Sneek Peek @ Poor Mr. Right

Chapter One— High Expectations My plan was, before I finished college; I would meet the man of my dreams, get married, and never actually have to use the thirty-thousand dollar degree my parents paid for after changing my major three times. But whose life ever goes as planned? Subsequently, my twenty-seventh birthday is on the horizon and the man of dreams has yet to make his appearance. The good news is I’ve managed pose as an adult, disciplining myself to the nine-to-five routine, despite the fact I’ve never been a morning person. So this is my lot; two and a half years after graduating I am a fulltime working girl struggling to make ends meet. Could be worse, I could be unemployed and still living off my parents. From her cubical, Monique excitedly whispers, “Kris—two o’clock, it’s the UPS hunk.” Inconspicuously, I stand with the department’s morning memo pretending to be engrossed. Peering over the sheet of paper my view of his amazingly firm derriere is unobstructed as he bends to scan the tracking labels. This has become a daily ritual for me and Monique. And as customary, we exhale in unison admiring his sculpted bum. “Could the two of you be any more obvious?” Murdoch mocks, returning from his break. Justin Murdoch, is a coworker assigned to our department about six months ago. Since day one of his employment, he remains content to be a constant irritation in my daily work schedule; like a bad rash you just can’t seem to get rid of. Since corporate made the essential decision and hired Murdoch, life in the workplace has become problematic; for reasons I can’t even understand. I have no idea which small town the country boy comes from, but it’s pretty clear he could benefit from watching Queer Eye For the Straight Guy. I loathe the juvenile tie he insists on wearing every day. It’s navy with tiny little brown footballs; like you’d see on a high school jock on a game day. It’s hard to refrain from taking the scissors and disposing of it in the trashcan. Another thing I find difficult to ignore, he’s a compulsive neat nick. Multiple times a day, he mops his work surfaces with sterile wipes, tempting me to rub my hands on his desk and cough into his receiver. I most definitely hate that, twice, he’s been endowed “Employee of the Month”, in the six months he’s been employed; he loves chafing me with that one. On more than one occasion, he’s cut me off at the pass for the last parking space in the company garage, forcing me on the street where I’m forced to pay extravagant hourly fees. “What?” I sneer, as Murdoch glares with disapproval. Mr. UPS smiles and tips his hat before hustling to catch the elevator. “Do you suppose he bends over that way on purpose?” I sigh as my brief, delightful, abruptly ends. “Of course he does,” Murdoch accuses in disgust. “Package delivery 101; ‘What Brown can do for you?’ Remember that slogan?” He procures another handi-wipe from the canister stashed in his drawer and gives his desk a second swabbing of the morning; the guy’s a total germ-a- phobic. However, to Murdoch’s credit, it can’t be easy for any guy to work alongside two women day after day. For half a year, he’s been subjected to volatile surges of estrogen levels, our occasional bad hair days, imperiled to listen as we recap our dates, or more often than not, lack of them; while verbally abusing all men in general. And let’s not forget, the dreaded revolving menstrual cycles. But besides tolerating the female dynamics in the workplace, our relationship seems to be one of ongoing adversity, I’m sure he doesn’t relish any more than I do. I guess most people have a source of pain in their life. Mine— is Justin Murdoch. “God,” Monique oozes, “just once before I die I’d like to get a good look at his package—unwrapped if you get my drift.” She winks, Murdoch rolls his eyes repulsed. Monique Jackson has been employed at the Morgan and Sloan Firm, long before I arrived twenty-six months ago. At forty-one, she’s a divorced mother of two. All jokes aside, Monique is always in pursuit of a man who doesn’t abscond to the challenges presented by a ready-made family. “Monique,” Murdoch asks. “I believe it was just last week you were hot for some guy named Brad.” “I am,” she replies pitched and unconvincing. “But honey, I’m not committed yet, and life is full of options.” She lectures, waving a long boney finger at the two of us. “Besides, there’s no sin in a fantasy or two, to help get a girl through the work day. Isn’t that right Miss Kris?” “Right,” I concur wholeheartedly. Disenchanted the Chippendale has left the building, I plop back in my chair and once again attempt to focus on the financial statement I’m preparing. However, Monique is having a harder time reining in her thoughts about Mr. UPS. “Next time he brings a delivery, why don’t you just walk up and ask him out? I’ve seen the way he looks at you girl, he’s interested; positively one-hundred percent. I know the look of a man when he’s interested, and he positively is,” she concludes. Obviously, Monique lives vicariously. I discourage the idea. