by A. J. Pryor
“Addison!” Thomas is shouting down the hallway. Every cell in my body tenses at the sound of his bossy, asshole voice. “Addison! Where is the contract for that family, the one with the two kids at boarding school?”
Walking through my office door, I’m momentarily startled he had the decency to get off his ass and come in here. Thomas Feeley, the divorce attorney who has built his practice up to be the most successful moneymaking law firm in all of Santa Barbara, is standing in my doorway. Five foot nine and balding at the tip of his head, he has the worst case of short man’s complex and loves to make everyone else’s lives miserable.
“On Veronica’s desk.”
“Veronica is at lunch.”
“Exactly where I’m headed, I’ll grab it for you on my way out.”
“Bring me back a sandwich or something. Oh and can you get me a cup of coffee before you leave?”
“I’m not your assistant, Thomas. I passed the Bar.”
His beady little eyes narrow at me. “You’re not a partner, either. Get me the damn coffee.” He’s out of my office before I can call him an asshole to his face instead of his back. If I didn’t need this job, I’d have left years ago. But finally crawling out from the burden of my dad’s mounting debt has left me tied to this miserable position. My only saving grace is the relief I see on my clients’ faces when I win their battles for them, tearing apart the one person they vowed to love forever and getting them whatever custody or assets they believe is owed in their favor.
There’s an old pot of coffee on the counter. Good, I’m happy to deliver him a cup of old morning brew, maybe some of the black grains will fall into his cup as well.
Thomas doesn’t raise his head as I place the Styrofoam on his desk. Fine with me, I’d rather not talk to him anymore either.
Walking to my car, I’m planning to meet Mia for lunch. As I step into the parking lot, I realize something isn’t right. But it’s not until I get closer that I notice what has my instincts on high alert, and I groan in frustration.
There’s bird shit all over my car, and I mean, all the hell over it. It’s like the bird leading the pack had a megaphone and called out one, two, three, go and every sea gull within a ten-mile radius followed suit. How else would a flock of birds decide to shit at the same time? It looks like they declared war all over my front window and down the sides of my car. It’s . . . disgusting and another reason to add to my growing list of why living at the beach isn’t all that.
I know I shouldn’t complain, but—come on.
Looking for a clean area on my door handle, as cautiously as possible I open the door and slide behind the wheel. Turning on my car I pull the windshield wiper towards me, hoping to clean off at least a small portion of the crap so I can get to a gas station and remove the rest.
The wipers move, they squeak, and they move again, but no water comes out as I continue to pump the handle towards me.
Fuck! You have got to be kidding me! I can’t see past all this shit, how am I supposed to drive around like this? I smear it some more with the dry wiper before I decide there’s enough visibility for me to safely drive.
As the car moves forward, something doesn’t feel right. One side of the jeep is higher than the other and a plopping noise echoes inside the car.
What the . . . ?
I press on the brakes and get out. Sure enough, my right rear tire is flat, completely flopping around.
This is not my day.
I should go home, get in bed, and start all over again.
My phone rings as I’m about to call AAA.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Green Eyes.”
“Damian?”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
I flip my head up, scanning the parking lot and wondering how he knows I’ve been shit all over. His 4Runner is parked across the street, his hands in his pockets as he holds the phone between his ear and shoulder. He’s wearing a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and even from this distance, I can see the bulging muscles in his forearms, my new favorite part of a man’s body.
The shirt is casually un-tucked over his blue jeans. Skin—golden bronze skin peeks out of the top of that shirt, right where his collar and chest meet. Everything about that man screams sex, and I have to pinch my legs closed tight.
Our eyes meet, and he begins to walk in my direction, his hand reaching up and grabbing his phone, his head straightening as he advances towards me. In my mind I run to him, jump in his arms, and kiss him as he saves the day. But this is reality, not a romantic comedy where all the heroine’s dreams come true in one shining moment. My life wasn’t mapped out to be easy, there’s no reason this should be either.
It takes all of thirty seconds for him to be standing directly in front of me.
“Hi.” I hear it from his lips and at the same time, through the speaker on my phone.
“Hi back.”
Taking the phone out of my hand, he ends our call. His lips curl up in that grin, the one that has my heart going pitter-patter. He hasn’t shaved today, but he’s clean. I can smell his laundry detergent and the musky soap he uses all around me. I want to face plant into his chest and breathe in deeply, but that’s not a very sexy move.
I’m sure he’s used to sexy moves.
“I got crapped on.”
His grin turns into a full on smile, his straight white teeth shining bright, and his eyes smiling along with his cheeks. “I noticed.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I have a meeting, and I saw you get out of your car. I watched you frown.”
“My tire’s flat.”
Walking around my car, he locates the deflated piece of rubber. “Keys?” His hand is outstretched, and I’m not sure what he’s planning on doing.
“It’s not good to drive on a flat. I’m going to call roadside assistance.”
