by Olivia Chase
I’ve only been to Outlaws once. It was on a dare with one of my good friends, Rebecca. On her twenty-first birthday last year, she wanted to go to the wildest bar in town and get drunk. Stupidly, I agreed to go too and tagged along with her. We made it about fifteen minutes before a massive brawl among bikers broke out behind us and we snuck out the door, afraid we were gonna get punched.
I haven’t been back since.
George rolls his eyes at me and steps closer. “This one’s different. It’s a fight among the family members—apparently, like, over half a dozen Becketts got in a fist fight. With a fight that big, I bet one of them needs a visit to the hospital…and maybe obtain some legal advice. Anyway, I want you to go to the bar and find out what’s happening, see if maybe there’s a potential client in there for us.”
Ugh. That whole family is a mess. I know about the Becketts. Everyone in town does. They’re a wild clan with a notorious reputation for trouble. I went to high school with a couple of them and made sure to keep my distance. My parents drilled in me the importance of positive associations even at that age.
“Are you sure it’s worth the effort?” I ask. “There will probably be no money in it.” Not to mention I really don’t want to go to that bar and deal with any of them.
His eyes get a greedy gleam. “Oh, there’s always money to be found, Claire. You just gotta be clever about it. Bars, as you know, have insurance.” He says this slowly like duh, shouldn’t I remember this from my classes? “And since bars have insurance, bars can be sued in a civil lawsuit. If one of the owners is at fault, we can take them to the cleaners. That’s how we stay in business. What do I always say? ‘We take all cases, the big and the small.’ Every client matters.”
My stomach gives a flip of discomfort. I don’t like George’s methods. I loathe this sort of thing, actually. But until I’m on my own, I’m stuck doing what he wants. I need the experience. Plus the money, to be honest. Living on my own isn’t exactly cheap.
I save the doc I was typing on a thumb drive, then shut down my computer and grab my purse. “Okay, I’ll go there. But I’m taking the rest of the day off, since I’m already well over my overtime for the week. I’ll finish the letters tomorrow morning.”
“Fine, fine, whatever,” he says, waving dismissively at me. He flips through the stack of mail sitting on a table near the entrance of the office. I’m already forgotten.
I head out the door before he can change his mind and decide to go himself—at least I can cut work the rest of the day. I hop in my car and drive toward Outlaws. Soft classical music from a local NPR station plays in the background in my car as I weave down the streets with my windows open, breeze rushing in.
Thankfully, we’re having an unseasonably warm day in Rock Bridge. I stretch my hand out and enjoy the wind hitting my hand, streaming through my fingers.
It takes about fifteen minutes, but I finally arrive at Outlaws. The cops are mingling in the parking lot as several people come streaming out. It’s clear that every guy coming out of there is a Beckett—not just by the telltale dark blond hair and stunning good looks, but the bruises on their faces and their rough appearance from the fight. I pull into an available spot near the far end of the lot and walk toward the ambulance.
One of the EMTs steps out and heads to one dark blond man in a torn T-shirt, who might possibly be the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s lean and tall and ripped. After examining the guy’s shoulder, the EMT says something, and the man shrugs out of his shirt, revealing a muscled, tattooed chest.
I feel a hot pulse throb between my legs and suck in a shaky breath. I’ve never had this vivid of a reaction to a man’s body before. Get it together, Claire, I tell myself as I stroll to the two men. “Hi,” I say in the most professional tone I can muster to the potential client, sticking out my hand. “I’m here on behalf of the Law Office of George Wheeling.”
His gaze turns to me, and I see a flare of heat in his eyes. He parts his lips and looks me over, a slow, thorough raking of my body that almost feels physical. My skin heats from the blatantly sexual gesture. “And who are you?” he says, a challenge.
“We gotta get you to the hospital, sir,” the EMT interrupts us.
The man ignores him, continuing to eye me. His gaze is primal as he sizes me up.
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Um. I’m Claire Osgood.”
