Let's Talk About Sext

by Evie Claire

  Owning the entire building that housed both The Guns and his apartment was a huge asset, but it barely produced enough cash for its upkeep. There were three floors of unused space he’d always planned to renovate into something. But renovating required cash. And after getting slapped with a $10,000 fine last week, cash wasn’t a commodity he had much of. Problems, it seemed, he did.

  He balled up the paper, tossed it into a growing pile on his desk, and went to join Drew and the Crüe with all those Girls.

  “Hey, boss, look at the way those legs go all the way up and make an ass out of themselves!” Drew pointed to a retro pinup calendar he’d taken the liberty of hanging near the register. Another of Drew’s eccentricities? Using random movie quotes for his own witty repartee. Brody admired said legs with a small smile, leaning against the bar and raising a hand to his chin as if contemplating a piece of priceless art.

  Yep, those legs were a masterpiece, to be sure. Voluptuously gorgeous in an old-school way, covered with fishnet stockings that ran a line right up the back of ’em. One that practically painted a road map to heaven. Why modern women insisted on being stick figures he’d never know.

  “She’s something else, Drew.” Brody admired the calendar before he plucked it off the wall. “But why would you share a woman like her?” He closed the calendar and pressed it into Drew’s chest. Despite a whining protest from the bartender, he shook his head and continued for the liquor bottles that had lured him away from work. Yes, he was being typical. Again. But why have the job and not enjoy the perks?

  Whiskey? Bourbon? Scotch? He carefully lifted each bottle. Inspected the labels and tried to decide what his mood needed. Lost in the liquor, he startled when the door brushed open and a flash of blond hair in the bar’s rear mirror caught his eye. He did a double take—just like he did every damn time he saw that shade of hair standing at about the five-foot-two mark lately. Was it her?

  He swallowed against the possibility tightening his throat and turned to find the only masterpiece he wanted to study standing in his doorway in the flesh. Memories of the previous night washed over him, taking every other care with them. While a nice pair of legs was certainly something to admire, it took a confident woman to weaken his knees. Which gave Phebe Stark the power to knock him flat on his ass.

  At the sight of her, a smile broke over Brody’s face. One that settled his racing mind and loosened the shoulders that had been set in rigid frustration since he’d opened the tax bill. How did she do that? His day had been shit. Then she walked through his door like some sort of emotional sunshine and chased his blues away. That could mean only one thing. Brody Cantrell was in trouble.

  He leaned over the bar and clasped his hands before him, welcoming her with a smile she alone could put on his face. The door closed behind her, but she didn’t walk in. She simply stood still, staring around the room, like her mind had forgotten why her body was there.

  Storm clouds rolled behind Phebe’s gray eyes. The face that fascinated Brody was drained of any semblance of emotion. He stood and checked his own smile, taking her in again.

  Phebe absently turned to her bag in search of something. She found nothing but cleared her throat and nodded her head as if an internal decision had been made.

  Brody read people for a living. Phebe’s pages were new to him, but they weren’t indecipherable. The welcome she forced into her features was fake as hell—lips curved up but not open, eyes dull as rusted pennies, shoulders falling forward. The question was, did he go along with it, let her pretend nothing was wrong and save the possible discomfort of getting real?

  Or did he dive in headfirst?

  “What’s wrong?” The words were out of his mouth without a second’s hesitation. He was around to the patrons’ side of the bar before she lowered the bag strap from her shoulder. It slid into her hand and she turned to him with a lacquered-on smile he wasn’t going to let her get away with. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

  Phebe bit her lip. The smile faded, and her mouth quivered the tiniest bit. She sucked more of her lip into her mouth to stop the trembling and looked up at Brody. Her eyes said it all. His heart gave a hard, low beat. Something was definitely wrong. Wrong enough to make Phebe need someone. And he was the someone she’d chosen.

  “Right,” he said, and put an arm around her shoulder, leading her farther into the bar. But he didn’t steer her to a stool. Instead he went for the door that led to his office and a small patio patrons never saw. “Drew, will you bring us the bottle of Hendrick’s? We’ll be on the patio.”

  “Shhh…sure.” The entire scene had unfolded so quickly, Drew still stood behind the bar with his pinup girls pressed to his chest, mouth and mind agog.

  In the darkened hallway, Phebe leaned into him as they walked. Maybe because she couldn’t see where they were going. Or maybe it was something more. The extra pressure on his side connected with the southernmost tip in the pit of his stomach. It was where he felt the kind of emotions you couldn’t fake. Yep, she was definitely trouble.

  The hallway ended in a small raised patio that had a decent enough view of Piedmont Park a block away, if you knew the right buildings to look between. For downtown Atlanta, the building was surprisingly secluded, thanks to the skyscrapers that grew around it. It was back here that Brody kept a few potted herbs to infuse liquor. He was no gardener, but mint and rosemary could grow in concrete. When their scent greeted him, instead of the usual stale city smells, he devoured it. Feeling Phebe’s shoulders rise with an equally deep breath hit him in that low spot again. He pulled his arm away, knowing if he continued to touch her, and she continued to touch him like that, he wasn’t going to be any help for her current situation at all. He needed to get it together.

