Текст книги "Screwed"

Автор книги: Kendall Ryan

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter Twelve

Emery

 

As the weeks pass and my bar exam looms closer, I ramp up my studying. But I still find spare hours here and there to spend with Hayden. He fully lives up to his promise to show me around the city. We explore not only the typical tourist stuff, like the Walk of Fame and the La Brea tar pits, but all the hidden gems that he’s learned about from his years in Los Angeles. My earlier anxieties soon melt away, leaving me upbeat when I’m around him and optimistic when I’m away. Everything has turned out fine; this friendship is totally working. I’m glad I didn’t listen to Roxy after all.

Early one Wednesday, when all the law staff file into the conference room for our weekly meeting, Mr. Pratt is already standing at the head of the table. He starts strolling around like he’s King Arthur surveying his knights. “I want to thank you for all your hard work these past two months. We met not only a tough deadline, but the high standards of quality that Walker, Price, and Pratt is known for. We have a reputation among the best corporate law firms, and I can honestly say that you’ve lived up to it . . .”

He blathers on for a few more minutes in that vein. Even though his speech is more than a little corny, pride surges warm in my chest, knowing I played a role in helping. This merger was my first real case. I’m actually doing law, I think with a thrum of excitement. I’m practically a bona fide lawyer already. Booyah.

Mr. Pratt pauses beside my seat. “In fact, our client is so pleased with our work, they’ve invited us to their annual company get-together in Omaha. We fly in next Monday afternoon, stay at the luxury hotel they’ve booked, and fly back first thing on Thursday morning.” He speaks over the burst of muttering among the other lawyers in the room. “There’s a few loose ends to tie up—some business is best done in person, as I’m sure you all know. But primarily, we’re celebrating a job well done. All expenses paid. You can even bring a guest.”

He plunks his hand down next to mine, looming over me and brushing his arm against my shoulder. He’s close enough for me to smell tuna when he exhales, and my gag reflex kicks in like a motherfucker. I just barely keep down my latte.

Everything about this moment is so disturbing. It’s not even ten in the morning—why the hell does he have fish breath? I wonder if I can get away with “accidentally” rolling my chair over his foot. Even if he doesn’t back off, I’d love to see those spit-polished wingtips scuffed.

“And since you’ve been such a valuable pinch hitter, Emery, that invitation includes you.” He winks at me with a crooked smirk. Oh, barf. “I look forward to spending some time together outside the office. Getting to know each other in a more intimate setting.”

My stomach yanks itself inside out. Three nights alone in a hotel with Larry The Creeper? In a strange city over a thousand miles from anywhere I know, anywhere I can easily bail out to? Fuck that noise doesn’t even begin to cover it. There isn’t a swear word in the English language strong enough to capture the sheer depths of my “nope.”

“Um . . .” It’s hard to think over the screaming of my fight-or-flight instincts. Life would be so much easier if I could just knee him in the balls and run out of the room. “You know, I wish I could, but I don’t think I can go. I need to study for the bar, and there’s the other cases we’ve put off while working on this merger . . .”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll look bad if you don’t come. You’re a member of our team, after all. And I’ve already RSVP’d for eight people.”

Somehow I think he’s more concerned about his boner’s feelings than the client’s. The client probably doesn’t even know I exist. But I can’t argue with my boss about how they would hypothetically react. He would just insist that he knows them better than I do, which is true. Whatever excuse I come up with, he’ll just shoot it down—or skip straight to pulling rank on me. He’s clearly hell-bent on trapping me in an Omaha hotel with him.

I don’t think he’d go so far as to try anything, but you never know with a dirty old man like that. And even in the best-case scenario, I’d have to put up with his disgusting come-ons and wandering hands for three nights straight. I might jump off the damn hotel roof.

Think, Emery, think. My eyes dart wildly around the room. The other lawyers are muttering about the arrangements for this impromptu “vacation,” and I hear a couple of them mention bringing their wives. That’s it—I just need a buffer. Someone to keep Mr. Pratt from thinking that we’ll spend even a single minute alone together.

