Benjamin (The Johnson Clan Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Benjamin

  Aiden: Bradford Bears One

  Benjamin

  The Johnson Clan Book One

  Terra Wolf

  COPYRIGHT

  ©2018 Terra Wolf

  Benjamin

  All Rights Reserved worldwide.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Some may be used for parody purposes. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

  Parts of the story were previously published as Filthy Daddy by Ellie Wild

  1

  BENJAMIN

  “Good morning, Mr. Johnson.”

  I glanced up from the crisp copy of the Times that I was reading and saw a pair of long bronze legs tucked under a white mini skirt, strutting towards my desk. My bear growled in approval of the sight.

  “Good morning indeed,” I said back, folding the paper as my eyes moved upwards. “Take a seat, Miss--”

  “Owens,” she leaned across my glass desktop to offer me her manicured hand and, in the process, and lingered just long enough to give me a view of the hot pink bra peeking intentionally through the gape in her silk blouse. Damn.

  “Julia Owens,” she added, before dropping into the tufted velvet armchair positioned directly across from my desk.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Owens,” I nodded, my eyes still sizing her up. Platinum blonde hair, fake-baked bronze skin, pink glossy lips -- hot pink, to match that lacey bra.

  If you were to consult the slew of tabloids that report on my dating patterns, they’d inform you that I have a type -- tall, blonde, curves in all the right places and human -- and Miss Julia Owens certainly fit that bill. She knew it, too; I could tell by that coy little smirk she was wearing.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Johnson,” she said, folding one bronzed leg over the other and letting her skirt ride up a little too high on her thigh.

  “Please,” I said, “Call me Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin,” she repeated slowly, pressing her pink glossed pout into a smug little smirk. Then she nodded at the folded newspaper on my desk and asked, “Were you checking out my article in the Times?”

  “Not unless you cover the market,” I smiled, but her face stayed blank. “The stock market,” I clarified.

  “Oh,” she shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “No, that’s not really my cup of tea.”

  “No?” I raised an eyebrow and leaned back in my chair. “What is your cup of tea?”

  “Rich, hot men,” she said, raising a defiant eyebrow back at me and pressing her lips into another smug smirk. “Shifters, especially.”

  Of course, I thought. I could have told you that the moment she strutted into my office, her fuck-me heels clicking against the tile floor and her lips pressed into that glossy pink pout.

  Women like Julia Owens were a dime-a-dozen in Charleston. Aspiring Carrie Bradshaws, lured out of Midwest mediocrity by the glitter and glitz of a big southern city; lured by the false promise of rent-controlled brownstones, well-paying writing jobs, closets full of Manolos, ‘rich, hot men’ lined up on every street corner ready to offer up the kind of dirty, shameless sex you could only have in a city full of strangers.

  “Men’s style,” she clarified, still holding my gaze intently. “I profile rich, hot men for the style section. My specialty is shifters. You wouldn’t happen to know any, would you?”

  “Interesting,” I said, crossing my legs and folding my hands over the knee of my grey sharkskin suit. “And I meet those requirements, do I?”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Johnson,” she cooed, her eyes flashing suggestively.

  “Benjamin,” I reminded her.

  “Benjamin,” she smiled. Then she bit down on the corner of her plump bottom lip and added, “You’re a bit of a legend.”

  “Am I?” I raised an eyebrow, even though I already knew the answer to that.

  “I had to fight off the entire style department to get this interview,” she said triumphantly. “We were all jumping at the chance to undress Benjamin Johnson. Or one of your brothers.”

  Of course she wanted the dirt on the whole Johnson clan. My parents had be happily married for more than forty years, and the cubs? Well, we were an entirely different story. The last I heard from the twins was that they were building some sort of Shyft fitness center, and Ellis was purchasing some new building to make into lofts. We were well known, but our shifter sides had to remain as under wraps as possible. I couldn’t do this interview, no matter how cute Julia was.

  “Undress me?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Figuratively, of course,” she said unconvincingly. “For the profile.”

  “For the profile,” I repeated, nodding firmly.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered letting Julia Owens undress me. But I had to protect the clan first. They always came first.

  Julia Owens and I both knew she didn’t come here for an ‘interview.’ She didn’t come here to wax poetic about my Tom Ford mohair suit or my suede Burberry Oxford shoes.

  And she didn’t come here for sex, either.

  She came here for the thrill of fucking someone famous. She wanted a taste of that Charleston fairy tale; a story she could tell her gaggle of girlfriends, giggling gleefully between sips of a six-dollar sweet tea. She didn’t want to fuck me, she wanted to fuck my persona. I was nothing more than a novelty; an item on her bucket list. ‘Rich, hot man. Maybe a shifter.’

  And, ironically, when the novelty wore off, she’d be the one running to Page Six to accuse me of being the grade-A asshole; the user, the playboy, the womanizer.

  That was the pattern… that was the real Charleston fairy tale, people using each other for fame, pleasure, excitement, thrill… anything and everything but love.