That grin appears again, and my knees slightly wobble. He advances once more, his eyes not leaving mine. Lowering his face to my ear, his breath fans across my cheek as in a deep and sensual voice he says, “I’ll change your tire—you can watch.”
He begins to unbutton his shirt. One. Damn. Button at a time, and my legs quiver.
In the parking lot of my office, where my co-workers can come out at any moment, my hot off his ass neighbor hands me his shirt, then holds his hand out for my keys.
It’s possible I may be panting, but I’m trying to keep it together.
I hand over the keys. “Here you go, Offside.”
He looks at me, head slightly tilted and a flash of confusion clouding his dark eyes.
I can’t help the name. He draws me closer to an invisible line I know I shouldn’t cross . . . yet the idea is extremely tempting.
“Offside?” he questions.
I shrug, willing the blush that is beginning to creep up my neck away. “I like to give people nicknames. All of that,” for the second time today, I point to his chiseled physic, “pushes me out of my comfort zone.”
He smirks and takes a step forward. “Hm. Offside. I like it, Green Eyes,” he says as he bends down, his lips grazing my ear. “And one day, maybe you can step across my line and I’ll give you a penalty.”
My breath catches as he quietly steps away and begins to work on my car, as if that exchange had no effect on him whatsoever.
I had no idea people in today’s world changed their own tires. I remember watching my dad do it a few times when I was a child, but Matt was never one for manual labor. Now, watching Damian’s muscles flex as he raises the car with some contraption he found in my trunk, I’m thankful Damian Walker knows how to change a tire. I’m gawking, possibly drooling as each one of his back muscles flexes and moves with each stroke he makes. His jeans are low on his hips and his entire back viewable for my pleasure. That faint scar that runs the length of his torso stretches and moves with him.
Now this should be a Super Bowl commercial. Not a half-naked girl eating a
Big Mac on top of a Chevy, but Damian Walker, shirtless and pumping up a car with a slogan that says, ‘Get under my hood, and I’ll give you a jump start’. I’d get under anything he asked me to as long as he kept his shirt off.
He’s bending down and removing the tire, replacing it with the spare. The entire process takes less than twenty-minutes, my car back in working order except for the shit still smattered all over it.
I wish it had taken longer.
“You’ll need to handle the crap. I’ve got to get to another meeting.” He’s barely broken a sweat, and he’s still shirtless. I can’t help but stare. Placing my keys back in my hand, he folds his fingers over mine and gently squeezes.
“Thank you.” My eyes finally leave his abs and meet his dark intense gaze as I hand him his shirt.
Gradually, he slips his arms through each sleeve, leaving a sliver of taut, hard muscle exposed. Starting at the top, he begins to button the white fabric, slowly, meticulously and deliberately taking his sweet time, until he’s completely covered, except for a sexy triangle of skin at the top. I exhale the breath I’d been holding and look up into his intense gaze, his lips curving into a knowing grin.
“Come by later. I’ll make you dinner.”
“Don’t you think I should be making that offer? You just changed my tire.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t offer. See you at seven.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s quite obviously a cake.”
I’m still looking at the mess on the plate she’s brought over.
“Obvious to who?”
“Just for that, you don’t get to try any. I worked hard on this lemon cake, gave up a few hours of reading time to make it for you.”
Shit, this chick can’t cook to save her life. If I’d made this, I’d never admit it to anyone. “It looks . . . delicious. Thanks.”
She seems relieved that I’m not harassing her anymore about the cake, and I feel slightly guilty that I didn’t appreciate her efforts right off the bat. This is the first time she’s been inside my apartment, and she’s taking it all in. Her eyes roaming around the colorful paintings I have on each wall and all the books about the mechanics of the human body that are strewn about my coffee table.
I place the cake on the counter and join her on the dark blue sofa. “How’s your car?”
“Finally clean.” She continues to peruse the books. “Are you studying to be a doctor?”
She’s wearing loose white cotton pants and a comfortable blue T-shirt which on most women would look baggy and frumpy, but on her, the material of the shirt outlines her breasts perfectly, and it hangs low exposing an ample amount of cleavage that is staring me in the face. I’m semi-hard just sitting next to her and wondering how I can get through tonight without touching her. Because no matter how badly I’d love to play doctor with her this very moment, jumping into bed with my new neighbor would be a very bad idea. And I’ve been done with bad ideas for a long time now.
“No, I’m not a doctor, just fascinated with the way the human body works.” I get up and reach for a bag resting on the chair next to my couch. “I bought you something.”
She looks at me wide-eyed, her bangs falling slightly to the left and covering part of her face. Damn those eyes never fail to draw me in. Every time I look into them I get a little lost, and I’m not sure I want to be found.
“Well, where is it?” she asks.
Startled back into the here and now, I pull a pillow out of the bag and hand it to her as I sit back down.
She inspects every inch of it, her forehead bunched in confusion. “Why red?”
“Your apartment needs a little color.”
“What’s wrong with my apartment?”