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s great on the eyes,” is he ever! “but he’s not my type.” Nevertheless, I can appreciate his great physic and enjoy a mental fantasy or two, or three; there’s no harm in that. I really must concentrate on accounting. “That man’s one mass of tantalizing perfection!” Monique drools. “Tell me, just what are you holding out for? Honey doesn’t get any sweeter than that girl! No ma’am,” she says, shaking her head like a bobble doll with bulging eyes. “Come on! You’ve known her longer than I have and you haven’t perceived what her type is yet?” Murdoch interjects eavesdropping. “Honey isn’t as sweet as money,” he insults. His ill-mannered comment is offensive but I have to admit, his hypothesis isn’t entirely wrong; a perfect example of our adversarial relationship at work. The jerks observant, but must he make me sound so shallow? I realize it must seem superficial to have my heart set on a lifestyle in the Hollywood Hills, or the cliffs of Santa Monica. But in all fairness, my conscious would never allow me to marry just for the benefits of financial security. When considering mates, there’s no reason I can’t fall in love with a rich man rather than a poor one. We all have choices, right? My philosophy isn’t any worse than those who avoid dating people failing to meet a certain looks criteria? Or one who puts an importance on personality, or religious criteria. There’s nothing superficial or pretentious about that, and yet he makes me feel so minuscule because I enjoy the status of material things. The greater Los Angeles area is populated with thousands of wealthy men. There has to be at least one I can fall head over heels with and vice versa; we just haven’t collided yet. The temptation to shoot him a vulgar gesture using my middle finger is strong, but I’m too much of lady and glare spitefully as I reach for my ringing extension. “Kris Garza,” I answer in my best professional tone. “Hi Kris?” oozes a male voice. “It’s Ben, Ben Draper,” OMG! Breathe, Kris, breathe. “I know this is short notice,” he advocates, “but I was wondering if you’d be available to have a drink with me after work tonight?” Immediately, my mood shifts from irritated as hell, to ecstatic! Ben Draper is one of the tax attorney’s employed by, The Morgan and Sloan Firm. Every woman in the company, me included, has revered Ben "hotter" than the UPS hunk; which, by the way is hotter than a three alarm fire! But besides being good looking, Ben happens to be the nephew of Stanley Morgan, owner of the company. Rising from my chair, I snap my fingers to summon Monique’s attention. Once employed, I point to the receiver and mouth the words, “Ben Draper”, and watch her eyes become enormous brown saucers. This turn of events will require shopping on my lunch hour because I certainly can’t have drinks with Ben Draper in the drab grey business suit I wore to work today. My stomach clinches into an anxious knot, I lecture myself to calm down, the man is waiting for an answer. “Drinks tonight?” I croak. “Yeah, I could make that work." And again remind myself to breathe. “Okay, great,” he oozes with confidence not the least nervous. “Would it be alright if I drop by your department, say around, four forty-five? The evenings have been so nice; I thought we might walk down to Eclipse, if that sounds alright with you.” A surging wave of elation courses through my body. “The Eclipse sounds fine,” I manage fairly smoothly. “I’ll see you here then, my department at four forty -five. Bye Ben.” Disconnecting, I immediately perform a little victory dance similar to the one a running back makes when scoring the winning touchdown. This is huge! Tonight I will be having drinks with Ben Draper, and I have been dying to get into Eclipse since it opened over a month ago. Monique gasps, “Girl, you tellin' me Ben Draper the boss's nephew was on the other end of that conversation?” Smug, I reply, “Do you know another Ben Draper?” Agitated even further, Murdoch shoves his chair back and crosses the room to retrieve a large binder of reports we keep shelved on a back wall. When he returns, I inquire, “What’s eating you?” “I’ll tell you what’s eating me,” he says, slamming the heavy binder on his desk. “If I lusted after every woman who walked into this building, accusations of being a womanizer and a chauvinistic pig would be flying! But it’s cool, for you so called “ladies” to comment on some guy’s ass every day!” I conclude he’s still angry about Mr. UPS. “Our commentaries about the hunk are perfectly harmless,” I retort. “It’s regretful if my enthusiasm about Ben offends you, but I resent your eavesdropping on my private conversations,” I spout gaining momentum. “Besides, since you’re the one who brought up the subject of lust, I’m quite sure that if Roxanne Baine from corporate invited you for drinks, you wouldn’t hesitate gloating.” “This is true,” Monique chimes in. “I’ve seen the way you smile at her when she gets in the same elevator or passes you in the hall. Don’t even try to deny you’ve entertained the idea of being with her?” she accuses. Murdoch proceeds with caution. “Roxanne Baine; she’s alright. Too much makeup for my preference though. Besides,” he pauses thoughtful, “she appears to prefer it rough, where I ‘m more of a lover.” The silence in the room is substantial as Monique and I digest his words. Seconds later after noting our dumbfounded expressions, Murdoch shatters the hushed atmosphere. “What?” he demands shrugging clueless. “It’s just—you’ve really lived that fantasy