“In that case, I guess I can spare the time.” I look up to give Mr. Pratt a plastic smile. “My boyfriend will be so excited. He’s a big Mavericks fan.” I give Mom a silent thank-you for her obsession with college football; all the sports trivia I absorbed in childhood has helped me bullshit annoying men before, and this won’t be the last time.

“Your boyfriend?” It’s unbelievably satisfying to watch Mr. Pratt’s face fall and crash into a million pieces. “Ah . . . yes, of course he’s welcome.”

I mentally pump my fist. After telling us that we can bring guests, even the master lawyer can’t talk his way back out of this one.

But I can’t savor my victory for long. Now I have to figure out how to talk Hayden into flying halfway across America to sit around with stuffy corporate types in an endless cornfield. We’ve started to become pretty good friends by now, but abandoning his responsibilities for half a week to play bodyguard is a huge favor.

And will this make things weird between us? Will Hayden think I’m asking for more than just a travel buddy? Even if we aren’t expected to share a room, God forbid, we’ll still be isolated in kind of an intimate way. The mere situation may put ideas into his head.

Hell, the party atmosphere and unlimited free drinks may go to my head. I’ve accepted that our sexual tension is both here to stay and best left unresolved. I don’t want to do anything stupid to upset the status quo. Yet there’s no denying that the lack of orgasms is really starting to piss me off. I need things stuck in places, things licked and sucked that aren’t polite to mention in mixed company.

The staff meeting breaks up as everyone heads back to their desks or downstairs for lunch. I grab my brown paper sack—falafel pita with hummus and Bermuda onion today, yum, yum—and make a beeline for the reception desk. Eating with Trina will help preserve my sanity.

The first thing she says to me once we sit down for lunch is, “You look like someone just kidnapped your dog.”

“I don’t have time for this elbow-rubbing crap,” I moan between bites. “The bar exam is in less than three weeks. I need to focus on studying. But does anybody give a damn?”

“I feel your pain, babe.” Trina sips her lemonade. Her fingernails are painted forest green this week. “My certification is also coming up fast. Like the label on car mirrors . . . Panic May Be Closer Than It Appears.”

“What’s your anti-Larry strategy for this trip?” I ask. My joking tone rings a little hollow, even to my own ears. “Bestow your hallowed secrets upon me, mighty Pervert Whisperer.”

She shrugs with a smile that’s half amused and half pitying. “I wasn’t invited, so I don’t have to deal with him at all. The perks of being a lowly paper monkey.”

I chew and swallow an extra-smelly bite of my pita. My breath is going to be horrendous after this. Perfect. “You know, I still don’t get it. You should be a rising star at some firm by now. I don’t understand why you’re a legal secretary in the first place, and paralegal seems like kind of a low bar to aim for. You’re smarter and more diligent than half the associates here.”

Trina snorts, not unkindly. “What, you think people only take assistant-type jobs because they’re too stupid for law school? I’ve spent two years watching everyone at this firm run around like chickens with their heads cut off. No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“So you don’t like law? Then why work in the field at all?”

“I didn’t say that. I think law is interesting. But it’s just my living, not my life, you know? Maybe I could hack it as a lawyer. If I did, I’d sure make more money. But the ulcers and marathon hours aren’t worth it to me. Walker and Price probably see me more often than they see their own wives, and I think that’s fucking sad.”

I ponder as I slowly chew my latest mouthful. So . . . which is it? Does she like law or not? I can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s saying. If law interests her, then why not go whole hog? And if she doesn’t want to go whole hog, then why bother at all? Why work in a career that doesn’t fully capture your heart? Either you love something or you can live without it.

Mistaking my furrowed brow for hurt feelings, Trina hurries to add, “I mean . . . if you want the prestige, or the money, or you just love sweating over contracts from dawn ’til dusk, more power to you. But I guess I’m just not an ambitious type. I’m not interested in climbing any corporate ladders. All I care about is having enough money to do what I want in the other fifteen hours of the day.” She pauses to glance around in case Mr. Pratt is lurking nearby. “And finding another job with a normal boss. So I’m making myself more marketable.”

