time.

  “Not so fast. I ain’t in no hurry.”

  My filthy Texan, he knows what that accent does to me. I let the straps fall carelessly from my shoulders and roll the top of the teddy over my breasts, down my waist, stomach and hips—exposing my naked body to him, inch by inch, until there is nothing left to hide. Carefully stepping out of my garment, I use the toe of my pump to, haphazardly, kick it off to the side.

  “Bend over,” Blake commands from behind me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about your day first,” I say teasingly, knowing full well that Blake doesn’t care for small talk during our sessions.

  “I reckon we can talk about that later. Right now, I need you to bend over.”

  A satisfied smile forms on my lips. Blake knows my games, we’ve played them many times. His rebuff to my badinage has me wet with yearning. But dominion over my body is to be given not taken. Blake’s unfailing blunder is to take what isn’t his. Spreading my legs apart I bend over, touching the ground with the tips of my fingers.

  “I like that baby. You look real good. Come up slowly and spank yourself.”

  I do as Blake asks. Keeping my back to him, I swat my bottom, so it makes a loud, smacking noise. Blake likes the sound.

  “Harder,” Blake says. His breathing becoming heavy. I oblige him, spanking myself again, harder, louder.

  “Turn around and look at me. Look at what you’ve done.”

  I turn around to see Blake’s erect penis targeting me like a fully loaded pistol ready to fire. “Well, well, look who’s decided to show up,” I say wickedly.

  “If I were there I’d have you on your back, spread them legs wide and show up several times,” Blake says, as he rubs lubricant up and down his long, hard shaft.

  The way he talks to me has my pulse racing. Despite my struggle to maintain control, he knows just what to say to disarm me. I came to him wanting to feel his desire, that he craves my body: every curve and contour, it’s touch, and it’s warmth. I want him on his knees in an obsequious pool of yearning. But he will not give me that satisfaction.

  He’s intractable, one look from him unnerves me. That thick southern twang in his voice that he uses with such authority has me unhinged, and I am a captive at his mercy. I only want to pleasure him.

  “Why don’t you get on the bed and join me,” Blake says, well underway in his part of pleasuring himself.

  Leaving my heels on, I crawl onto the bed and turn around to lay on my back. I open my legs and begin rubbing my sex. The camera is angled perfectly for Bla
ke to see my lower extremities in full. This isn’t our first time playing this game.

  I arch and undulate my back, running my hands all over my body as though they were his hands. I say his name. I do it for him, all for Blake.

  “Thank you, baby,” Blake says when he finishes.

  I sit up on the bed, my thirst unquenched. I’m always left wanting with Blake.

  Blake reclines in his chair, his face the picture of contentment. He’ll need a moment to recover.

  “I start my new job tomorrow,” I say, pulling myself to the bottom of the bed.

  “Oh yeah, you nervous?” Blake asks.

  “Not really,” I sigh. “You know how it goes, another day another dollar. How can I feel nervous when my expectations are non-existent?”

  “You’ll do great, don’t worry. You’re tough as nails.”

  Tough as nails? I feel more like quivering jelly. “I’m not that tough,” I say slumping my shoulders forward.

  “You’ll be back on your feet in no time. I’ve always admired that about you. You’re a survivor.”

  I nod in agreement. I am that — a survivor.

  “I think I need to wash.” I stand, ready to make my way to the bathroom. Dirty hands unsettle me.

  “Not yet,” Blake says.

  “Already?” I ask. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been a while.

  “That was just the first round baby. That ain’t even a match.”

  Oh gosh, boxing references. It’s going to be a long night.

  2

  The Rat Race

  It was about two years ago when I walked away from my very lucrative job as a marketing analyst. I still remember the entire event as though it happened yesterday. It was the middle of yet another mundane work day, and I had just received a mass email from our department manager declaring that only vacation requests made two weeks in advance would be approved. This news came after previously cutting staff, implementing a hiring freeze, overloading the remaining employees with enough work for two, and mandating overtime as a stipulation of accepting our new job description. Messing with my vacation time was the last straw.

  On that day, I was working to meet a deadline. My marketing reports were due by five o’clock PM. They were almost finished. Punctuality had always been my strong suit. I was down to one last batch of raw data, that I needed to transform on my spreadsheet, when I stopped. It was as though a light switched off in my brain and I went dark. But it wasn’t a phenomenon exclusive to my mind. The thought of looking at one more Excel formula made me sick to my stomach. My entire being rejected the notion of finishing those reports. It was not a reality I could live any longer. I knew it was imperative that I leave, immediately.

  I let my instinct take over so that I could do what I would ordinarily never allow in a rational state of mind. I wrote an email to my supervisor that succinctly read “I quit.” I left my key card on my computer keyboard, grabbed my sanitary wipes and purse — the only personal belongings I had at my desk — and, in a surreal daze, walked out the front door of the building, directly to my car. I didn’t look back. I didn’t leave behind a single thing I would miss.

