by Liz Crowe
Evan faced his friend. “Jack, Jenna is a slut, yes. And she came on to me, hard, but I didn’t do anything with her; I swear it.”
Jack shook his head, ran a hand down his rough face. “Yeah, well, I dodged that bullet, I guess. She laughed at me when I asked her to marry me. Told me I was delusional and that I’d never be man enough for her. Then proceeded to imply that you had fucked her and described her three-way with the boys upstairs to me. Fucking-A. God damn me to hell and back. That is the last time I ever let myself think any woman is more than…”
“Stop. Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t let her ruin you. C’mon, let’s get something to eat. Can your stomach handle it?”
“Sure.” Jack stared straight ahead, ending the conversation. “No. Oh, who cares?”
“Oh, and by the way, I will take that job you found for me in Ann Arbor. Thanks.”
“Great,” his friend muttered. But Evan’s heart felt slightly less like a dead weight for the first time in weeks. And he figured, or at least hoped, Jack was right. Starting over – for them both – was number one on the to-do list now.
Chapter Fifteen
“Adams!”
Evan rolled his eyes and turned, coming face to face with the one woman he dreaded, whose deep blue eyes and long chestnut hair had turned him into a six-foot three-inch boner for the entire year. “Yes, can I help you?” He swallowed hard, biting back his body’s annoying response to the tall, amazingly attractive woman who was his boss at his new job in Ann Arbor.
“As a matter of fact, you can.” Sophie Harrison had her hands on her hips, her patent leather shoe-clad toe coming just short of tapping with impatience as she gazed at him. “I mean, if you actually plan to finish that fucking Yarrington file. Don’t want to put you out or anything.”
“Ms. Harrison, I – ”
“If another excuse is about to spill out of your pretty-boy mouth, spare me.” She looked down at her watch. “I’m late for court.”
“If you’d just let me – ”
Evan attempted not to stare at how the dark-blue suit jacket gapped, giving him a clear view of the silky edge of a bra, or lacy shirt – really gave it the old college try. She held up a hand. “Stop talking. You are no better than the last so-called intern I got in here. Jesus. How you actually got into law school, much less passed the bar, is beyond me.”
Evan’s skin lit up with a combination of fury and pure, unadulterated horny. The woman was easily fifteen years his senior, but her bossiness had kept him on edge for so long he could hardly remember a time when he didn’t masturbate to intense fantasies of her naked but for those goddamn high heels. He took a breath, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and kept silent, cursing his gift for lusting after the wrong women. She glared at him for a split second, then turned on her heel and stomped away, giving him an agonizingly perfect view of her ass, long legs. And that long, thick hair he was dying to thread his fingers in and tug, hard. He clenched his fists and jaw at the same time. Christ, I need to get laid.
He returned his attention to the lame, bullshit, secretarial filing job he’d been doing for the last months. Being so hair-trigger horny was his own fault. He’d been avoiding female companionship since taking the job at Harrison and Winter. He needed to make some dough, bad. But, while demeaning and boring, it was a steady income. So he stayed focused on it and nothing else.
But a familiar antsy-ness had taken hold of him. He needed an outlet, and one that was fairly specific. He sat back and pondered his options. There was a club in downtown Detroit he knew of but hadn’t explored. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet. Not after the hell he’d been through in Chicago. No, actually he just needed to get laid. His healthier-than-most libido, the one requiring the “fairly specific” activity, was starting to zing and hum and make him insane. He took a breath, processing the fact that his boss had been sending him pretty clear signals the last few days, ones his personality picked up on quicker than most. And that had not helped in the slightest.
“Okay, Adams, let’s go.”
She stood in front of him again. Evan dragged his eyes up the stunning line of her legs, hips and waist. His palms itched to touch. He needed … something. But what his twanging nerve endings were telling him was a different message than what he thought he wanted.
Sophie cocked her head at him, her eyes darkening as if she were reading his way too dirty mind. She took a step closer, entering a personal space bubble that would never pass the sexual harassment test. “Stop fucking me with your eyes, pretty boy.”