I make a thoughtful noise; even if my mouth weren’t full of falafel, I wouldn’t be sure how to respond. I guess I can see where she’s coming from. She’s satisfied with her life as it stands now, so she goes with its flow. It’s still hard to imagine life from her perspective, though. I have so much to do before I reach that point of contented stability: pass the bar exam, officially join a firm, get promoted until I earn enough for both Mom and myself.

And even then, I don’t think anything could ever come before my career. I’m the opposite of Trina—law is my life, not just my living. It’s part of who I am. You could bury me in work and I’d beg for more. Sick, I know.

Neither of us is right or wrong; we’re just different people with different priorities. Still, that tiny insight into Trina’s mind makes me think. She was talking about work, not relationships, but maybe I can apply a little of her attitude toward my situation with Hayden. Heh . . . talk about people who take life one step at a time.

Maybe I don’t need a master plan for every single thing. Maybe it’s okay to play our friendship by ear and stop sweating the small stuff. I want Hayden’s help, so I’ll ask him for it. Boom. Simple as that. The worst that can happen is he says no and I have to figure out another solution to deal with Mr. Grabby Hands on my own.

But it will probably still help if I butter him up first. I should at least pay a visit to his place—asking favors usually goes over better in person. Especially if I bring some good beer. And there’s no possibility of him ignoring me and pretending he just didn’t see my text.

• • •

That night after work, I knock on Hayden’s door with a six-pack of chilled microbrew. He lets me in, making a comment about how I’m turning out to be the perfect friend, bringing cold beer to his place and all.

I wander inside, glancing around with curiosity while he puts the beer in the fridge. Hayden’s condo looks like a typical rich-boy bachelor pad with lots of sleek gadgets, black leather furniture, and pop-art prints on the walls. But it’s cleaner and neater than I expected.

When an older lady bustles out of his bedroom carrying a basket heaping with dirty laundry, I realize why the place looks so nice. This flower-aproned woman must be Hayden’s housekeeper. She looks around Mom’s age and she’s just as energetic, but that’s where the similarities end. Where my mother is short and stout—“built like a brick shithouse,” as she would put it—the housekeeper is almost as wispy as her cloud of dyed black hair.

Hayden turns to follow my gaze. “Oh my God, Dottie, don’t lift that heavy crap. I can wash my own clothes when I’m home.”

“But you have a guest,” she protests. Her voice is strident and reedy, with what may be a faint Southern twang—another point of contrast to Mom’s low, drawling tones. “You can’t run ’round with chores and leave your lady friend to sit. It’s rude.”

I try to say that I don’t mind, but neither of them pay any attention.

“Then I’ll do laundry after she leaves,” Hayden replies. “Why don’t you take a break and put your feet up? You’ve been here working all day.” He points to the kitchen. “You want to have a beer with us?”

“Well, if you insist . . . just for a moment. And water is fine.” She sets his laundry down by the living room doorway and perches on the edge of the armchair like a restless bird.

My lips quirk; it’s endearing to see Hayden fuss over her, as if she were family instead of his employee.

He retrieves a bottle of water and two beers from the fridge and I focus again on the reason why I came here. Despite my determination, I feel a little squirm of nervousness. He probably isn’t going to like my Omaha plan, and there’s only so much I can say to persuade him before things devolve into begging and awkward silence.

As Hayden hands me my opened beer, I pluck up my courage and say brightly, “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

He gives me a weird look. “That depends on what it is.”

Shit, he’s already suspicious. I guess I knew he wasn’t stupid. And I’m probably not the first woman to try to sweet-talk him into trouble. Nothing to do now but dive right in.

“I have a work thing in Omaha next week,” I start. “We’ll be staying at a hotel for two nights, and I’m sure my gross boss is going to pester me for the entire trip.” I take a deep breath. “Will you come with me as my shield? Just so I don’t have to be alone with him?”