“Hi, Claire Osgood,” he says, using my name in a way that makes me shiver a little. “I’m Jamison Beckett,” he says. “By the way, I’ve never seen hair that shade of red before. It’s fucking stunning.”
No one has ever said my hair was stunning before. I usually just think of it as a bright, curly mess. But the way he’s looking at me makes me think he actually means it.
“Sir.” The EMT clears his throat. “We need to staunch the bleeding.”
I blink. Oh, shit. This man is insanely hot and charming…and making me forget why I’m here. “Um. I just…wanted to see if you needed any assistance.” My words are tripping over themselves.
He smirks. “Are you giving me a hand, Claire?” The way he says it makes it sound so tawdry. Like I’m offering a blowjob or something.
The EMT puts his hand on Jamison’s good arm, tugging him toward the ambulance. “Come on, sir. Let’s get you in here.”
Jamison walks with him, and I find myself stepping behind the two men, drawn to Jamison’s presence in a way I’ve never been to anyone before. He glances at me over his shoulder. “Come with me to the ER. I think I’m going to need you after all.”
I smooth my face. I know he’s flirting, but maybe going to the hospital gives me a chance to talk to him and see if we can help. Jamison has opened the door for me, after all, by inviting me.
Even George can’t argue with that.
Plus, I can’t help it. This man is ridiculously smoking hot. The tattoos, the mussed hair, the gleam of sweat on his skin…he’s intoxicating. I can pretend all I want that this is just business, but the truth is, I want to be near him. It’s a raw, carnal reaction I’m having to him. If only to look at that body some more, it’s worth it.
“Okay, I’ll follow you to the hospital,” I tell him.
“You can follow me anywhere,” he retorts smoothly as he’s shuffled into the ambulance.
My face is on fire. I’ve never been flirted with this way before. How the hell am I supposed to handle it?
I scoot back to my car and follow the ambulance. As I drive, I say lots of positive things to booster myself. No doubt this kind of thing happens to folks in my profession from time to time—I mean, I’m decent-looking, but not drop-dead stunning. But still, it’s a good chance for me to practice legal competence in an unusual situation.
He’s probably just messing with me, anyway. Best to not give away my physical attraction to him. For all I know, he and the EMT are laughing the whole way to the hospital about how he flirted a little with the nerdy ambulance chaser chick and made her think for a minute that she was attractive.
The thought dampens me, embarrasses me; with that, I’m able to shake off the lingering arousal I feel and snap back into the business zone. This is just me trying to suss out a client, that’s all. I’ll keep chanting that in my head until I believe it.
I pull up into the guest parking lot for the ER and smooth my hair, remind myself to focus, then get out of my car. As I walk in, I can see Jamison’s being shuttled in a wheelchair to the ER entrance. When he sees me, he gives me a brief nod.
“Come on, you’re with me,” he says, as a nurse escorts him into the hospital.
I follow them into the ER. Jamison is wheeled into his own private room, and the nurse gets him settled and checks his vitals. The whole time, he sits on the bed, cool as a cucumber, like he’s just chilling at home and not oozing blood down his arm from a gaping wound. It’s insane.
“Just sit tight. The doctor will be in here shortly,” she tells him as she puts a band around his wrist, then presses a s
terile pad to his shoulder, taping it in place. She exits the room, shutting the curtain behind her.
Leaving us alone.
I stand awkwardly right inside the room, careful to maintain professional distance from him, and clear my throat. “So, um, Mr. Beckett. Would you like to talk about what happened to you today? I’d like to take notes and see how we can help.” I dig into my bag to find my notebook and a pen.
He shifts on the bed and shoots a meaningful glance to the chair beside him. “I can’t hear you from so far away. Why don’t you come a little closer?”
This guy is way too charming for his own good. I bite my lower lip and walk toward him, feeling like the fly to his spider.
“Don’t be scared, Red,” he teases me, making an obvious comment about my flaming hair color. “I won’t bite. I’m injured, remember?”