Her gaze narrowed and his cock slammed against the back of his zipper. He gulped.
“I know what you think you want, Evan Adams, but what I might offer you one of these days is a world rocking you probably can’t handle.” She stepped away, taking her intoxicating, lusty fragrance with her. “We are overdue in court. Vamanos, young man.” She smacked his ass hard and sauntered away.
Evan sensed every blood vessel in his body expand, including the concentration of them below his belt. She truly had no idea how experienced he was, on both sides of the sexual equation she was proposing. This could get interesting. He smiled, and then shoved the whole mess out of his head.
A girlfriend, a nice vanilla young lady with a few basic skills, a great rack, who wouldn’t prove too much of a challenge, who can help you take your edge off is what you need. Not another volatile playmate – been there, done that, left it behind, remember?
He looked around, making sure no one in the busy legal office had seen them, before he grabbed the Yarrington files and followed her out. His phone kept buzzing in his pocket, but he’d been on the receiving end of his boss’s vitriol one too many times over taking calls while he was supposed to be helping her. So he ignored it. By the time she’d requested and received the extension their client needed from the judge, his leg was numb from the incessant buzzing. He snuck into the men’s room, trying to balance the messy stack of files she’d shoved at him on her way out the door. Cursing himself for the millionth time for taking this job, he leaned against a stall door and tugged the phone out of his pocket.
It took a few seconds to process that his mother had called him ten times in the last hour, never leaving a message in her typical way. As if the very act of calling him repeatedly would force him to answer. Evan sighed and hit redial, girding himself for the latest crisis. But when she answered, he knew something was very wrong.
“It’s Olivia. She’s …” Evan clutched his phone at the sound of his twin’s name. “I found it. Her journal. Evan …”
His mother was not a crier. Even when faced with the most horrific thing a parent could confront. Her stoicism had always baffled him and spoiled him for women who actually did show emotion. Until he figured out his mother’s lack of it disguised a very shallow character. When he realized she was sobbing, loud, hitching, wet noises in his ear, his knees gave out and he sank to the floor, hand over his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I never thought all that stuff you kept telling me … about … about him could possibly be true. I didn’t want it to be. I wanted …”
“Mother, I know what you wanted. But now you know the truth. Do you have any idea where he is?” Evan fought the urge to let rip with all the curses he could summon before naming the man who’d driven his beautiful, fragile, prima ballerina of a twin sister to take her own life. “I know he still talks to you, thinking you are on his side. Where the fuck is Damian, Mom? I gotta find him before he does the same thing to someone else.”
He gritted his teeth, listened to a few more minutes of her sniveling and saying “I’m sorry” before ending the call. Staring at the phone a second, he let images of Olivia, of her smiling face at the end, pass through his brain before leaning over to throw up his lunch into the toilet.
Chapter Sixteen
Evan watched as Sophie Harrison convinced a judge their client had just cause to sue for patent infringement and tried not to let his gaze linger on her lo
ng, lean legs. He had kept his head down and his zipper closed, going out with Jack and his friend Rob for beers, darts and poker. But he avoided Jack’s invites to the downtown BDSM club. He was simply not ready.
His friend shook off the Jenna drama by burying his face and cock between the thighs of as many women as possible, seemingly going for a record, but Evan forced himself to abstain. It was a familiar place, really; he’d been there before, during his undergrad years. He viewed it as a sort of self-discipline and no small amount of punishment. Staying focused, working ungodly hours, drinking some, running for miles, and even locating a men’s soccer team to play with on the weekends – was the sum total of Evan’s existence.
But he knew himself well enough to realize the months of verbal abuse he’d sustained from one Sophie Harrison were about to push him past a tipping point. The dark edges of his vision had returned. And he knew why – was familiar enough with his body and mind’s reaction to the sexual deprivation he’d endured to acknowledge he had to get out and find a nice girl to date, seduce, and screw. Or he could simply take Jack up on his many invites to The Suite, Jack’s friend’s exclusive Detroit BDSM club.