“It’s all white.” Her eyes scan the living room again, taking in the colorful photos, the royal blue sofa we’re sitting on, and the white and red striped rug in front of her.
“I like white. It’s a consistent color, matches with everything, and never lets you down.”
“It’s boring,” I argue.
She shrugs. “But still, why red? Why not blue or green—or yellow for that matter?”
“Yellow? Who decorates with yellow?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I saw that pillow in a window walking through town today. There’s nothing special about it, but it’s red and the minute my eyes landed on it, Addison’s face popped into my vision. I wanted to see that pillow smack in the center of her white living room. It kills me that everything is so sterile. I see sterile all the time at the hospital, and it’s depressing.
“Red’s a great color, Addison. It represents a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Life, love, and . . . lips.”
Her eyes blink for every one of the words I just used, and she still seems confused.
“You’re an attorney, I thought you were supposed to be smart.” She throws the pillow at me.
“Lips are pink.”
“Yours aren’t.”
Her hand reaches up to her mouth and the tips of her fingers trail along the outer edges of her perfectly curved cherry colored lips.
Wrapping my hand around her delicate wrist, I remove it from her face. “Don’t cover them up like that.”
She parts them, and I can almost see the breath leaving her lungs and escaping through the small opening she just created. My fingers rest right on her pulse as it beats in tune with my own heartbeat. There’s a clear line of tension stretching from her mouth to mine. I want to bite down hard on those lips, suck them between my own pink lips, and slide my tongue along each one.
The timer on the microwave begins to beep saving me from acting on my thoughts. One day I’m going to kiss her, take those lips and suck on them for so long they become swollen and redder than they already are. And then, I’m going to suck on her other lips and make her tremble beneath me—but not tonight.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Nodding, she doesn’t move. With the strength of Hercules, I remove my hand from her wrist and get our plates ready.
“That was so good. Do you always cook like that?”
Two glasses of wine down, and she’s cleared her plate. “Every night.”
“I’m coming over here for dinner more often.” Staring out into the dark abyss of the ocean, the night is cool and calm for January. There’s a light breeze blowing her hair around her face, and she looks so carefree and content sitting here with me. The distant look that so often plagues her face when I’m around her vanished. Maybe I fill a void for her, a loneliness she has yet to share with me.
“You can have dinner with me any night you want.”
Her eyes light up with pure delight, “You are going to regret that statement.”
“Why?” I ask chuckling.
“Because I’ll take you up on it and eventually you’re going to have to kick me out.” I sit and stare at her smiling face, deciding the asshole she’s talked about must not be her boyfriend. Obviously he means something to her, and I’m going to find out what it is, but the idea that she could possibly be free, that she may not be as off limits as I once thought, makes me want to cup her stunning face in my hands and kiss her.
I lean forward, my hands resting lightly on her thighs. “Green Eyes, you are always welcome here.”
The air around us becomes thick and silent, her lips parting slightly and her eyes traveling to my mouth. I need to kiss her.
I’m going to kiss her.
“Won’t Reed get jealous?”
Startled out of my lust filled haze I shake off the impulse to lean forward and claim her tempting lips. “What?” I ask baffled.
“Reed, isn’t he like . . . into you?”
I’m looking at her confused as hell. “Are you asking if Reed is . . . are you asking if he’s gay?”
Her face blushes deeply, and she starts to laugh, her hands covering her face in complete embarrassment. “He seems so into you. It was only a thought, one I
clearly should have kept to myself.”
Laughing at her heated face, I take her hands in mine. “No, he’s far from gay. Just a really good friend and my business partner.”
She’s looking at me with pure curiosity, and even though I hate talking about my past, there’s no point in digging up shit that’s far behind me, she should know a little about me if I’m ever going to earn her trust.
“We’ve both been through some traumatic experiences in our lives. Reed lost his sister a while back, and I was in a bad car accident. Plus, we work together.”
“Is that where you got your scar?” She looks down to my waist, the scar covered by a dark red thermal, and her eyes land on exactly the spot that scar resides. The intense curiosity in her voice tells me this conversation is over. Nodding I stand and clear our plates.
Addison is following behind me, her presence noticeable. My awareness of her is so prevalent, my senses tuned in to everything about her. If she suddenly stops walking, I know the exact location of her feet, if her breath catches or her heart beats a little stronger, I hear it. I wonder if she notices the connection, as well. She’s right behind me, the warmth of her body radiating through my long sleeve shirt and I’m not surprised when suddenly her hand gently traces the line where my scar leads. My entire body tenses as she stills her hand on the outside of my shirt.
“I have scars, too, Damian, but they’re not as visible as yours.”
“I’d be surprised if he ever plays soccer again. He’ll be lucky if he can walk when he wakes up.”
“You heal my son. Do you hear me? You will heal my son! He must play!”
I can hear my dad’s voice. Anyone in a five-mile radius can probably hear his voice. He’s yelling at someone of authority and since I’m the only son he knows about, he must be talking about me. But I can’t see him, and it’s freaking me out.