The Suit (The Bro Series Book 3)

by Xavier Neal

  Out of the four of us, he’s the only who’s had the balls and successfully gone against the grain. Who has stopped dipping his dick in whatever pussy was willing to play the role for the night or who hasn’t taken a widower’s vow of celibacy. And he’s the fucking happiest. Real happy. Not the shit I pretend I am. Not the shit Wyatt tries to convince us he is. He’s genuinely happy and only gets more so every. Goddamn. Day.

  The cigar soars back to my lips in an effort to bury my bitterness.

  “Can I just add that it’s your birthday, and your only real obligation is to enjoy it? Even if that means you need to ditch us and go see about nothing.”

  His words once more roll around my head.

  Nothing has been keeping me distracted since she fled my presence in the dark. I didn’t wash my face. Brush my teeth. I let her smell…her flavor linger like the cure for a disease I didn’t even know I had. Nothing’s bullshit bail out the next morning was only capable of being executed because I didn’t wanna make a scene in front of her new step father. The man whose daughter I shouldn’t have been tongue fucking. The man whose life I am more fucking tangled in than I care to admit to anyone. Nothing sitting on my face again is the only thing I want more than this damn cigar. But I can’t have “Nothing” because she vanished without leaving a breadcrumb behind.

  The deep, dark flavor soothes my senses in my favorite ways.

  There’s something about smoking a great cigar that does more than please my pallet. It clears the mind. Eases the stress and lets down the gates that guard the fortress I keep my thoughts locked up in. Before a difficult divorce or complicated pre-nup mediation, I take the evening to sit on my apartment balcony and light one up while I sip a glass of whiskey. It has a way of resetting or prepping my system. Helps me get out of my own way. See shit in more than just its basic form.

  All of a sudden, an idea lunges to the front of my mind.

  I blow out the smoke, place the cigar on the tray to let it naturally extinguish, and sip on the champagne. My eyes stay forward, watching two women perform burlesque dances on the opposite side of the room near the piano, while Nate casually does his best to avoid staring, most likely convinced it’s too close to cheating.

  It’s not.

  Our conversation mainly consists of his ramblings about a potential job offer, and Wyatt’s travel plans for the remainder of the summer. Nate’s excitement over his return to the film industry gathers more than one grin.

  His original decisions to leave it behind killed a piece of him we never thought we’d see again. We all tried to revive it over the past few years. Holden’s forwarded him emails for opportunities to be a local critic. Wyatt’s tossed him numbers and emails of actresses, producers, and directors. I’ve even grabbed a card or two from clients I’ve had that would have given him a job just as a favor to me. Nothing worked. Somehow, someway, Ainsley resurrected it. We’re all thankful. Me more than the others. Any longer as a grumpy, standoffish asshole and I would’ve dragged him through the walls of a film studio, forced his hand to fill out a fucking form, then gripped his neck during an interview. Not like he could physically stop me. He’s the smallest of all of us. I make him look practically like a dwarf.

  Just as Wyatt finishes bragging about how he’s going to spend the summer in Fiji and being a guest chef on a cooking show, I grab the unlit cigar, slide it in its tube, and abruptly announce, “I have to make one more stop this evening.”

  Wyatt ceases caressing the blonde who has parked herself in his lap. “I’ll grab the tab.”

  “Alone.”

  Nate’s eyebrows lift in intrigue.

  Rather than shower me in questions or concerns, Wyatt diverts his attention back to the busty female. “Enjoy birthday sex. I know I’m going to.”

  She giggles at the comment, toys with his tie, and licks her lips.

  “Not even your birthday,” Nate mutters as I tuck the cased cigar into the inside of my suit jacket pocket.

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  I roll my eyes and allow a crooked smirk to cross my face.

  Fair point. Besides, I’d rather everyone have a good time than stifle it.

  After I wish Nate luck on his coming interview, I swing back by my office to check a file on my work desktop. The search is quick and produces the exact information I need.

  During the drive to Green Park Heights, which is right on the city’s edge in an older neighborhood, I rehearse various phrases, anxiously searching for the one that has me appearing least like a stalker.

  And I’m not.

  I never will be.

  I know the damage it can and does do to a person.

  To a family.

  The dreadful topic is the absolute last one I want tap dancing around my mind on my fucking birthday.

  By the time I’m parking my sleek gray Range Rover in her driveway, I’ve nailed the exact phrase as well as the backup phrase in case she takes it poorly or in case a husband unexpectedly enters the picture. If that’s the unfortunate case, then I’ll bow out. Pretend I’m at the wrong house.

  I don’t believe in ending marriages.

  I only believe in profiting from those that have already ended.