He groaned and got up, stretching out his sore legs and back. Sublimating all his sexual energy into exercise had brought him back to the high level of fitness he’d sustained through high school and college. That was good. But the humming feeling at the base of his spine and the lovely hard-on he kept springing when he was around his boss sent him a different message – of the “not good” variety.
Finally the judge rendered his verdict – in favor of their client – and Sophie stood, adjusted her short jacket over her hips, and turned to him. “Bring my stuff,” she said, before turning on her heel and walking out, chatting with various other attorneys hanging around the courthouse. Evan had to force his mouth shut and his eyes away from the sway of her ass. She was as full and womanly as any female he’d ever lusted after. He preferred them not stick-thin and was an avowed tits man – the bigger the better. She glanced back once, catching him gawping like a kid, sending him scrambling to gather up her files and scurrying after her.
He kept looking down at his phone, wishing his mother would send him Damian’s contact info, on his way up the aisle. And ran smack into Sophie’s back, dropping every piece of paper in the known universe to the floor. She glared at him, then turned away, muttering about “imbecile law school graduates” to the suited men around her.
As he was collecting the papers, his phone buzzed again.
“Mom, did you find it?” He attempted to prop the phone against his shoulder, which sent it skittering across the marble floor and under a bench. “Shit.” Making himself focus on the task at hand and on the possibility that his mother finally saw reason and the truth about the boy she’d harbored for so long, he crouched down on all fours and felt around under the heavy bench for the device. A high-heeled shoe on a familiar foot attached to a familiar leg appeared in front of him. He ground his teeth, holding back the very real and alarming impulse to lick his way up. Saving him from an embarrassing misstep, Sophie crouched down, handed him his phone, and stared at him.
“When you’re done scrabbling around on the floor like a rat, please grace us with your presence at the office, Adams. We have two long reports to file.” She patted his head, making him flush deep red and want to call her a rude name. But as she stood, a piece of paper, slightly larger than a business card, fluttered to the floor at her feet. He reached for it, thinking she’d dropped it and he could redeem himself somewhat by giving it back to her. But the sharp point of her heel landed on his hand as he touched it.
He saw it then: the bright red sole of her shoe – like Felicia’s, the woman who’d taught him so much about himself – imprinted on his retinas. She pressed down hard, replacing the surge of lust with a bite of pain. He let his gaze travel upwards, coming to rest when it met hers. “That’s yours, I think,” she said simply before removing her heel from his hand and walking away, chattering into her phone.
Evan sat, leaned back against the bench, no longer caring how goofy he must look. The piece of paper was thick, cream colored, and had an address and three words. Be there tonight. Sighing, he put the invite in his shirt pocket, gathered all the papers, and made his way back to the office. Before he entered and get reamed for making a personal call during work, he placed another call to his mother.
“Evan, I’ve tried the last two places he worked. Nobody seems to know where he is anymore.”
“Not even the L.A. firm?” Damian had graduated from Michigan Law School top of his class and took a lucrative entertainment law job on the west coast, according to Evan’s parents who remained in denial about his role in Olivia’s death for so long Evan had ceased communicating with either of them.
“The secretary there would only say that ‘Mr. Slate no longer practices law at this office,’ no matter how many times I asked her if she knew where he went. Oh God, what a mess.”
“Okay, Mom, do me a favor and email me the firm’s information. I’ll call and see what I can get out of them.” His head pounded. If he got his hands around Damian Slate’s neck he would kill the man, of that he was certain. But his slippery disappearing act told Evan one thing – he’d probably pulled a rough act on a client, or someone, and had to fade or get caught. “That ass-wipe is gonna slip up one time too many, I just know it.”
“Evan, honey… can you ever forgive me?”
He sighed and hung up, unwilling to answer. Even pondering that made him exhausted. His feelings about his mother were complex, but forgiveness did not seem possible. He sent a quick text to Jack, who was working across town at a title company. Looks like I’ll be joining you sooner than I thought.