“Somehow I doubt that kind of thing would stop you,” I mumble, then prop my notebook on my lap as I sit down. “Okay. Can I get your step-by-step account of the situation? What happened that caused the injury to your shoulder? Take me through it from the very beginning.”
“Red—” he begins.
“Claire,” I interrupt, trying not to look at him. Just the way he says it—Red—has the feeling of shared intimacy. As if he knows more than just my name, but something private and personal about me.
And I can smell the heat pouring from his body. His long legs are stretched out on the bed, encased in form-fitting jeans, and his abs are ridiculously perfect. I can see every damn ripple of muscle. I bet he’d feel and taste amazing.
I shake off the wicked thought.
“Claire, are you an attorney?” he asks.
“I will be soon,” I reply smoothly. “I’m Attorney George Wheeling’s assistant for now, though. He sent me here to talk to you.” I try my best to sound like I’m in charge and have some vestige of authority, which is total bullshit. But Jamison doesn’t know that. I can fake my way through this.
“So…what do you do as his assistant, other than run around and try to drum up injured clients on the way to the hospital?” he asks.
My stomach falls. I stand, trying to pretend his insult—which was far too accurate--didn’t bother me. “I can see where this is going. And you’re clearly not interested in our services.”
“I’m interested in your services,” he says, the tone intentional. “Very interested, Red.”
I need to get out of here. I’m way too attracted to this man who’s nothing like my type…and who’s super dismissive of my job on top of it. He’s clearly a bad boy, a total flirt, who doesn’t take anything seriously. But this is my job, and like it or not, I’m doing the best I can at it. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“You’re seriously leaving? That’s dereliction of duty.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not even close.”
“I’ll discuss my case, Red. Promise. Just stick around a minute.”
I shake my head, not sure what to do. Part of me wants nothing more than to play this game with him, even though I know how wrong it would be. The other part of me thinks I need to leave. Now. Before something happens that I regret. What that might be, I’m not sure, but my stomach is tight and my breath is uneven every time I meet his gaze.
“You’ve got two minutes to tell me what happened,” I say to him, finally. The professionalism in my voice surprises even me.
He draws in a breath and then gives a little shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal. Just a minor misunderstanding.”
I raise a brow. “Well, I’d hate to see what you’d look like after a major misunderstanding.”
I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. It’s so easy to see he’s done this kind of thing before. Gotten into a scrape of one kind or another, lied to the police and anyone else he needs to lie to, and all of it just to get out of trouble.
Every guy at Outlaws was raggedy from the fight they had. But if he doesn’t want to sue, there isn’t anything else I can do. I sigh and close my notebook, putting it back in my purse. “Thank you for your honesty, Jamison. But why did you have me come all the way to the hospital if you weren’t interested in our business?” I find myself asking.
Before he can say anything in reply, the curtain is drawn to the side, and an older gray-haired woman with a stethoscope around her neck and a white lab jacket walks in. “Hello, folks. I’m Dr. Sawyer.” She goes through the whole rigmarole to confirm Jamison’s identity, checking the info he tells her against his wrist band. “Okay, Mr. Beckett. Let me see what we’ve got going on here.” She peels off the sterile pad from his shoulder and pokes around. The whole time, he just looks blithely ahead like nothing is happening. The man is pretty much invincible.
“Ah, got a good one here,” she murmurs. “This is gonna need a few stitches, that’s for sure. The good news is, I don’t see any likely nerve damage. Let me get prepped to stitch you up, and we’ll get you out of here in no time.”
Jamison shoots me a side look. “I might need you to hold my hand, Red.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re insane.”
But for some strange reason, I haven’t quite been able to convince my legs to walk me out of this room and away from Jamison Beckett. I know that I should leave, I know that we have no business with one another.
And yet here I am. Watching. As if I’m hypnotized.
The doctor finishes laying everything out on the tray and scrubbing up. She disinfects his wound, numbs the spot, and begins to stitch him up.
