Stormy Summer by Suzy Turner

Acknowledgements I wrote this book in my mid-twenties. It was my very first attempt at writing a novel. Admittedly, I was amazed I could do it! But after various failed attempts at getting an agent, I gave up, put the book in a drawer somewhere and pretty much forgot all about it... until a few months ago when, after writing nine other novels, I decided it was time to dust it off, clean it up and share it with the world! I'm very grateful to the wonderful girls who read this first and gave me their honest opinions to help hone Stormy Summer into an even better book. – Christine, Jill, Poppet, Dawn, Lorna – You girls rock! Huge thanks should also go to my awesome editor, Andrea, who works magic on my books, every single time. And last but certainly not least, to my very own knight in shining armour, Michael, who has been with me from the very beginning of my journey – helping me every step of the way (even though he still hasn't read any of my books – he insists he's waiting for the movies!). Chapter 1 I was having the time of my life. It was like being on a roller coaster of physical sensations. This guy was taking me to heaven and back. Touching me in all the right spots and taking me to the edge, over and over and over again. He was gentle and tender and not once did he ask me to do anything peculiar to him—as was often the case in my traumatic love life. Mmmmm, gosh it was good. He was amazing. Perhaps he was some kind of tantric s*x expert, like Sting, because it seemed to go on for hours and hours. Believe me, this was one s****l experience I never wanted to end. After a little while longer, I was right on the verge of having the most awesome o****m of my entire life (it was definitely going to be more than multiple), when the inevitable happened: the phone started ringing. s**t. I told him to ignore it, and he did. But for some obscure reason, I couldn't. Suddenly, he wasn't there anymore. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. What the…? Then it hit me like a left jab from Muhammad Ali. It wasn't the phone at all—it was the f*****g alarm clock! Oh no, I was right there. Nearly there. Goddammit it. The b****y alarm clock was waking me from the most glorious dream of all time. I leant over the bedside table and switched the stupid thing off. Still feeling incredibly horny and totally frustrated, I simply had to do something about it. It was times like these that I needed a man. A real man, not some imaginary one. So I reached under the bed and pulled out the 'joke' present Gwen had bought me for my birthday—an intimate massager. That's what it said on the box, anyway. Why didn't it just say 'Vibrator—for the sad, manless woman who needs it after an arduous night of dreamed up passion, rudely interrupted by the alarm clock'? I switched it on. Nothing. s**t. By this time, I was desperate to fulfil myself where the alarm had prevented the dream from succeeding. The batteries had run out. Instead, I used the ones from the alarm, tossing the clock onto the floor. I tried again, and it almost jumped out of my hand. That was more like it. Carefully placing the buzzing piece of equipment between my legs, I tried to fantasise about the hunk in the dream. But I just couldn't picture him, so I settled for Russell Crowe instead. Mmmmm, yeah, Russell, baby, yeah. Hang on a minute, that wasn't Russell. It was… it was… it was b****y Austin Powers! What on Earth was wrong with me? Not that it particularly mattered, because within a couple of minutes (after turning up the power) I'd finally managed to come (even though I'd been imagining having s*x with a total geek, not a god. Never mind). And it wasn't quite the same standard as before—just a short single one; o****m, that is. At least I'd got rid of the need. I wished I had a real man. And I wished I could figure out who the sexy beast in my dream was. I didn't have the slightest idea who I'd been fantasising about. And boy…what a fantasy. It would probably come to me when I was thinking of something completely different. Like when I was at work, amidst the countless dorks in the office, or somewhere irritating like that. Finally climbing out of bed and wondering what time it was, since I'd nicked the batteries from the clock, I decided to get a move on. I couldn't be late for work. Otherwise, Mr Negativity would hit the roof. He usually did. oOo As I inched forward in the traffic jam, I noticed I was being ogled by a couple of rather fat, ugly, perverted builders. You know the kind—builders' bum cracks and all. They were crudely suggesting a 'shag' and grabbing their crotches and stuff. I gave them the finger and mouthed 'sit, and spin, gentlemen' before the traffic finally began to speed up and off I went. Only another five minutes and I'd be pulling up outside The News Corporation, the gigantic office building near London where I worked. It was quite an impressive place. The only one of its kind in England. We also had a sister building in New York, and another in Texas. Over here, it was a multi-storey office block, where several daily, weekly and monthly newspapers and magazines were created. I worked at the Monthly News Gazette, where I was responsible for page-making, as well as a few other boring bits and bobs. The page-making could be quite a bit of fun sometimes; just a shame about the rest of it, really. My boss was Jack Willoughby, aka Mr Negativity. The single most negative person ever to exist this side of Mars. Nothing was ever right; his problems were the only problems in the world. He was always talking about moving abroad because he couldn't stand the weather, as well as countless other stuff. Basically, he was a right pain in the arse. There were hundreds of staff and, for some reason, my department seemed to have all the geeks and tarts. I seemed to be the