  After I had declared my independence from corporate America, I was confident I would never again have to take another trivial, soul-crushing position. No more incompetent bosses, nonsensical office politics, bothersome co-workers, or dedication to pointless projects that I cared nothing about. I was finally free from the proverbial shackles that corporate America imposed on me. Free to create my own path, live my passions, to feel like I exist, that I’m not merely dream walking through life. I was like a stranded kite that picked up a gust of wind. For a few glorious moments, I sailed through the sky, intrepid and undeterred, only to crash down to earth in a muddled pile of wreckage. To put it mildly, my feelings of rapture were short-lived.

  I had an idea of selling homemade organic skincare products online. It seemed ingenious. How could it fail? I spent over a year implementing my business plan, and I made a great product. What I didn’t anticipate was how long it would take to break even. I exhausted almost all of my savings before my business got off the ground and eventually had to move to a cheap, hole in the wall, duplex in Tacoma to afford rent.

  Now, two years later, with the reality of going broke only weeks away, I’m forced to accept a position at a marketing agency where I make only a fraction of what I did at my last job. After all of my efforts to exit the rat race, I’m right back at the beginning. And I’m aptly reminded of the wise words from Sinatra: that’s life. Sometimes life’s not about passion or dreams, but rather having a roof over your head and food on the table. It’s about staying in the race long enough to eventually get ahead. And surviving long enough to reach the finish line. But then, who really wants to reach the finish line? That’s a depressing thought.

  I might feel demeaned by my demotion if I had friends or family to tell. But I only have Blake. He doesn’t care about what I do for a living or how much money I make. His primary concern is that I’m happy. That’s the thing about distance. It affords a great deal more acceptance in a relationship when the other follies. With Blake all the way in Texas, I have considerable room to fail without him being any the wiser.

  Now that my business misadventure is safely behind me, I am now faced with the reality of returning to the very corporate America that I’d previously spurned. And here I am, standing in the waiting area of Barron and Fuller Marketing Agency as Paul, a stockily built blonde, reaches out to shake my hand.

  “Bridget, it’s good to see you again. Hopefully, the traffic was tolerable.”

  “Yes, very much so, I took the bus,” I reply with an upbeat smile. The truth is I abhor public transit. Spending two hours, every day, sitting on seats of questionable cleanliness, next to random strangers coughing, sniffling and sneezing in various states of disease, is far beyond the bounds of what I consider tolerable. Parking in Seattle costs a small fortune, leaving me with two viable transportation options: take the bus or live in my car.

  Paul casts me a cheery grin. “I’m glad to hear it. We’re all excited to have you on board.”

  “I’m excited to be here. I can’t wait to get started!” I say, while inwardly rolling my eyes.

  “Wonderful,” Paul replies. He seems pleased with my enthusiasm. Motioning for me to follow, he leads me down a long corridor of offices and conference rooms. As we walk, Paul points to each room, identifying it as belonging to the director or manager of one department or another. I nod and smile, barely listening.

  Though I find my situation contemptible, I have to admit that if I were five years younger, I might feel excited to work in such a trendy environment. The marketing agency monopolizes half the top floor of a high-rise in the fashionable Westlake Center, right in the heart of downtown Seattle. The space is decidedly contemporary in ambiance — with an open ceiling exposing its air ducts and piping. The offices and conference rooms have glass walls with blinds for privacy. Even the employees seem to have a chic, upscale vibe about them.

  I follow Paul to an opening where desks are set next to each other in two rows. My heart does a nosedive into my stomach as I realize this is one of those collaborative office layouts where privacy is an antiquated concept — unless, of course, you’re upper management.

  “This is your desk,” Paul says, as he proceeds to log into my computer, pointing me to the applications and pass codes I’ll need.

  Looking skeptically at my desk and surroundings, I suddenly find myself reminiscing about my old cubicle and its three flimsy walls that I so regularly took for granted. I never thought I’d miss anything about that job. But as I survey my new desk, which is conspicuously located in the middle of the office — and its tiny partition that I suppose is meant to act as a barrier between myself and whoever will occupy the one next to mine, I can’t help but look upon my prior situation with some measure of fondness. At the moment, the neighboring desk appears uninhabited, but somehow I doubt my good fortune wil
l last. That’s the harsh reality of a junior marketing assistant, the perks are few and the pay is low. But so long as I keep my expectations minimal, I’m sure to spare myself heaps of disappointment.

  The day progresses predictably. And in my quiet cynicism I can’t help but contemplate that if all the world is a stage, then I’ve been typecast into a singular role for every performance: the quiet, diffident girl with a sunny disposition. Since I’ve spent years playing the same part, I have every mannerism, gesture, and inflection down to a science. And I spend the remainder of the day acting it out to perfection — laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, making small talk on inane topics, and smiling incessantly until my face practically freezes in a Cheshire grin.

  After a long day of orientation and awkward co-worker greetings, I finally get a few gratifying moments to myself before it’s time to clock out — which I dutifully spend going over orientation paperwork. It also provides an excuse to avoid further unsolicited conversation. Although the exceptional kindness of my new colleagues is undeniable, I find it’s impossible to escape my introvert. Spending the day talking to strangers is a job of work in itself. It is a relief allowing my mind to drift into more pleasant thoughts of home and Blake. My reverie is such that I don’t notice the footsteps approaching from the side, or the irritated urgency of the person peering down at me.

  “Hi,” comes a pithy voice, cutting through my temporary bliss.