Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  That Friday, Frank Jefferson didn’t give a hoot about Dion Davis’ polling numbers.

  As per London’s suggestion, Clayton Moore had gone down fighting…and he had kicked the law firm of Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson & Associates right where it hurt.

  In an exclusive interview he had pointed the finger directly at the firm, claiming that they were the ones who coordinated this crime. It wasn’t hard to believe. After all, it made more sense that an established law firm could finagle something like this, rather than a single individual.

  It didn’t hurt that the presumed ringleader, Frank Jefferson, was well known in media circles, having made a career of having his name and face plastered right next to whatever famous client he was representing. Thus, the papers had eaten it up all too eagerly. A famous face made for a much juicier story than some unknown campaign staff member.

  The irony was that Clayton had incorporated almost the exact language that London had used to defend him. How could a lowly Senior Legislative Assistant have the kind of connections to pull this off? Frank Jefferson was the notorious “publicity hound” with all the right friends and legal connections. The attack on her father was particularly hurtful and London knew Clayton had done it just to twist the knife in her back.

  London had to tip her hat to the fact that he’d done it on a Friday. It gave the firm no time to hit right back, so the residents of New York could read the firm’s response while they ate their Cheerios, first thing in the morning before work. No, this juicy tidbit would sit idle in their minds as they slept in, or took their kids to soccer practice, or drove off to their weekend getaways. No one cared about the news on the weekend. It wouldn’t stop them from subconsciously judging the firm in the backs of their minds. By Monday morning, the firm would be tried, sentenced, and ready to be hung.

  Already clients had been calling to—rightfully—drop them like the radioactive firm they now were. They hadn’t taken on new clients because of the Davis campaign. Now the campaign had fired them as well. Even London couldn’t fault them for that. After all, the main focus of their services had been to (ha ha) distance Davis from this scandal in the first place. The firm had reserves, but it was going to be a rapid circle down the drain soon enough if they didn’t handle this.

  Right now Cleveland and London were sitting in Frank Jefferson’s office watching the facade crack. Seeing her father like this, London was pretty sure she would have done a heck of a lot more than throw wine in Clayton’s face if he were here. But she had to focus. Focus on saving the firm. Focus on keeping her father from losing it. Focus, on not feeling incredibly guilty.

  “A calamity,” Frank groaned. “Absolute devastation. We’re ruined. Ruined!”

  “We’re not ruined, Daddy,” London assured him. “We have reserves. We’ll pull through.”

  “And to think,” he continued, ignoring her. “I turned away all new clients for his sorry ass.”

  “Cleve and I are partners in this firm too,” she countered. “We should have counseled you better.”

  Frank just spun around in his chair to stare out of his window for a few moments. Cleveland and London waited anxiously.

  “Perfidious!” Frank shouted, spinning back around and slamming his fist on the desk, shocking both of his children. “Deceit, and faithlessness, that’s what this is!”

  It was refreshing to see him suddenly transform like this.

  That’s right, Daddy, London thought, get angry.

  But anger alone wouldn’t do it. They needed to find out the truth.

  “It’s time we address the fact that Dion Davis somehow knows what’s going on here, and may actually be responsible.”

  Her father just nodded, conceding the point. “Well we can’t very well ask him now. There’s the treasurer, but he’ll probably be loyal to whoever paid him off. I have a feeling there are some very deep pockets involved here.”

  That didn’t bode well. The Jefferson firm may have made a name for itself within the black community—and anyone who enjoyed a good court room saga—but it didn’t have the kind of connections that screamed: deep pockets.

  It was going to be a long night.

  By the time London made it back to her office it was well past 1 a.m. She felt beaten and bruised and completely helpless. The three of them were no closer to a solution than before. The only thing they could do was counter Clayton’s claim with one of their own, and offer as much evidence as possible. But without the real culprit to point the finger at, it was just a case of he said, she said. And in this scenario, Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson & Associates was the Goliath to Clayton’s David. Nobody ever sided with the giant.

  The cell phone lying on her desk was lit up with messages. She could only imagine what they said and right now she was too tired to deal with it. She just wanted to go home, open a bottle of wine and forget about this day completely.

  She was gathering her things when it rang. She instinctively moved to just turn it off completely when she saw who was calling: Michael.

  The one person without an agenda. The one person who wouldn’t try to console her in the hopes of gaining first-hand information. The one person who wouldn’t offer fake condolences with schadenfreude delight. The one person who wouldn’t give her shit she really didn’t want to deal with tonight.

  She answered.

  “So it’s my turn to ask if you’re okay…but I guess that would be a stupid question.”

  She smiled wearily. “Very stupid.”

  “How about I just do my best to make it better.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have proof of whoever stole those funds would you?”

  He gave a rueful chuckle on the other end. “Sorry.”

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” she sighed.

  “Why don’t I come up there to be with you? No hotels this time.”

  She sighed. “Michael, tonight is just not the night.”

  “I’m not talking about sex here, London,” he said. “You’re my someone special, someone very special, remember? I want to be there for you. We can just sit and talk, or sleep, or drink, or watch stupid movies and forget about everything.”