His brow is furrowed. “Omaha. As in, Nebraska.”

“Pretty please? You’re the only friend I can ask. If I brought a woman, he’d just perv all over her too.” Hopefully Hayden’s loyalty to me wins out over his desire to stay out of this mess. “Come on . . . it’s basically one giant party. All the free steak and whiskey you can handle.”

“I don’t know,” he says with mock thoughtfulness. “I can handle a lot when it comes to meat and liquor.”

“Well, that’ll be their problem, won’t it? They promised unlimited refreshments.” I smile sweetly.

“Oh, come on,” Dottie chimes in. I wasn’t even aware she was listening. “A beautiful girl invites you on vacation, what’s there to think about?”

While it’s not exactly a vacation, and I’m definitely not one of Hayden’s latest conquests looking for some fun between the sheets, Dottie’s enthusiasm is cute. Lies. All lies. I would bounce on that pogo stick for hours.

Hayden rubs his chin, then takes out his phone. “Let me check my calendar. I might have to move some appointments around. When does the flight leave?”

I give him all the travel details, sternly telling myself not to get my hopes up, and sit on the couch to wait while he taps at his phone. Dottie has gotten to her feet again, and I politely turn down her insistent offers to fix me something to eat.

Eventually Hayden puts down the phone and gives me a reassuring smile. “There . . . all taken care of. I’ll come with you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say on a relieved breath, really meaning it. “Thank you so much.”

“Hey, no problem. I’m happy to help out a friend.” He chuckles. “The free food and booze is just a bonus.”

Smiling back at Hayden, I can feel my whole body relax. Of course he would come through for me. Why was I freaking out about this earlier? I never should have worried about where our friendship stands or where it might go. Whatever it is we have, it doesn’t have to be anything in particular. It can just exist—in whatever way feels right.

“You have plans for dinner?” he asks, capturing my attention again with his sweet charm and megawatt smile.

God, the things this man does to me without having any awareness. I’m surprised I haven’t melted into a horny, needy puddle yet.

“No, but I need to crank through some serious studying tonight. I’ll probably just order a pizza or something.”

He smirks at me. “I’ve seen the Gio’s delivery driver here three times this week. Aren’t you sick of pizza yet?”

Rolling my eyes, I take another sip of my beer. “What are you, the carbohydrate police? Can’t a girl enjoy a veggie pizza three times a week?”

“Listen.” He stands, rising to his full height above me. “I’m going to cook. You’ve gotta eat. It’s a no-brainer. Go get your books or whatever, and I’ll start whipping us up something.”

“You cook?”

He shrugs. “On occasion.”

Knowing that it would be in poor taste to argue with him just when he’s cleared his calendar and agreed to come to Omaha with me, I comply, scurrying down the stairs to grab my laptop and notebook. I doubt I’ll get much studying done, but he’s right about me needing to eat.

When I come back, three distinct things have changed. One—Dottie has left for the day. Two—there’s soft jazz music playing in the background. Three—Hayden’s tight ass looks damn good in the pair of dark jeans he’s wearing. Well, maybe that hasn’t changed, I just can fully appreciate it since he’s stationed himself at the kitchen island. He’s just finishing a phone call, complete with an I love you at the end.

Curiosity tempting me, I wander into the kitchen. “Who was that?” I ask.

“My little sister Gracie. She wanted to tell me she got the job she interviewed for.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

His sisters were both so nice and pretty, and it’s cool how he’s close with them. You can’t be that bad of a guy and be super tight with your sisters, right? I picture myself shopping with them, having pedicure dates and sharing bottles of wine . . .

I stomp down that line of thinking as quickly as I can. Hayden and I aren’t together, so why am I planning all of this about a guy who’s supposed to be my friend?

“What are you making?” I ask, peering around his shoulder. I’m expecting little more than boxed macaroni and cheese, or maybe a can of soup, and am pleasantly surprised to see him cleaning baby cremini mushrooms.

“Mushroom risotto. And a salad on the side.”