  Casually, I stroll towards the yellow painted front door, adjusting my tie along the way and silently expressing my gratitude for not being too drunk to drive myself around tonight. Couple drinks at the pool. Couple sips at the club. I’m more than capable of making rash decisions even if this entire thing is undeniably on the opposite end.

  I deliver a solid knock to the door.

  It takes about as long as predicted, however, the sight of Ryann wearing nothing more than a long gray t-shirt, again nearly renders me speechless.

  Her light brown face that glistens with golden undertones instantly grows my grin.

  Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for me to relocate my voice. “Found you.”

  A red hint threatens her cheeks, and the sight steals a sigh of relief. “You did…”

  My eyes fight the urge to roam across the figure I’ve been dying to see in the light. “Was gonna call, but this seemed more romantic.”

  Ryann leans against the doorframe. “Or stalkery.”

  The innocent joke seeps poorly into my pores, yet I ignore the sting, in no mood to discuss why I find it humorless. “It’s my birthday, Buttercup-”

  Her hand flies objectively into the air. “Buttercup?”

  I nonchalantly tip my chin towards the door.

  A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, but she doesn’t explain the bright color or further oppose the nickname.

  Hm. A nickname.

  I like her having that.

  I like being the one who gave it to her…

  “Happy birthday, Pax,” Ryann interjects, seconds prior to my mouth moving. “Twenty- eight? Twenty-nine?”

  “Big three zero.”

  Another smile warms her face, and my tongue wets my lips like a prelude to washing it away.

  “The only thing I found myself wanting all damn day was you.”

  Ryann’s entire face flushes.

  “Have dessert with me?”

  “Have dessert or be dessert?” She brazenly flirts.

  “Both.” A mental image of plopping her ass on the kitchen table and eating it out has me practically salivating. “One then the other.”

  A flash of temptation crosses her eyes, but it quickly fades. “Sorry. Can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t.”

  Not one to go down without a well prepared argument or well executed persuasion, I retort, “Can I ask why?”

  There’s an immediate hesitation followed promptly by Ryann folding her arms protectively across her chest. “Can’t leave the house. And I don’t have anything here to serve you.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from adding a sexually aggressive line. Instead, I steer us towards light-hearted. “Not even a cookie?”

  She snickers, stance l
oosening just the slightest. “Not even a crumb of one. I needed to go to the grocery store but didn’t have time today…Something got in the way.”

  “Let’s go now then.”

  Her expression swings between befuddlement and amusement. “Can’t leave the house.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just put my daughter to bed.”

  The words knock the air out of my lungs. “You…You have a daughter?”

  Ryann’s brown eyes bully mine unapologetically. “Yup.”

  Her defensive nature is necessary. Understandable. A good parent is protective of their child not only from strangers but from the judgments on being single in the situation. However, it doesn’t bother me. Doesn’t push me away. Frankly, it does just the opposite. A woman who has a family open to another member or who is ready to establish one is exactly what I’m looking for.

  Fuck, this woman is everything I’ve been looking for.

  She only lets one more moment of silence slide. “So…in order to date me, you have to date her, too.”

  The firm tone doesn’t waver my stance. Rather than express my undeniable love affair with creating something more stable than the fleeting experiences I have now, I playfully counter, “Criminal law may not be my area of expertise, but I’m pretty sure dating your kid would be a crime.”

  Ryann rolls her eyes, yet a smirk crosses her full lips.

  I casually open my jacket pocket and flash her the cigar case. “Dessert?”

  She doesn’t seem capable of resisting the question a second time. “On the back patio.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Ryann ushers a hand to invite me inside, quickly locking the door behind me. She guides us through the dimly lit living room where the flat screen T.V. is glowing with a familiar show, and I steal a few glimpses of her one story interior like her dining room table in a back nook on the other side of the wall to her open kitchen.

  Once the French doors are shut, we cross the short distance to the wicker chairs that are awkwardly angled as if protecting the grill from intruders.

  Or anyone from potentially using it.

  I politely wait for her to choose a seat before picking mine. When she settles into the seat that allows her to keep an eye on the doors, I drop down to the one beside it, and scoot it a bit closer.

  My view of the small square backyard that has no real sign of life beyond the green grass causes me to quietly grunt in objection.

  Where are the outdoor activities for her daughter like a swing set or a jungle gym? What about a mini pool or slip and side? A soccer ball? A kick ball? Any ball?

  I allow my eyes to wander around the uncomfortably plain area.

  No gardens? No flowers? Fuck, not even a pot for flowers?

  This may be a house, but it’s very fucking far from a home.

  More time passes than I realize.