  She smiled into the phone again. “That does sound nice.”

  “Okay, I’m going to hang up now before you do something stupid like change your mind. I’ll pick up some food and meet you at your place.”

  She gave a soft sigh. “Okay, then.”

  London had changed out of her work clothes into an old t-shirt and a pair of Victoria’s Secret gym shorts. She was most definitely not in a sexy mood and Michael just had to deal with that.

  She was left with her own thoughts as she waited for him to make the trek uptown. Her mind was a scattered mix of thoughts and emotions.

  How could Clayton have been so cruel?

  Who had really done this?

  What would happen to the firm?

  Did her brother and father blame her?

  How could they show their faces anymore? There was the legal community, the local community, even their church. She could already imagine their judgmental eyes.

  The rest of their family would suffer as well. Her mother. Her grandmother. Even Brooklyn, as much as she tried to be an outsider.

  By the time she heard him buzz her apartment she was a frazzled mess, a brittle piece of paper ready to scatter into a million pieces from a single puff of air.

  She opened the door and saw Michael standing there with a bottle of wine in one hand and a large bag stuffed to capacity with what looked like Chinese take-out cartons.

  “Hey,” he said smiling down at her. “I wasn’t sure what kind of Chinese you liked so I got practically everythi—”

  She fell into his chest and the dam broke. Her arms clung tightly around him as the weight of the entire day flooded from her eyes. She sobbed and sobbed, snot coming out of her nose, ruining his dress shirt. This was the persona she couldn’t show in the office. She was the one with th
e straight head on her shoulders, the voice of reason. Now all reason had flown out the window and all she wanted to do was curl up and have someone else do the comforting for once.

  He brought the arms full of wine and food around to hold her, and rested his chin on her head. “Shhh,” he cooed. “It’s okay, London.”

  “No it’s not,” she cried. She could hear the 12-year-old coming out in her voice but she didn’t care. “Everything is just awful.”

  “Okay, baby,” he said into her head. He walked her in his arms toward the nearest place to rest the food and wine down as he held on to her. It was the coffee table in her living room. He took a moment to place the food and bottle down and brought her back into his embrace as he sat them down on her sofa.

  She curled in a ball into his side, wanting to bury herself as deep as possible into him. Part of it was complete humiliation at how quickly she had fallen apart. Most of it was just wanting to use him to erase all her troubles away, as though the more she pushed into his body, the more troubles she could push out on the other side.

  Michael opened himself up to her, as if understanding exactly what she was trying to accomplish. Pretty soon, she had found her comfort and just relaxed, letting him close himself in on her. He didn’t say a word, just sat there rubbing her back until she was ready to talk.

  “It’s daddy I’m most concerned about,” she finally said into his chest. She pulled her face away to look at him.

  “I’m a lawyer, a damn good one. I’ll be fine, probably. But this firm,” she looked past him, shaking her head, “it’s his pride and joy. He built it himself when Cleve and I were just babies. I’m pretty sure he had us in mind when he started it.” She gave him a sad smile. “I know it sounds weird but it’s like his fourth child, this firm.”

  She fell back against him. “And I’m partially responsible for ruining it. If I’d never started dating Clayton in college.”

  Michael immediately sprang into action, shifting his shoulder and grabbing her chin so she turned to face him. “You listen to me, London,” he said. “This is not your fault. Okay?”

  She just stared at him morosely.

  “I want to hear you say it,” he ordered.

  “It’s not my fault,” she monotoned. It was the best she could muster. In the back of her head she knew it was true. Clayton was just a shit.

  But she needed this time to feel sorry for herself. She could pick herself up on Monday and jump back in the ring again. Right now she just needed a fucking break.

  Chapter Forty

  On the other side of the globe, just as London’s world was falling apart, Brooklyn’s was falling into place perfectly. These past two weeks with Alex had been better than she’d even dreamed.

  Alex’s soft opening for the new nightclub in Paris, Jalouse, had gone well. Now she was here with him for the grand opening. This time the two of them were appropriately dressed for the clubbing.

  Brooklyn was wearing a simple, sexy, jade colored, spaghetti-strap dress with a high-low hemline. It was thin as silk, draping across every curve with a slouchy neckline. The scoop back—with a thin bow tie across the top that was probably the only thing keeping it on her—was low enough to show her tattoo in full.

  Alex was just as sexy in a form-fitting, black dress shirt and dark grey pants that hugged him in all the right places, especially one in particular. It was a look she hadn’t seen on him before, being so used to his t-shirt, jeans, Converse uniform…or nothing at all. It was making her horny as fuck. She’d have to make it a point to take him out clubbing more often. Already she couldn’t wait to get him back to the apartment.

  For now, she was thoroughly enjoying the mesmerizing spectacle around her. She wasn’t sure if it was the fact that this was the grand opening, or that this was just how Parisians did it, but she loved this version much better than New York’s Jealous. The music was a nice mix of French rap, new-age techno, and the occasional odd-ball thrown in just for fun. At some point, the DJ had played The Wheels on the Bus and the crowd had gone wild.