only real normal person there—at least I thought I was normal, anyway. Well, relatively normal. As I finally pulled into the car park, I suddenly had a massive flashback, and I finally saw the guy from my dream. It was… It was… OH MY GOD! I was so shocked that I braked too late and shunted a parked car. s**t. I glanced around to see if there were any witnesses, but luckily there didn't seem to be anyone around. So I quickly parked away from the other vehicle. I turned off the engine and just sat there in shock—not because I had driven into another person's car, but because of the dream. Or should I say nightmare? The tantric s*x god had been none other than the fat office slob, Gavin Knobb. I couldn't bear the thought. I shuddered, trying to force it from my mind. Urgh. I was totally and completely grossed out. I couldn't tell anyone, not even Gwen. Okay, yeah, I could tell Gwen; she was my best pal. I'd tell her all the disgustingly gruesome details tonight. It was funny how just a couple of hours earlier, these details were blissfully delightful, and now they were totally gross. I went and had a look at the other car to see if I'd damaged it. I had…but only a little. Well, it didn't look that bad. Oh, f*****g hell! Feeling totally guilty, I figured I'd better scribble down a note with my apologies and phone number. I put it under the wiper and then headed into work. It was exactly 08h30. Right on time. 'On-time this morning, for a change, Summer,' quipped possibly the geekiest of them all, Geoff Wankhorn, as he handed over some news articles on a flash drive, ready to be transformed into an interesting page that people would want to read. 'Oh, bugger off, Wanker.' Of course, he hated being called that, but it was the best way to get him to shut up, and almost everyone in the office used it at some point or other. I must admit, though, that I did feel sorry for him sometimes (and I stress sometimes) but today wasn't one of those days. After this morning's palaver, everyone was in my bad books—particularly Gavin the Knobster (as I often called him) for managing to creep into my dream like that. How dare he, for God's sake! Urgh! Urgh! Urgh! I quivered all over in disgust. Think of the devil, and he shall appear. Bollocks. There he stood, waiting for me at my desk. I stopped in my tracks and eyed him from a distance. He really was horrible. Quite tall but fat, and he wore trousers so tight they almost tore at the seams and a baggy brown cotton shirt with stains down the front. His lanky brown hair needed a good cut and b*****b—erm, blow-dry (what was wrong with me?). Added to that was the disgusting fact that he obviously hadn't wiped his mouth after eating breakfast. How could I have possibly dreamt about having the best s*x of my life with such a freak? I groaned, obviously aloud, because he looked up and saw me. 'Mornin', alright?' he slobbered. Cringing, I nodded and asked if he was waiting for something. 'Well, yeah. I, er, I, I was wonderin' if you. Er…' Oh God, what on Earth was he going to ask? He wasn't going to ask me out or something, was he? Please no.Please. Then, I had another thought. Oh God no—he didn't have the same dream, did he? No, no, no, no, no, no! Urgh! With a capital U. I couldn't bear it. I looked him straight in the eye, and that's when I noticed he actually had the most lovely emerald green eyes. Well, that's something I hadn't noticed before. Suddenly I began to feel quite warm down there, in the groin area. Oh no—this was not happening—he was turning me on. No way. Oh, for God's sake, Summer, sort yourself out! Uh-oh. I didn't like the feel of this. Well, actually, I loved the feel of this, but just definitely and absolutely not with him. He suddenly let out a loud burp and a faint odour of baked beans drifted beneath my nostrils. The warm feeling vanished. Thank God. 'Gavin, what is it? Just spit it out.' Not literally, though, I should have added. 'I lost quite an important file, and I was wondering if you'd seen it. It's the one about Kelly Brook's latest conquest.' That's an important file? 'Why don't you ask Wanker?' I suggested, pointing behind me. Finally, as I sat down to get some work done, Mr Negativity waltzed in. Okay, perhaps he didn't waltz in, because that would be a contradiction in terms. It would be far too positive a movement for him. He trundled in as if he had the world's problems at his feet. Oh, I forgot—he did have the world's problems at his feet, because his problems were the only problems in the world, right? Silly me for forgetting such an obvious thing. As usual, I put my head down and avoided having to talk to him. The worst thing you could do was to ask him how he was. Occasionally, if I were in a good mood, I'd forget and ask. Then my good mood would be gobbled up by the aura of negativity that surrounded him day and night—not that I'd ever seen him at night. However, I couldn't avoid him forever as he was my boss, the editor of the Monthly News Gazette, and we had to liaise, rather too often for my liking, regarding the page make-up, articles, and so on. Monday morning was often the worst because there was a pile of notes, messages, news clippings and complaints on his desk, as well as the fact that the Gazette was printed on the last Sunday of the month and the day before had been the printing day. As if on cue, Willoughby picked up the latest edition and began his daily musings, or should I say moanings? He tutted. 'Oh, for God's sake. Didn't I ask for someone to alter this headline? Summer? I do recall asking you to change it. Why hasn't it been done?' 'Well, Jack,'—we were all on a first-name basis—'I did change it, but then you asked to change it back again because it didn't sound quite right, if you recall,' I replied sweetly, with a hint of sarcasm, which was totally lost on him, I might add.