High Strung (Power Station Book 1)

HIGH STRUNG

Copyright 2014 T Gephart

Published by T Gephart

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Marion Archer

Cover by Gianni Renda

Cover Image by Angelique Ehlers

Formatted by Max Henry of
Max Effect

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Books by T Gephart

I felt beads of
sweat starting to form on the back of my neck as my fingers drummed restlessly on the arms of the chair. I needed this job in the worst way and I didn’t think I could cope with another rejection. Despite being ridiculously overqualified for the position, I would do anything to get out of the hospitality industry. Sure, it was something I was good at, having parents that owned a small Irish pub meant I grew up in a bar, and being able to pull a perfect draft was a skill that provided no trouble landing a job back in the industry. However, I was getting really sick of being called “sweetheart” and if one more jerk grabbed my ass while I served him his beer, I was seriously going to lose it.

This had not been my dream when I moved to New York five years ago - making minimum wage and living in a shitty, cubby-hole apartment I was sure violated every safety code known to man. Still, it beat living on the streets, which is where I would find myself if I didn’t start earning more than I was now. Of course, I hadn’t always been so desperate. I couldn’t believe my luck when I had landed an entry-level associate’s role at a small brokerage firm straight out of college. I had stepped off the greyhound bus like a cliché in an ’80’s hair band video, leaving my nervous, conservative parents and six siblings back in Boston. I should have known it was too good to be true. Three years later, just as I was about to make the progression to junior broker, the company—like so many others—went bankrupt and closed its door. I found myself out of work and out of luck.

There weren’t many opportunities for a commerce major during a global financial crisis. Any jobs there had been were snapped up by seasoned veterans, which is why I’d had no choice but to take a job at Garro’s, a sports bar on the Lower East Side. My previous bar knowledge had made it a safe and familiar choice even if the money wasn’t great. At least it was only a short commute from my Brooklyn apartment and it meant I had at least one hot meal a day.

I looked nervously at my watch. Two o’clock. Shit. I still had another thirty minutes to wait before my appointment, and my bravado had already started to wane. Desperation was a horrible thing, because I knew either way this whole experience was going to suck. If I got the job, I was going to hate it, as it would no doubt be mind-numbingly dull, and if I didn’t, I should pack up my shit and reserve my park bench in Central Park. I was out of options and out of time. I took a deep breath as I tried to harness the nervous energy buzzing through my body. Rock stars. This is what it had come to.

The job I was so desperately vying for was personal assistant to Lexi Reed, the head of Reed Public Relations. She held the account for a massive local rock band, Power Station. I was not a fan. Of the band I mean. The five-piece New York natives were gritty and raw with their sound featuring torturous guitar riffs with an unrelenting rhythm section. It was in-your-face loud. Obnoxious. Sure they were blessed with good looks. Okay, each one of them was insanely handsome but that still didn’t mean I would throw myself shamelessly at any of them and lose my self-respect. I never understood the allure of a rock band or why women with so much going for them would lower themselves to being groupies.

Ms. Reed, on the other hand was, by all accounts, a fierce businesswoman. An import from the land Down Under, she had a reputation for being a hard-ass with an amazing sense of style, and a respected determination that led to her playing with the big dogs in the industry. Despite me loathing the assistant position I was hoping to land, I did have an amazing amount of respect for her. She not only held Power Station’s PR account, which was huge, but she was also successfully building her own company by bringing in lots of new business. Smart move. The growth projections in the industry were huge if she could land the right clients - a statistic I was hoping to wow her with when I finally got into the interview. It wasn’t my style to go in unprepared and my late night research had been fruitful.

“Ms. Murphy?” A slender and attractive blonde with a strong English accent approached me.

“Yes. Ashlyn.” I stood up and offered her my hand hoping it wasn’t too clammy.

“Ashlyn, I’m Sydney. I’m Ms. Reed’s current assistant.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she accepted my hand graciously. “Lexi is just finishing up with another interview and then you are up next. Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” I was relieved the wait was almost over.

Sydney nodded and disappeared back through the doorway from which she had emerged, her cute bob haircut bouncing with each step.

I sank back down into my seat, rubbing my palms nervously against the fabric of my skirt. I hated job interviews. They were the intellectual version of a beauty pageant. Here are my qualifications. Smile. Judge me. Smile. I hope I’m good enough. It was enough to make me want to vomit. My stomach churned in solidarity with my train of thought.

The previous candidate stepped out from Ms. Reed’s office and into the reception area, signaling the end of her appointed interview. She used her sly glance and cocky grin, I assumed, to unnerve me further. So that’s how we’re going to play? I’m one of seven children, honey. I am the master of the mental psyche-out.

I stood, in preparation for my turn, when I felt a shadow cast over me blocking out the midday sun. It was just my luck to finally get an interview with a halfway decent job and some crazy-ass Armageddon took over New York. I slowly turned—might as well get a good view of whatever fate was about to befall me—and I almost smacked directly into Alex Stone.

*crickets*

Alex Stone was the lead guitarist of the band, Power Station, and while I had not been a fan of the band, I was definitely an appreciator of this fine specimen in front of me. Standing six four, with an amazingly toned body, ice-blue eyes, and magnificent blond hair, he had been engineered to be a sex symbol. Rivaling Michelangelo’s David, he was chiseled to perfection. The fact I didn’t care for his music did not detract from my fascination. In fact he could probably give up his music career, stand in the Met Museum and allow us mortals to glare longingly at him all day. What? Living art is a legitimate gig.

“Hello,” Alex purred, dazzling me with his amazing devilish grin. “Are you waiting to see Lexi?”

Of course I knew Lexi Reed was not only the band’s publicist but also married to the guitarist, aka the guy in front of me, but man, Lexi was like Barbie. The bitch had everything.