Jack: Oh? Where?
Evan: The Suite.
Jack: About damn time.
Evan: I guess. But I can’t tell you who just dropped an invite into my lap.
Jack: Dude, what is it with you and the hot Dommes? That smoking babe you work for finally did it, didn’t she?
Evan: Maybe. Anyway, I’m going. Why the hell not?
Jack: I’d say so, Saint Adams. You will finally break that embarrassingly long streak of celibacy.
Evan: Yeah, but her signals are very mixed. Not sure what it is she wants.
Jack: There is only one very pleasant way to find out. Pick you up at nine.
Evan put his phone in his pocket, pushed open the double wood doors to the inner sanctum of the law firm, and set about spending the second half of his day daydreaming about throttling Damian Slate … and fucking Sophie Harrison so hard she’d beg him for more. She barely paid attention to him the rest of the afternoon, other than to drop more papers on his desk and curse at him for being late with her latest filing.
“Jesus H. Christ, could I have picked a more boring law than patents?”
“Yeah. It’s called title law. I am dying over there. Thought it would make sense, given my background in construction and development, but seems like all I do is answer questions about suburban fences and mediate tree line disputes. Oh, and sign giant checks for real estate agents.”
The two men sat at Evan’s table, dressed in their best all the way down to French cuffs. Two small glasses of bourbon sat in front of them, a tradition they’d started while attending the first club in Chicago. One quick jolt of brown liquor to ease their neural pathways before jumping into the alcohol-free zone of a true BDSM scene. “Yeah.” Evan twirled the glass around a few times. “Hey, you ever hear of something call a micro-brewery?”
“Aren’t there are a couple in Grand Rapids? I know Rob is sort of into it lately. Don’t know what they do, though – make micro-kegs?”
“No, no, it’s where brewers use traditional ingredients and recipes and sometimes add funky stuff to hand craft new sorts of brews in smaller batches.” He sipped. “There’s one over on the west side of town, near Dexter Road. A small place, but cool as hell, and the beer is incredible.”
“Huh.�
�� Jack downed his bourbon, then stood, shooting his cuffs and straightening his tie. “I’ll check it out. Let me know the next time you go.”
“Yeah, sure. The guy there says he’s really struggling, but I think he’s just not trying hard enough.”
“Is he looking for investors?”
Evan stayed seated while Jack stuck his arms in the suit coat.
“I don’t know. Probably not. I’m just sustaining a fantasy about it, I guess.”
“My man, ‘fantasy’ is what we are all about, last time I checked. Let’s go get our respective worlds rocked tonight. I know you need it. Then we’ll talk about beer. I’m more about pussy tonight, if you know what I’m saying.” Jack’s grin was contagious.
Evan stood, put his coat on, and downed the liquor letting it burn a trail down to his gut and light a small flame in his brain like it always did. His skin crawled as he acknowledged how much he needed a good hard playtime followed by a satisfying fuck. “Me too. Let’s go.”
The drive into the depths of Detroit was silent but comfortable. Jack parked underground, and they took a rickety elevator up to the top floor. Evan was about to comment he thought the place was a dump when the door opened and revealed a sumptuous foyer, outfitted in thick Turkish carpets, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, and expensive-looking artwork.
A huge, dark-skinned man in a blue suit walked up and shook his hand before turning to Jack. “Gordon, good to see you again. Is this the guy you told me about?”
“I’m Evan Adams,” Evan said, noting the look of mild surprise that flickered across the other man’s face. “And I am a big fan of yours.”
Kyle Summerlin, one time NFL tailback, broke into a bellowing laugh. “Well, Mr. Adams, it seems as though I may become a big fan of yours.” He put his arms around the two men and guided them further into the club. Barely-dressed women in flowing, gauzy dresses floated around with trays of water and juice. Evan watched a few of them, as he exerted control over his neglected libido.