  Ryann gently nudges me with her bare toe. “How’d you find me?”

  “Paperwork.”

  Her eyes instantly widen. “The emergency contact forms? Seems like an illegal move for a lawyer.”

  “Attorney,” I casually correct. “Passed the bar.”

  There’s a difference between the two, but it gets exhausting to correct people all the fucking time.

  “And no, not from the emergency forms. I had a little P.I. work done on your mother and your family while I was arranging the pre-nup agreement.”

  Holden is our residential hacker. On the books and off. Since college he’s been watching our asses digitally and at times I’ve found his unique skill set more than valuable. It’s why the FBI hired his ass instead of locking him away to never touch a keyboard again.

  “I like to know what I’m dealing with on and off the books. I like to know what my clients do not always see. I like to be prepared for scenarios of the unexpected. I like to minimize the surprises as best as possible. Debt. Hidden assets. Leech sucking relatives. The list is long.”

  She leans back in her seat on a hum. “Thorough.”

  “Impressed?”

  “A bit.”

  “However, when I had someone look into your mother, the details I wanted weren’t yours, which explains why I had very little information about you. A daughter in her late twenties with her own job didn’t raise any flags I felt needed further investigating.” I casually remove the cigar from my jacket pocket and begin to ease it out of the case. “Was the song and dance you gave me the night of the wedding to protect you or your daughter?”

  “Both.”

  The lack of hesitation causes me to smile. “What’s her name?”

  “Hattie.”

  I let out a hearty chuckle instead of placing the cigar to my lips. “Did you adopt her before or after her eighty ninth birthday?”

  Ryann balls her fist and lets it soar across the space to strike my bicep. While the action is a mixture between playful and scolding, the response of surprise on her face when the blow hurts her hand more than it ever would’ve my bicep ignites another laugh.

  “Don’t break a nail, Buttercup.”

  “Fuck off. I wasn’t expecting you to be made of steel.”

  “Give me a little more time, and I’ll show you another part of me that’s steel.”

  My sexual implication receives a faint moan proceeded promptly by the readjusting of her crossed legs. “Hattie was my great grandmother’s name. I wanted to pay tribute to the single mothers in my family by acknowledging the original. My great grandmother, Hattie, became a single mom when her husband died in the military on assignment. My grandmother became a single mother when my grandfather died from the flu shortly after my mom was born. And me, well, I’m the proof that what happens in Vegas does not always stay in Vegas. My father was in town for the weekend from Hong Kong celebrating something with his friends. They hooked up for a one nightstand, and he caught a flight back to his country the next morning. She didn’t even give the guy her real name…”

  The idea of having a child out in the world and knowing nothing about it sits poorly with me.

  I’d wanna fucking know.

  Then again maybe he doesn’t.

  Maybe she didn’t want him to.

  Maybe Ryann is happier not having that information.

  Maybe Ryann decided she never needed that information because one parent was enough.

  Instead of dwelling on the situation, I properly light the cigar and state, “Forgive my last comment. I can definitely respect the name choice.”

  She sits noticeably taller.

  Stronger.

  Fearless.

  Proud.

  The combination causes my dick to kick against the zipper of my suit pants.

  How can any fucking man let this woman go?

  “Divorced?” I ask after releasing the smoke.

  “Never married.”

  “You two working on it?”

  “Absolutely not.” Her arms return to their guarded position across her chest. “We were never really together. We-” The abrupt stifling of her own rant lifts my eyebrows in question, but she doesn’t continue. “It’s complicated.”

  I offer her a single nod of understanding.

  “What about you? Single?”

  “Very.”

  “Kids?”

  “Someday.”

  Relief floods her expression. “And what about your mother? You obviously know all about mine…”

  The jab at my research and being her new step father’s attorney isn’t missed nor appreciated.

  I don’t know everything about her mother. Probably more than she’d like. While I was aware Ryann’s father wasn’t in the picture nor had he ever been, I passed when Holden offered to dig further on those roots. I kept my focus on the important issues. Mainly financial. Most of the time that’s where the attention is needed.

  Slouching more comfortably into my seat, I reply, “My birth mother died when I was one. Unforeseen aneurism. Papà remarried the woman I consider my mother when I was two, and they had my si
ster when I was three.”

  “Still married?”

  “Legally separated for a few years. Some shit went down with my sister, and it tore the family apart.” Recalling the horror that occurred over a decade ago has me momentarily grinding my teeth. “I know they still love each other. Know they still care deeply about one another. I just…” the end of the sentence falls from my lips like a defeat, “don’t think they know how to begin fixing it. I also don’t think either one wants to be the first to admit fault.”