out in that little head of yours haven’t you?” accuses Monique. His reply is simple and honest. “Yeap.” Then he flips open the five inch binder he’d plopped on his desk moments earlier and begins his research. I contemplate the weirdness of the whole scenario. Six months, I‘ve worked alongside this guy and he’s never offered up anything regarding a girlfriend, let alone his style of love making. Regularly in the office Monique and I discuss relationships topics and he’s never shared even one dating experience. Not that I care about his love life anyway. But when accused of fantasying about Roxanne, he eludes to some imaginary discrepancy in their love making preferences. At least I think it’s imaginary, it’s quite possible he knows firsthand. The question parading through my mind is have they done the dirty deed? I doubt very much if men actually contemplate the nasty, or take a moment to discuss it when the possibility of getting lucky presents itself. Speaking for myself and most women I know, three topics dominate our thoughts; men, fashion, and food; pretty much in that order. Contemplating his love life, I’m reminded of plenty of comments from women in this building who find Murdoch attractive and I have no doubt the man is straight. Actually, I just find him to be an androgynous pang in my butt. Drifting thoughts conjure up two other boys named Justin I’ve been acquainted with; both were sweet and passive and would never go out of their way to intentionally provoke. Justin Murdoch prides himself in being confrontational and irritating as hell; at least where I’m concerned. I’m distracted from my ledger as I try to subdue mental images of Roxanne handcuffing a naked Murdoch to the headboard of a bed. But it’s useless. The disturbing image is impossible to ignore while considering the monthly expenses for Luxurious Limousine Service. Mentally, I vision them doing it in the backseat of the limo, the front seat of the limo; finally, Roxanne has him sprawled across the hood of a limo. At last, it’s time to break for lunch and consider something other than Murdoch’s kinky sex life. Checking with Monique, I enquire if she wants to go shopping but she declines in favor of running errands. Fortunately, the building that houses Morgan and Sloan is located right in the heart of Los Angeles, and southern California is a mecca for shopping. Prior to clocking out, eight minutes later I find myself sifting through clearance racks in a Bebe store. Unfortunately, with such short notice and even a shorter budget, I don’t have time to call my roommate, Karisa Gosling, who is employed at Label’s a major designer warehouse in LA. Karisa’s always scoring free merchandise from top designers. Seriously, everything from shoes and handbags, to evening gowns and jeans, are gifted to her. Just one of the many perks of her job. That’s the only reason I own a Prada handbag; she gave it to me for Christmas last year. First impressions are very important and I have one shot to get it right. Everyone usually remembers their first date with someone, even most guys. So of course, I want my outfit to be memorable without going over my budget, which consists of all the cash I have in my wallet; a whopping thirty-two dollars and change. Rummaging through my pile of clearance possibilities in the dressing room it dons on me that, at some point I have already made an impression on Ben, or he would have never invited me for drinks. A few minutes later I’ve ruled out several sweaters, because it is August, and two dresses I can’t afford even with the mark down and would probably never wear again anyway. Growing up, one of the things engrained in me by my mother was the importance of practicality. I reach for an ivory silk blouse with buttons up the front. Slipping it on, I drop my grey slacks to the floor and wiggle into a tight fitting hounds tooth skirt which hits just above the knee with my black five inch heels I’ve worn to work. Between the nine dollar blouse and the fourteen dollar skirt, I am pleased with the sophisticated but slightly sexy look I was hoping to achieve; with eight dollars to spare. I remove the tags and sweep my grey suit up from the floor proceeding to the check out. “That blouse looks great with your complexion,” the sales clerk remarks. “You know, we have some earrings in the gold tones that would complement it nicely.” Oh…there goes another three-ninety- five! Breezing down the LA sidewalk, I am oozing confidence. I pause at Walgreens to purchase a disposable razor, some mint chewing gum, and a package of Keebler’s crackers; with three dollars and thirty-two cents to spare. Arriving at the office, eight minutes remain of my lunch hour and decide to use them wisely. I give my legs a lick and a promise in the sink of the women’s room with the disposable razor. Ever try shaving your legs in a bathroom sink? Well, let me tell you, it’s not without some effort; especially in a tight fitting skirt. But my silky smooth legs are worth the endeavor, and after fluffing up my hair, I clock back in for the afternoon with a new lease on life and ten seconds to spare. “Wow!” says Monique, as I glide to my desk feeling like I just had a makeover. “Nice choice. Bebe’s?” “Yeah, you think he’ll like it?” “Well, it’s sexy, but subtle,” she says attempting to be