“Hmm.” I don’t know quite what else to say. Did he really just have all the ingredients for a vegetarian dinner just lying around, or did he plan this?

“Wash that cucumber for me, would you?” He tilts his chin to the sink, where a colander waits with a large vibrant green cucumber inside.

“Sure.” I head over to the sink and begin by washing my hands, then rinse off the cucumber. Lost in my thoughts about how in the world I’m going to find time for all the studying that still needs to happen between now and the bar exam, I’m surprised when the sound of Hayden clearing his throat interrupts me.

He’s watching me intently, his eyes burning with something hot and intense. I look down at my hands and realize my movements have been a little lewd.

“I hope I’m next.” His tone is just as serious as his expression.

“You can’t call dibs on me washing your cucumber.”

“I just did.” He smirks.

“Fine. Do you like it like this?” I swirl my hand up and down the phallic vegetable, paying extra attention to my movements to purposefully torture him.

He lets out a ragged groan. “Fuck. Okay, I give up. Just please stop.”

When he reaches down to adjust himself, I can’t help my greedy eyes from following the movement. Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a ride on that love stick. My inner muscles tingle.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it had been a while,” he adds, his tone frustrated.

“It’s not like I’ve been riding the bologna pony either, but you don’t see me getting turned on by a vegetable.” I look down at the object in question. Hmm . . . the girth is nice. Ew, wait. What am I doing?

“Tell me again why doing the nasty would be a bad idea?” Hayden asks.

I force myself to focus, setting the cucumber onto the wood chopping block and starting to cut it into neat slices. “Because. You’re a man-whore jerkoff. And I’m pretty sure my vagina fell off after my last disaster of a relationship.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” He turns to me with a look of concern. “Let me check things out for you down there. You know, just to make sure you’re healthy.”

I hold up my hand, the one with the chef’s knife, and he takes an uneasy step back. “I agreed to dinner, not a vagina inspection,” I remind him. I’m flushed and too warm, and hoping he doesn’t notice the heat crawling up my neck. One of us has to be the strong one here.

“Fine, have it your way.” He sounds genuinely disappointed, even though I thought our banter was just a little lighthearted fun.

Taking a deep breath, I continue my work as I remind myself of all the reasons Hayden and I can’t go fuck like rabbits in his bed right now. Because, holy hell . . . the sight of him adjusting his hardening cock? My panties are damp and sticking to me right now. It’s fucking distracting. I inhale deeply again, trying to clear my head like we do in yoga, but this time it fails to work. What have I gotten myself into?

“Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. You can start studying if you want,” Hayden says, pulling me from my not-so-innocent thoughts.

“Sure.” I gather up my materials and plant myself at his dining room table. I’ve just opened my laptop when the sound of him humming snaps my concentration like a twig. I look at him, watching him move effortlessly around his kitchen. God, he’s adorable.

“Hey, Emery,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

He glances over at me from where he’s positioned in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something. “So your mom never remarried?” Since he met my mom, we haven’t spoken much about her, other than the obligatory she was nice type of comment he provided after.

“Nope,” I say. “After my dad passed away, she had to work three jobs just to keep us in our house. That was very important to her, but left her little time for dating. She had a few boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious.”

He nods along, continuing to stir. “Damn. Three jobs. I can see where you get your work ethic.”

“Yes, but when I was in high school I started realizing what her sacrifices were doing to her, and I made her sell the house and cut down on her work schedule. Her body couldn’t handle it anymore. After fifteen years of burning the candle at both ends, she was starting to have health problems. We moved into an apartment, and she still lives there. Keeps my room exactly the same.”

When I look up from my laptop screen, he’s grinning at me. “That’s sweet. You have a very good mom.”

“Yes, I know.” Her warning rings in my head again. The one about Hayden. Don’t put stock into what’ll never be.

Taking a deep breath, I force my gaze back to my laptop screen, losing myself in the legal terms I’m studying, where things are either black or white, right or wrong, and I immediately feel at ease.