  “This profile,” I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the glass desktop. “Let me hear what you’ve got so far.”

  “You want me to read it to you?” she frowned, confused.

  “If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “It’s not done yet,” she said. “I’ve just written the introduction…”

  “I want to hear it,” I smiled encouragingly. Then I added, jokingly: “It’s not every day I get to hear what people really think of me.”

  She shrugged, then she reached into the tote that was resting on the floor by her feet. She pulled out an iPad and brought the screen to life with a swipe of her thumb, then she reclined back in the armchair and began reading aloud:

  “Benjamin Johnson is no stranger to mixing business and pleasure; billionaire hotel mogul by day, party-loving playboy by night, Johnson is equally infamous among Charleston’s upper crust elite for his cut-throat business acumen and his insatiable appetite for hot blondes.”

  Julia paused, her eyes flicking up at me, almost daring me to respond.

  “So far, accurate,” I nodded.

  She pursed her lips proudly, taking my remark as a compliment, then continued reading:

  “Since inheriting the Shyft empire at the tender age of twenty, the hotel heir has spent the last decade maintaining an impressive coll
ection of international 5-star properties, and an equally impressive private collection of international supermodel girlfriends. The Shyft is world-renowned for style and elegance, and it’s only fitting that the man at its helm would have a wardrobe to match.”

  She clicked off the iPad’s screen and glanced up at me expectantly.

  “You have something wrong in that section,” I smiled, as I leaned back into my chair.

  “Oh?”

  “My parents, Lucinda and Kane still own the place. I just manage the assets.”

  I was born into the lap of luxury; the heir to a hotel empire that had been meticulously cultivated by five generations of Johnson’s before me. Success was never an option; it was a requirement. It was always assumed that I’d be the next in line… that I’d inherit the throne and take over my father’s empire.

  People also assumed they were already retired, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. My parents were going on forty years together, sure, but most people didn’t realize that shifter lived nearly twice as long as their human counterparts. So they would probably continue to run the join for another twenty years before stepping down.

  “I can fix that, no problem. But do I have you figured out?” Julia asked coyly. “Or is there more to the man than what meets the eye?”

  Don’t pretend you give a shit, I thought cynically. We both know this is just a game.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked. “For the profile?”

  She was about to answer, but before she could the phone on my desk rattled to life, filling my glass office with the shrill screech of its high-pitched ring.

  We were both startled, and I reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?” I said into the mouthpiece.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I recognized the voice of Janet, my receptionist, on the other end of the phone. “I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t urgent, but…” her voice trailed off.

  “What is it, Janet?” I asked.

  I had already forgotten all about Julia Owens, until I glanced up and see her staring at me with wide-eyed excitement plastered on her face.

  “There has been a family emergency, Mr. Johnson,” Janet said through the phone.

  My heart sunk, because I know that could only mean one thing. My brothers were a pain in the ass, but there was only one Johnson that could make Janet sound like this…

  “It’s your sister, sir,” Janet confirmed what I already knew. “It’s Celeste.”

  2

  LIA

  “DILF alert!” Polly chimed in a sing-song voice under her breath as she nudged me in the ribs.

  I turned my head to look in the direction of her gaze, and my eyes locked on her target; a tall, muscular man who has just stepped out of a shiny black Escalade parked on the curbside. He was dressed in running shorts and a tight-fitting compression shirt that revealed, in finely contoured detail, every perfectly sculpted muscle in his chest and abs.

  “I love a man who works out,” Polly said, practically salivating as she watched the object of her affection hop over the curb and stride toward the schoolyard.

  “Does he work out?” I asked, wrinkling my brow and squinting to get a better look at him. “I mean, if he’s wearing running gear, shouldn’t he have jogged here instead of pulling up in a giant SUV?”

  “Maybe he came from the gym,” Polly brushed me off, and kept her eyes glued on the man as he walked closer to our vantage point, on the stone steps at the back of the schoolyard.

  “He’s not sweating,” I pointed out.

  “Oh my God,” Polly rolled her eyes and turned to me dramatically. “Are you serious? Look at his abs!”

  “They could be implants,” I shrugged, unimpressed.

  “Urgh!” Polly didn’t bother keeping her voice down, but she didn’t need to -- the sound of children screeching and laughing as they run around the schoolyard drowned out her frustrated grunt.

  “You’re impossible!” she vented, losing all interest in the hot dad and instead focusing her attention on me. “Why are you so damn cynical? You always think the worst of people! Who hurt you?”

  “I’m not cynical,” I said. I chose to ignore her second question, even though I know she didn’t mean anything by it.

  Polly Davis was my best friend, she was also my roommate, and fellow pre-school teacher here at Vivatin Day School. We met a few years ago when Polly first moved to Charleston and, after becoming quickly disillusioned with the city, came to my neck of the woods in the suburbs looking for a room to rent.