supportive. “But personally, I think subtle is way over rated. Men and women play way too many games. Both parties always have an agenda, it’s better to be upfront about it.” Not even a peep escapes from Murdoch’s cubical. I surmise it’s because he either has no opinion, which would mean that the earth has stopped spinning on its axis, or, he isn’t the slightest impressed by my lunch hour transformation. I find this very unusual, because whether or not Murdoch’s opinion is solicited, he always express’s it. Deciding I need one, I venture for a males opinion. “Well, would it be too much to ask for a man’s option?” I ask bracing for criticism. Reserved, he leans back in his chair and motions for me to stand up and turn around. I do just that, pivoting slowly as he studies every inch of me in silence. His eyes dart down to my high heels, drinking in every inch until his eyes finally arrive at mine and holds the stare. Dryly, after expelling a deep breath, he concedes unenthusiastically, “Perfect, there is nothing I would change from a man’s point of view.” Even lacking enthusiasm his response stuns me. “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.” But something in his tone tells me he’s holding back; probably something snide about the possible repercussions of dating the boss’s nephew. Yes, maybe I should consider possible repercussions. I consider his approval and conclude there was definitely an underlying meaning attached to it. Like when my father told me I was the shining star of the dance recital, even though I forgot my place on stage twice, in a three minute performance. Nevertheless, Murdoch actually used the word ‘perfect’ in reference to me. This is the first encouraging comment out of his mouth in the six months I’ve known him. There’s a choice I must make; remain suspicious and insecure about his comment, or delight in his compliment and refuse to focus on anything negative. I chose the latter. So for the remainder of the day I apply myself to the job of processing payroll while anticipating drinks with Ben. The time on my computer screen blinks four-thirty. Shoving away from my desk, I allow myself a quick bathroom break to fluff my hair one last time and apply more lip gloss. I brush my teeth with my finger and pop a piece of minty gum to freshen my breath. I remember its Friday. I still have to clear my desk for the weekend, answer three impending emails, and text Karisa I won’t be home at my usual time. These tasks take me all of twelve minutes before I am finished for the day and ready for my weekend. Employing the nervous energy pulsing stronger with each passing minute, I retrieve the vanilla scented Body and Bath lotion I keep in my desk drawer and lather up my legs and hands one last time. I glance at Monique; she’s too occupied with a client phone call to notice it’s time for my date to arrive. However, Murdoch is as conscience of the time as I am. Why can’t the guy just mind his own business? “Its four-fifty-six, he’s late,” he’s brusque critiquing Ben’s tardiness. “Jeez, who are you, my father? So what if he’s a few minutes late? Things happen, you know.” “It’s an indication; he’s not a man of his word. He probably expects people have nothing better to do with their time than wait for him.” He retrieves another handi-wipe and disinfects his desk before the weekend. “You fault a man’s character because he’s eleven stinking minutes late?” I can’t help it; his attitude is making me snippy. “Just saying, you have to establish the ground rules in the beginning so this guy doesn’t walk all over you.” He so authoritative it’s no wonder he’s not in a relationship. “Ground rules?” Jeez, is this guy overreacting or what? “We’re just having drinks,” I remind him. Then, the thought crosses my mind that tonight could possibly be the start of something huge in my life. I muse, what if…..Ben Draper turns out to be my Mr. Right? And while I’m drifting off into la-la-land daydreaming about my wedding, Murdoch tip’s his head toward the elevator and my eyes trail. Oh dear, Ben’s here, wearing dress slacks that hang nicely off his hips. Just breathe, I can do this. Yes, there’s no doubt about it, he’s hot; but I’ve been told I’m ‘smokin’.” Nervous energy is bubbling up inside me like molten lava. I stand and flash one of my best qualities; the five-thousand dollar smile my parents bought instead of taking the family on vacation to Hawaii. “Hi Ben,” I blush dazed by the gorgeous man standing at my desk. I reach for my purse and my hand fumbles several times before I finally grasp it. (Suddenly, I’m fifteen and on my first date?) Wow! He smiles, my stomach quivers. “Hi, are you ready to start the weekend?” His voice is dreamy like his smile. Wow—he’s really, really, handsome, dreamy, and hot! I blink my head clear to cogitate an answer. Murdoch stares audaciously at Ben, arms folded leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I’m all done here,” I voice clearly for the eavesdropper in the room. We move toward the elevator and I call over my shoulder, “See you guys on Monday,” with a smile. Passing Monique’s desk, she nods and waves us off with the phone still plastered to her ear. Murdoch remains reclined in his chair. His intimidating expression is unrelenting as Ben and I step into the elevator and press the button to the lobby.