The whole time, Jamison keeps his eyes locked on me. He doesn’t flinch once. “So, tell me more about yourself,” he says. “What do you do when you’re not chasing ambulances?”
“What do you do when you’re not trashing local bars?” I retort.
Jamison’s jaw pulses. I’m not sure if he’s annoyed at my joke, or if he finally felt some actual pain as the doctor stitched him up. “I don’t trash bars,” he says. “That was a business meeting.”
“Seems like your meeting couldn’t have gone much worse,” I tell him. “Unless you consider instigating a riot the pinnacle of success.”
The doc laughs under her breath but continues stitching him up.
“Maybe I should’ve brought you along, Red. They’d have been too busy staring at those gorgeous lips of yours to give me any trouble.” His gaze drops to my lips, and my heart gives a hard kick against my ribs.
Holy hell, the heat in his eyes could set me on fire. My entire body is reacting way inappropriately. We’re in a damn hospital, and he’s turning me on. This is totally unlike me.
“I think you need to take a business class or two. Lips are usually the last line of defense in a civil matter.” I’m trying to stay professional, but somehow I speak the words in a tone huskier than I mean. I lick my lips and fight back the waves of arousal hitting me.
“Maybe I need private lessons.”
The doctor clears her throat and chuckles, giving a wry smile. “Well, you’ve been one of my more interesting patients today.”
My cheeks burn as I realize this doctor’s been witness to my unraveling, as I’ve allowed myself to get caught up in Jamison Beckett’s double entendre and sexual innuendo.
What was I thinking? I should have steered clear of him back at the bar when I had the chance.
She clips the final stitch and then covers the wound with a fresh bandage, taping it in place. She goes on to give him instructions about caring for his wound. “The nurse will be back in here with a printout for you to take home,” she adds. “If you notice any heat or stronger pain around the wound site, come back—you might have an infection. We’ll need to take care of it right away.”
“Will do, doc.”
Once she leaves, we’re left in silence again.
I tell myself to leave, but once again my feet refuse to move.
The weight of unspoken words between us grows thick and heavy.
Jamison is so, so wrong for me. He’s my total opposite—a bad boy on the wrong side of
the law, whereas I’m dedicating myself to upholding the legal system. And I can’t believe the reaction I’m having to him. The way he’s turning me on, bit by bit, with that surprisingly intelligent sense of humor, and those muscles and that steely, penetrating gaze.
I never would have believed I’d fall for the flirtations of someone like him.
I’ve seen how things can go badly between people who aren’t good for each other. Case in point, my own parents. Their divorce was a nightmare I’m still trying to recover from.
There’s no way I can let myself get involved with this man. I have no justification for tossing aside everything I know to be true just for a brief fling. Even if he would rock my world in bed, as I suspect he would.
Despite the sensible words I keep telling myself, I can’t deny how every damn cell in my body wants him badly. I haven’t had sex in such a long time…and even then, I’ve only done it a couple of times in my past with someone who didn’t know what he was doing. I’m ripe and aching right now for what must surely be an expert touch.
And I have a feeling Jamison knows the power he has over women, and knows how to use it.
I might be in bigger trouble than he is.
Jamison
Claire is intriguing as fuck. She’s innocent, pure, steadfast in her work and professional ethics. And yet I can practically smell the heat of her arousal pouring off her.
She wants me sexually, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Her body leans toward me of its own volition. Her pupils are dilated, her lips parted. Fuck, even her nipples are hard through her thin dress shirt.
My mouth is practically watering to lick their rigid tips. I bet her skin tastes amazing.
She’s nothing like me, but I want to lick her so fucking badly right now I can hardly contain myself.
I want to test how dirty I can make her be, push her limits as far as I can.
I need to see her again. Hell, I want to see her more now. She’s witty and funny and sarcastic. I like that—she can see through my bullshit but she’s still intrigued anyway, no matter how she tries to hide it behind that professional demeanor.