by Sam Crescent
“What’s wrong?” I step forward, at first following my impulse to put a hand on his arm, then thinking better of it. An avalanche of expressions tumbles over his face before he finally inhales and grimaces.
“I can’t do this.” He huffs a humorless chuckle. “I’m not—equipped to—”
“To deal with Leighton? I personally thought you did a stand-up job.” I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, hoping my attempt at humor isn’t poorly timed.
“It’s not just Leighton.” He collapses into the faded recliner and drops his head of curls into his palms. “I’m not ready for this, for any of this.”
Sawyer Blake, insecure? Privileged, rich, daddy’s-boy isn’t bathing in his own arrogance? There’s an irony in it, but I can’t figure out what it is over the aching feeling in my chest. I could kick him while he’s down, twist the knife in his wounds. I could. I have every right to after the stunt he pulled with the rent money. But I don’t want to.
“You’re a good lawyer.” I bite my lip, hesitating. “And I’m beginning to suspect you might also be a good person.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Graham.” I see a slight smile between his fingers. “Do me a favor and don’t stroke my ego so much next time.”
Delicately, I perch on the arm of the recliner. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just so fragile… I thought it might need feeding.”
Finally, he lifts his face with his trademark lazy grin gracing it. There’s a wisecrack just beyond his lips; I can practically taste it. But it never comes. Instead, he just stares, his blue eyes depthless and intense and unblinking. I lean in, dragged inevitably forward by some invisible force.
Warm hands slip gently under my hair, guiding my face down to meet his. This time when I close my eyes, I know exactly what comes next. This time, there is no hesitation. His lips find mine hungrily, already slightly parted. Finally, I get to run my fingers through that mess of curls, using them as leverage to ease into Sawyer Blake’s lap. Straddling him and letting my skirt slide up, I disconnect from his lips and let him trail wet kisses down my throat, into the hollow of my collarbone, beneath my ear. A gasp escapes me as he bites, taking my earlobe between his sharp front teeth and sending a shudder up my spine.
I clutch his hair even tighter, and a low moan rumbles in his chest. Oh, he likes that. I yank again, tighter, and grind my hips into him, feeling for the first time the firmness straining his pants. With one graceful movement, he loops one arm around my waist and plants the other hand firmly on my ass. He rises effortlessly, returning his mouth to mine, tongue flicking out to trace my lower lip and coax my mouth to open to his.
Feverishly, I wriggle out of my panties and wrap my legs around him to stabilize. Just under my hips, I feel his hands fumbling with his belt. The jingling of his buckle is quickly followed by the thump of his expensive dress pants hitting the floor as he presses me up against the floor-to-ceiling windows, cold from the glass seeping into my back. I am vaguely aware of him hiking up my skirt, pinning my naked ass to the windowpane. We are completely exposed, and I don’t even care. I actually kind of like it. Let them see. Let them see Violet Graham as she truly is.
Gasping in anticipation, I drop my hips, and he slides inside me.
“Fuck,” he whispers, head thrown back. He thrusts again and again, thumping me rhythmically against the glass. But that isn’t enough.
Supporting me with one arm, he uses the other to sweep everything off his desk. There are sounds of glass breaking. Pencils and pens go flying, rolling across the carpet and making a colossal mess. Neither of us blinks an eye. In fact, I can’t take my eyes off of him as he lays me across the surface of his desk and looks down at me, eyes half-closed in a daze, hair sexily mussed. His blue eyes burn with icy fire, and I want him more than anything I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Sawyer,” I whisper, powerless.
His eyes widen, and he gnaws on his lower lip, barely restrained. He steps between my thighs and pulls my hips forward to meet his.
And then he’s inside me again.