When Angels fly........Preface

When you get that call in the night, you know, the one that changes your life forever; rips your heart out of your chest and you just can't believe it will never beat again, in rhythm, with another.

You hold a memorial and say good-bye, bury your loved one in the ground, along with your life as you knew it. Because it's all different now, nothing is the same, not even your choices. How can you believe you will be alright; when nothings right. There's no going back; and somehow there's no moving forward, trapped in the dark shadows of your former life.

That's when you are left with only one choice. To find your Angel, cry in their arms until you feel the warmth of love again. Remember, if God sends an Angel to take your loved one home, he never fails to send one more, to love and comfort you.

                                             by Kim Sirrah 

When Angels Fly........by Kim Sirrah

Book 1  The Sacred Heart Saga......Chapter 1  Our Story Begins

She felt like her heart was going to jump right out of her chest! The air was cold and crisp; their lungs burned as they finished their three-mile run. Fall had arrived early, bringing with it a storm, and the next few hours would be all they would have before tragedy would change her life forever.

Peter and Hailee Richards had been married for five years. They had spent three of those five years renovating an old Victorian circa 1911. They were close to being finished, and it had been a true labor of love. For the first time since they had been married, Hailee would enjoy family antiques from generations that had been in storage for years. When she and Peter had married, her father had given her all of the family Christmas ornaments she had growing up. This would be the first Christmas in the beautiful new home that she and Peter worked so hard together to build.

Hailee Elizabeth Bradford was born October 23, 1979, in Ketchum, Idaho, to John and Clair Bradford. Her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly after Hailee's second birthday and was unable to have any more children. John hired a Shonshone Indian woman to cook, clean, and take care of Clair and Hailee. She went by the name of Sadie and lived in an extra bedroom in the house. Sadie raised Hailee and loved her like her own daughter, braiding her hair before school and teaching her about the tribal customs of the Shoshones.

Every year the day after Thanksgiving, John took Hailee, along with a thermos of hot chocolate and lunch, and went into the woods hunting for the perfect Christmas tree with a sled tied to the back of the snowmobile. Clair would stay back and carefully unpack the hand painted ornaments, some of them close to seventy years old. Hailee was always excited to bring home the tree and tell her mother and Sadie all about their holiday ritual. Hailee could tell that her mother was growing weaker, and that year she decorated the tree by herself while Clair lay on the couch under a quilt in front of a crackling fire. As her mother watched Hailee with loving eyes, she was wondering if there would come a day when Hailee would not remember her.