  We instantly bonded over our shared profession -- we both taught pre-school -- and by the end of the week she was moving boxes into the spare bedroom of my apartment. At the time I was teaching at a little school in Jacksonboro, but Polly made it her mission in life to convince me to join her at Vivatin Day.

  At first I was dead set against it. Vivatin was a preppy, prestigious institution downtown, charging a hefty five-figure tuition to teach the ABC’s to the offspring of doctors and lawyers, and celebrities and upper crust shifters. Though we weren’t supposed to know any of that.

  As someone who had spent the better part of her life being a ‘have-not,’ the idea of working for the ‘haves’ didn’t appeal to me. I always figured that I would use my teaching career to help kids with similar childhoods to my own. Kids who were lost in the system, who were poor, who were low-hanging fruit for bullies.

  But the more I talked to Polly, the more I realized that some of the most overlooked and neglected kids were actually the pampered, privileged children of Charleston’s elite. All the money in the world couldn’t buy these kids the comfort and compassion that they so desperately needed. So, I finally submitted and agreed to take the job.

  Working at Vivatin Day wasn’t without its challenges, but I never regretted my decision. In fact, I felt more fulfilled in my career than I ever did working at Jacksonboro.

  “That’s Fallon Gunther’s dad, right?” I asked, angling my body towards Polly but keeping my eyes glued to the ‘DILF’ as he made his way across the schoolyard aimlessly, his eyes searching the crowd of children.

  “I don’t know,” Polly shrugged, glancing back in his direction. “I haven’t seen him before.”

  I reached for the clipboard under my arm and quickly scanned down the roster -- a complete list of Vivatin Day School students, along with the names and photos of the approved parents or guardians who are authorized to pick them up after school.

  I found Fallon’s name on the list, then dragged my finger across the paper to see a headshot of DILF himself. Underneath, the photo was captioned: ‘Father, Aaron Gunther. Approved.’

  “He checks out,” I said, and I glanced back up just in time to see Fallon Gunther spot her father across the schoolyard and let out a high-pitched squeal as she flung herself towards his open arms.

  “And he’s a good father, too!” Polly cooed admiringly, her shoulders melted and her hands fluttered to her heart as she watched the scene unfolding. This time, I didn’t bother protesting her comment, in fact, I felt a tiny smile tugging up at the corners of my mouth.

  I may be a chronic cynic, and I may be overly scrutinizing of strangers but I’ll always have a soft spot for doting fathers. I think it comes from the void my own father left behind when he left.

  My eyes glazed over as I watched the scene, and I only realized that I was staring when, out of nowhere I feel a pair of tiny arms suddenly fling themselves around my legs, wrapping me into a tight embrace. I glanced down just in time to see a head of crazy, unkempt golden curls tilt back, and a pair of vivid blue eyes blink up at me.

  “Hey Harper,” I said, ruffling the child’s curly hair affectionately and smiling down at her. She returned my smile, and I felt my heart swell with pride. The little girl wrapped around my legs couldn’t be more different than the Harper I first met last fall.

  As a teacher, I was not supposed to have favorites… but in my heart, there was no debate about it, I’ve always felt a spe
cial connection with Harper. She reminded me so much of myself as a child.

  When Harper first arrived at Vivatin, she came with a laundry list of prior crimes that had gotten her kicked out of all the other prestigious pre-schools in the area -- allegations of violent tantrums, anti-social tendencies, emotional distress.

  A record like that would usually be a red flag to the admissions department, but apparently the administration turned a blind eye when Harper’s mother pulled out her checkbook. Typical Southern parent, assuming that money could raise their children for them.

  Harper’s mother wasn’t just any wealthy Southerner, though; she was Celeste Johnson. The name didn’t mean much to me at first -- I never followed the tabloid gossip, and Charleston’s elite ‘celebrity’ circle was completely foreign to me -- but the other teachers at the school were quick to catch me up. Celeste was a notorious celebutante party girl and hotel heiress. She was said to be worth millions but according to Page Six, she had squandered most of her fortune on partying.

  Harper had been the product of a short fling between Celeste Johnson and some Hollywood actor. Much like my own father, Harper’s dad didn’t stick around for long. Celeste was left to care for the child on her own, in addition to battling her own ongoing issues. I didn’t know much about them, but apparently she was some type of shifter. More things we weren’t supposed to know about the parents. Harper was one too, which probably was why the tantrums were so hard to manage. That little kiddo had some serious strength on her. But her mother wasn’t like her at all, the few times she picked up instead of the nanny, she looked frail. Weak. Nothing like her spitfire of a child.

  A few rumors had started that she didn’t Shift enough, and as a result, her animal side was taking over. And instead of dealing with it, she turned to other methods of coping. Mostly drugs.

  I did believe that Celeste loved her daughter, and I believed that she had good intentions but when Harper came to Vivatin and wound up in my classroom, it was obvious that she hadn’t been properly looked after.