Despite all my pretense of manners or reserve, I practically scream with pleasure. He grins, supporting himself by wrapping one hand over the edge of the desk beside my head and plunging into me again. I snatch hold of his shirt, his hair, the rolling chair—anything to keep myself anchored to him. Faster and faster, he thrusts the length of himself into me, and my breath catches in my throat. In moments, I feel my back arching against the mahogany desk, my head thrown back, and with pulsating waves that radiate from my head to my toes, I climax. Loudly.
Blake isn’t far behind, throwing himself forward one last time to collapse on my chest, sweaty, heaving, and breathless.
“How’s that,” he manages between gasps, “for a good person?”
Chapter Six
Prior to this evening, I completely understood the phrase “walk of shame”. But now? Now I can’t fathom it at all. I’m not walking in shame. I’m strutting. I’m swaggering. I am practically floating.
I screwed Sawyer Blake, in full view of any passerby who cared to look.
It’s the only thought my sex-addled brain is capable of at the moment. I screwed Sawyer Blake. I screwed Sawyer Blake. In his office. Against his window. On his desk.
It’s probably this preoccupation that makes me blind to the figure standing outside the stairwell to my apartment. It’s probably this preoccupation that allows me to miss the smell of cheap whiskey in the crisp night air. I notice, but by then, it’s too late.
“Who is he?” The hoarse voice comes from the left side of the concrete stairs leading to the front door of my building. The sound makes me jump. The man there is cloaked in shadow, mussed and hunching, but I know him all the same.
“Jason?”
He steps forward. “Just tell me which one of them you’re fucking,” he begs, swaying slightly. “I just want to know. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
My face flushes crimson.
“Don’t try and deny it,” he warns, eyeing me out of the side of his face and grinning a leering grin. “I know you, Vi. I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Jason, you need to go.” I feel myself shrinking back onto the sidewalk, wishing to blend in with the pavement. There is no one on my street. No one to hear if I scream.
He glares and takes a step forward, catching the toe of his boot on the sidewalk’s edge and tripping. He catches himself and straightens up, chuckling softly. “I knew you were cheating.” He shakes a chiding finger in my face. “I knew from the beginning.”
I finally find my voice. “I never cheated on you.”
“Bullshit!” The unsettling half-laugh is gone, and he looks furious. A dim light of decision flashes in his eyes. “And if you want to act like a cheating whore, I’m going to treat you like one.”
He swipes at me drunkenly, and I jerk backward, snapping my heel off in the sidewalk crack. Fear bubbles up in me, and I do the only thing I can think to do: I scream.
“Help! Help me! Someone, please!” I bellow at the top of my lungs, limping backward and keeping Jason a good four feet away from me. I shriek until my throat is raw, swiveling my head in any direction from which help might appear. And appear it does.
Finally, a light flicks on upstairs, quickly followed by the window being thrown open. When Ms. Patterson pokes her head and shoulders through the opening, she looks steaming mad. One look at the scene on the street, and she’s yelling.
“Jason Rosello, you get the hell away from her before I call the police. I have heard your bullshit through the wall one night too many. She’s done, asshole.” She shoots him a killing look, and he opens his mouth to speak. “I’m calling,” she announces, ducking back inside.
And in the second most beautiful moment of my night, I get to watch my ex-boyfriend take off at a run, in fear of our old lady neighbor.
****
Until the protection from abuse order comes through, and the police tell me this can be a long pro
cess, my apartment is off limits. It is only now that I realize I have no place to go. I stopped spending time with my friends months ago at Jason’s request, and I’m not exactly ready to announce to the family that the man they all thought I would marry is a stalker-y, abusive psychopath. It means nothing, I know, to fall into the trap of someone like Jason, but it makes me feel like shit. How could I not see him for who he is? How could I be this bad a judge of character?
So my last option is, while uncomfortable, my only option. This is how I find myself shifting my weight from foot to foot nervously in front of Hannah the secretary’s desk. How am I supposed to ask this? “Oh, hi, you remember me, right? The train wreck whose life you’re obsessed with? Well, it’s your lucky day! My ex-boyfriend is insane and may kill me, so I need a place to stay. What do you say?”
Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to come off the right way. I don’t even know the woman’s last name.
“So, Hannah,” I start, casually. “I was wondering what you’re doing for the next two to four weeks.”
“What?” She looks up from her keyboard, glasses resting on the tip of her nose.
“I am asking because…” I fight the urge to visibly cringe. Maybe I’ll just let Jason murder me. It’s got to be less painful than this. “You know how Jason is an asshole? Turns out, he’s, um, super assholey.”
Jesus Christ.
I smile widely, pushing on. “And because he is super assholey, I’m looking for a place to stay for a little while.”
The look on Hannah’s face leaves something to be desired. “Oh honey,” she says, but then her eyes flick upward, trained on something above my shoulder. I turn and see Sawyer, watching me with an inscrutable expression. Today he wears a navy-blue suit, jacket left unbuttoned. It’s the most formally I’ve ever seen him dressed, and I have to admit that the clothes suit him. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the top and his hair is stylishly mussed instead of messy with sweat and sex. I flush at the memory.
“I have someplace for you to stay,” he murmurs. He doesn’t bother to pretend not to stare. I don’t either. Nodding slowly, I leave Hannah’s desk behind in favor of Blake’s office. Of course, the best way to get there is the elevator.
Once the shiny double doors close, I turn to him, trying to ignore the sexual tension between us that’s so palpable that the air feels electric.
“You don’t mean—”
“I do,” he says simply.
“But … you’re my boss.”
“Not for long.”
“And we’re—I mean, we —”
“Had sex?” He looks down at me wryly, and I feel blood creeping up my neck.
“Yes.” I swallow hard, staring at me feet. The mention of it doesn’t help to dispel the desire blooming in my chest.
“So?”
“So … isn’t it a bad idea?”
“I for one think it’s a bad idea for you to stay in your apartment. And,” he points out, “I think that it’s possible we’ve already made some bad decisions together, and I rather liked it.”
I stare at him, speechless. Playfully, he takes my hands in his, smiling with unrestrained happiness. It’s different from last night—completely different. He is sweet instead of sexy, childishly joyful instead of animalistic. I loved last night, but standing here with my hands in his, I think I might love today even more.
“Move in with me,” he whispers, moving closer. “For exactly two to four weeks. I promise to be a good roommate.”
I am fully prepared to deal him a sarcastic reply, but his eyes, wide under eyebrows raised in expectation, stop me short. Examining those ocean-blue irises, all I can find is sincerity. And I might be a shitty judge of character, but I can’t argue with that look. Maybe it’s dangerous, and maybe it will lead to more bad decisions, but … I trust him.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“No sex.”
Chapter Seven
Waking up in silk sheets is a joy I have never before experienced, and it makes me feel like my cotton pajamas are rags by comparison. Blake’s penthouse has a way of making me feel like that about everything I own. The guestroom looks like a luxury hotel suite. The rest of the bedding is just as opulent as the sheets; I’m wrapped in a thick, down duvet in a charcoal gray on a California king with a wooden four-post frame stained so dark it looks black. There’s a private bathroom attached to the room, and inside, there is a jacuzzi-style bathtub complete with unburned candles and plush, bleach-white towels. To my left are massive windows overlooking the New York City skyline, and in the early dawn haze, the image doesn’t seem real.
None of this does.
How can I be jobless and lounging in a bedroom better than any apartment I’ll ever be able to afford? How can I be not only without Jason, but waiting on a restraining order to keep him out of my life forever? How can I have slept with Sawyer Blake? And how could I possibly have decided it was a good idea to not sleep with him again?
The questions keep scrolling through my consciousness, dizzying me in a pleasant sort of way. I might feel lost, but part of me thinks this is the only way to meet the real Violet Graham.