Clair asked Hailee to get the Spirit of Christmas from out of her box. The Spirit of Christmas was a beautiful angel that went on top of the tree. Hailee opened the box, carefully taking the angel out, and her father would lift her up so that she could place the angel on top of the tree. Then she went over to her mother and together they sat "gazing" at the beautiful tree that Hailee had decorated. John turned out the lights in the room and the tree lit up, like twinkling stars in a sky.

Clair explained to Hailee that Christmas that soon an angel would fly down to take her to heaven. She said that every year after she was gone, when Hailee placed the angel on top of the tree, the magic of Christmas would bring them together in spirit. There wasn't a present under the tree that could make Hailee forget that she was in her final days with her mother; there was no hopeful expectations for a bright and shinny New Year.

Baby Likes to "Twitter" a poem.....by Kim Sirrah

Sittin at the bar on Saturday night, I was lookin for love, I was feelin alright. High hopes and intensions of tryin to hook-up, when a blonde walked my way in a double "D" cup!

I said, "Hey Babe what's your pleasure can I buy you a drink?" She asked me if I "twittered" I said, "What do you think?" Erotic possibilities came rushing through my head, double dippin in her "D" cups with martini's in her bed!

Well my heart began to "twitter" when she called me, "Honey Pie." She said she's into "Blogging" and I knew she wouldn't lie. Well "blogging" did sound odd to me, but I forgot to mention; she rubbed my leg and kissed my neck, "Oh Lord! The sexual tention!"

I drove just like a maniac she gave me good direction. Unlocked her door, she smiled at me, "Oh God she was perfection!" By her bed she kept a laptop; my impression seemed much blacker, broadband, high speed and mega rams, I thought that I'd go whackers!

She gestured me to come sit down as she began to "twitter," and I'll admit to you my friend, I was feeling rather bitter. All my hopes of sexual fantasies, seemed completely out of question, she saw my disappointment, and assured me good intentions.

Then she "Google" searched a website titled: "How to please your man!" I sighed relieved, we searched the net, cause Baby had a plan. She sexed me up, she sexed me down, I think of her and jitter. And all because you know by now my Baby likes to "twitter!"

So, "thanks" to all at Microsoft my fantasies came true, and all out there who "twitter" I just want to say "THANK YOU!"

Now as for Baby she's found fame, so go and take a look. Just point and click, it's free sign in, you'll find us on "Facebook!"

Wherever Dead Was....by Kim Sirrah

There was a time I thought life was as simple as opening your eyes every morning while breathing in and out. Or maybe it was the billions of thoughts crossing my mind consciously and unconsciously everyday like a continuing circle, with no beginning, and no end. I know now that there is nothing simple about life. My name is Mia Anderson I am sixteen years old; and I ask myself this query because I've been to the other side, for lack of a better discription. I died...so they tell me. If it was death, I can most definitely testify death is not the end; because wherever dead was, there was life, and I too was very much alive.

My story has no ending as I continue my quest to reconnect with the place I encountered on the other side,in another world, or maybe it was this world. I don't know, but I yearn to get back to wherever it was that I was transported to when my heart stopped in this world.

It was so beautiful, so magically intoxicating this paradox, and impossible to discribe the transforming effect this place had on my body and my mind; I could only comprehend that I was no longer in my earthly form. Before my transformation was complete, the doctors brought me back to this world, before I could totally understand my purpose. If given a choice, I most certainly would have stayed in that most beautiful supreme place.

My mother apparently died with me in the fire that consumed our small home in the Malibu Hills. The Santa Ana winds haunted our home in the canyon year after year, blowing their ciders of destruction by random, selecting to devour any structure by flame that stood in it's hungry path. Hardly a year ever passed we were not advised to evacuate, as flames would threaten our little wooden 1960 bungalow style house. Our good fortune ran out in September of 2007; setting my fait on a different course. A fait that would but me between two worlds, one of the living and one of the dead. Condemned to this worldly body until I can find a way back to him, he who holds the key to my existence and all the answers to my life and essential purpose.