  Paris’ version of the Happy Ending was called La Petite Mort. When Alex told her what it meant she had laughed. It was a mix of cognac, Grand Marnier, and cranberry juice served in shot glasses that were skinnier and taller than the New York version.

  The waitresses here were equally smitten with Alex and just as attractive—with the added benefit of having French accents. Their outfits were a similar corset style except instead of rhinestones covering the cups, they were covered in lace, which stretched down to reveal their taut torsos underneath. Each one had on a wig done in a retro, white bob with bangs. Brooklyn noted that it made them that much easier to find in the club.

  Mixed in with the strobe lights and disco balls were several bubble machines blowing so many bubbles it was almost like the club was taking one big, communal bath together. The music was loud and the liquor was flowing and Brooklyn and Alex were having the time of their lives together.

  She slid her body next to him as the music pulsated through her bones. She looked up at his face. The mixture of multiple Petite Morts and the shifting blue, pink, and purple lights gave his handsome face an ethereal look.

  “This is awesome!” she shouted above the music. “Congratulations!”

  He smiled and brought his arms around her, pulling her closer as their bodies moved to the thumping beat. Despite the throng of people around them going crazy, it felt like they were the only two people there.

  All of a sudden, there was a shift in the music. It was a loud trumpet sound as people snapped out of their rhythmic daze and looked around to see what was up.

  Near the front where the DJ was, a man in a slick suit came to the stage with a mic. Brooklyn turned to face him as Alex came up behind her, throwing his arms over her shoulder to hug her back into him.

  Once the room had quieted down, he began his spiel. It was entirely in French so Brooklyn didn’t understand a word of it, but she could grasp that it was the usual sort of “Thanks for coming and helping to make this club a success!”

  She cheered and clapped at all the right spots along with everyone else. The waitresses now all had their trays loaded up with glasses of champagne and were quickly handing them around to everyone in the club.

  The speaker’s voice intoned higher, indicating a wrap-up to his speech. There was loud cheering and clapping as the original colorful lights switched to flashing white and fat, white, flakes of confetti fell from the ceiling. The music came back on, loud as before as people cheered, drank their champagne and resumed dancing.

  Brooklyn turned around in Alex’s arms and finished her champagne off. He brought one arm up to swallow his whole. They placed the empty glasses on the waitress’s tray as she passed by and went back to dancing, closer than before.

  It was almost dawn by the time they left the club. They stumbled their way through the streets of Paris, arms wrapped around each other, occasionally weaving into an alleyway to steal a few kisses. By the time they made it through their front door, all they had energy for was peeling off their clothes and falling into bed, wrapped in one another’s arms.

  “Bonjour monsieur,” she purred as she sat atop Alex’s wakening body.

  She could see the not-quite-morning erection formed between the covers and it worked perfectly with her little celebratory surprise. After their wild night at Jalouse, they had come home and crashed until mid-afternoon.

  Alex blinked a sleepy eye open and a smile formed as he saw Brooklyn above him. “What happened to Miss America?” he said in a sleepy, scratchy voice as he rubbed his other eye open.

  “When in Paris…,” she shrugged. “Of course, I can always take it off,” she offered.

  She was referring to the very skimpy French maid’s outfit she had picked up the day before. There was barely enough fabric on it to even tell what sort of “costume” it was meant to be. It was actually more of an apron, since her entire backside was bare. The top was basically a black halter bra with white
ruffles. It had a sheer, black torso with white ruffles leading down to a black flap, also lined with white ruffles.

  “Don’t you dare,” he said, grinning as he took in her outfit.

  She gave a small laugh as she pulled out the whipped cream she’d been holding behind her back.

  “Of course, some traditions are universal,” she said, watching his eyes light up with delight.

  “I like where this is going. What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “I just wanted to congratulate you on your success last night. The club was really awesome. It seemed like everyone was having a good time. I certainly did.”

  The sexy smile he’d been wearing upon first seeing her deepened into something more sincere. “You’re really something special, you know that,” he said wondrously.

  After an embarrassed smile of her own, she reverted back into sexy mode. “Just you watch and see,” she replied.

  Brooklyn grabbed the sheets covering them and tugged them until she uncovered his erection, now standing straight up. “Ohh, la, la,” she observed with what she hoped was a French accent. “I think you could give the Eiffel Tower a run for its money.”

  He laughed. “Can I quote you on that? I need something for my LinkedIn profile.”

  That made her break character and laugh.

  Then she brought the can of whipped cream around and formed a perfect cone of white around his cock. She scooted back on his legs and bent over, arching her back high enough so that he had a perfect view of “his favorite part” of her, fully exposed. She looked him in the eye and licked his dick clean.

  “Jesus, Brooklyn,” he groaned, staring down at her intently, as her tongue swirled its way around his erection.

  Once she had licked it clean, she took as much of it in her mouth as she could, making him groan even harder as her tongue, lips, and hands went to work sucking him completely clean. The sweet remnants mixed with the saltiness of his skin were turning her on more than ever, causing her to work even harder to get him off.