Step one? Go to my interview with Cooper, Price, and Smith. In all the excitement of the Jason situation (and the banging Sawyer Blake on his desk situation), I missed the phone call from Veronica Cooper’s secretary offering me the interview. When I called back the next day, the less rational side of me was terrified they’d rescind the offer, but she was happy to schedule me for an interview today, my first day not working for Turner and Blake.
Slipping reluctantly from the warm spot in the much-too-large bed, I stand and stretch. Despite the fact that Blake is already at work, I lock myself inside the spotless bathroom to slide into my dress. Something about being in his house makes me feel exposed even when he isn’t here.
I am leaning into the mirror, mascara wand in hand, when I hear the sounds of glass shattering from the bedroom. Heart pounding, I throw the bathroom door open. There, on the mussed bed I just crawled out of, is a glittering mess of broken glass from the pane window, but that’s not all. In the tangle of blankets and glass shards is a flopping, bloody bird.
****
“I don’t think it could have broken the window on its own.”
We are sitting in Blake’s living room, tension coloring the air.
“No, it couldn’t have,” Sawyer agrees softly, looking down at his hands. He is still dressed in his work clothes, a light gray jacket and black silk shirt which he has untucked and unbuttoned since arriving back in his penthouse. He looks tired.
“Do you think…” I swallow hard, trying not to even consider the possibility. “Do you think it could have been Jason?”
“No.” He sits up resolutely, and a thorn of annoyance pokes at me.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I know who it was.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “It was Leighton.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“After his ER trip, I thought I was being followed. Watched. And now, well, he’s going to ensure I do my job one way or the other.” His tone turns bitter as he clenches his jaw. “I want the son of a bitch gone, Vi. You have to believe me on that. But my hands are tied, and I gave them the perfect ammunition.”
“What are you talking about?” I blink slowly, trying not to smile at the fact that he just used my nickname. No romantic feelings allowed, Violet. No. Sex.
He gives me a dismayed look. “It was a threat on you,” he tells me gently. “They did their research. My bedroom isn’t hard to find. It wasn’t an accident that they broke your window. They want me to know they can hurt you, that they will hurt you, if need be. He’s got friends in high places, the bastard.” He inhales with restraint. “You’re the bird, Violet.”
A sick roiling starts up in my gut, and for a moment, I'm afraid I’m going to be sick on what must be a 10,000-dollar area rug. He’s right
. Leighton tried to cop a feel, and I retaliated, implicating Blake and blowing the whole case up. Stephen James Leighton III is not one to take such mistreatment lying down, and we were stupid not to see this coming.
I’m the bird.
Slowly, my fear converts to anger, white-hot and potent.
“What the fuck.”
I stand, wanting to break something but absolutely certain I cannot afford to smash anything within a ten-foot radius. Sawyer leans backwards, brows knit together in confusion.
“You know how sick I am of men making my life a living hell? How tired I am of letting people touch me when I don’t want to be touched? How disgusting it is to live in constant fear that one of these assholes is going to kill me because I didn’t smile at him or something?” I’m seething, my chest heaving. Blake’s eyes are growing rounder by the second.
“Don’t give him this. Don’t just lie down and let him scare us into submission. I’m done being scared. I’m done being the fucking bird.”
“Okay,” Blake says carefully, slowly. “Then what do we do?”
“We leak the story,” I snap. “The whole damn thing, from beginning to end. And when you’re questioned, you blame the paralegal who quit. They’ll interview me, you can claim a conflict of interest, and he won’t be your client anymore.”
It’s oversimplified—I can recognize that even in my agitated state—but it’s not the worst plan I’ve ever hatched.
“And when he sends his people after you, what then?” He stands so forcefully that his chair scoots back an inch or two. “If they’d tried to kill you today, you’d be dead. It was a warning. You really think he’ll be willing to play nice once we’ve leaked his darkest secrets?”
I stand up as straight as I can, step forward, and get in his face. I’m at least six inches shorter than he is, but in my anger, I feel unstoppable.