  Phebe stepped away and went for the potted plants, plucking a mint leaf and rolling it between her fingers, really releasing the aroma.

  “Mint reminds me of my mom,” she said, lifting it to her nose. When she pulled it away, the smile on her face was odd, but so arresting Brody smiled with her.

  “Does she grow mint?” he asked.

  “No. She always chewed Wrigley’s Spearmint gum.” Phebe looked at the crushed leaf in her hand and the smile faded. “To cover the vodka on her breath…before she got sober.” She opened her palm, twisted her wrist, and the leaf fell to the ground. Silently, she turned away and stalked to the far end of the patio. She remained quiet for a while, and Brody let her. Because, holy hell, what had he just walked into?

  Most men would run from a comment like that. Brody wanted only to pull her closer. To chase away the demon that had spawned such a revelation. But he knew better. Because even if she appeared more vulnerably beautiful to him in the afternoon light than she ever had before, it wasn’t a white knight Phebe Stark needed. It was a friend. An ear. And something about her made something in him want to be exactly that.

  So, alcoholism ran in her family, too. Was this what made her feel so familiar? It wasn’t unusual. Lots of families had that skeleton in the closet. But her bringing it up was.

  A soft breeze lifted her scent, mixed with the mint, off her skin. When it hit Brody, what little of him he held together came hopelessly undone. He dragged a hand through his hair and down his beard, trying to distract himself and calm the hormones that were clogging his brain. If she noticed the effect she had on him, she didn’t let on. Instead, she offered the tiniest of smiles.

  “My mom used alcohol as a substitute for my dad when he left us. She was pretty worthless.”

  “I don’t think the woman responsible for birthing you into this world could ever be considered totally worthless.” Brody shook his head and offered a sideways smile.

  “Maybe.” Phebe shrugged and looked away again, back to the crumpled mint leaf on the patio floor. Then slowly, she nodded. “Refusing to wind up just like her is definitely a motivating factor in my life.” She paused, gaze still on the
mint, and then frowned. “Whew, it’s humid out here.” Her fingers strayed to her chest, loosening a single blouse button. Brody forced his eyes to a nearby building and began counting the bricks. If he saw even the top teasing curve of her tit, he’d have to excuse himself to go whack it. “I guess there are worse things in life than an alcoholic mother, huh?” Phebe tried to make light of her revelation, tried to laugh it off, but Brody knew better. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it. Fair enough. Brody wouldn’t prod. But, he also wouldn’t forget.

  The door swung wide, coming to a rest against the building with an echoing metal thwack. “Here you go, boss.” Drew stood in the doorway with the bottle of Hendrick’s, two glasses of ice, and some lime slices. His timing was everything. Brody took a deep breath and stepped away from Phebe. Not that he particularly wanted to, but sporting midafternoon wood over your crush was a total rookie move.

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  “Boss?” Phebe’s confusion over the title pulled her brows toward her nose. If Brody hadn’t been so embarrassed by the revelation, he would’ve thought it cute. “You manage this place?”

  “He owns it,” Drew answered before Brody could. “And the building.” Drew looked admiringly at the four stories of weathered brick that rose above them. Phebe’s eyes followed. The building was impressive for its age.

  Her gaze then fell to Brody, so full of questions he guessed she didn’t know where to start.

  “Thank you, Drew. I’ll be here if you need anything.” Brody’s tone made it clear he wasn’t pleased with Drew spilling the beans. Honestly, he was a little embarrassed to own such an asset in this market and have done so little with it.

  “You own the building.” It was a statement, not a question, like the new information was finding its appropriate folder in her mental file cabinet. She placed a hand on the brick, stroking the texture in a loving way. “You’re the holdout that drove Burton Holiday insane.” She looked up at the wavy, handblown glass and artfully framed windows again, shaking her head as she admired their beauty. Another small smile tugged at her lips. For whatever reason, Phebe’s mood was lifting.

  “Yeah. Does that make us enemies?”

  “Hardly!” Phebe fired back with appreciation. “I know how much cash we—they—threw at you to sell. Good for you for sticking to your guns.” She paused, shot a sideways look in his direction and giggled. “No pun intended.”

  “I knew BHI would tear it down. This bar was everything to my uncle. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “I would never tear down a beauty like this.” Phebe dropped her bag on a small table and took off her suit jacket. With all its cement, downtown Atlanta was a sauna by this time of day.

  “Isn’t that your motto? Slash and burn and build it bigger?”

  Phebe cut a hard look down the block at the looming glass behemoth that was BHI casting a shadow over them. She tossed her jacket haphazardly over a chair and reached for the Hendrick’s. Not bothering with ice or a glass, she turned the bottle up and took two gulps, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and then opted for a glass. When it was sufficiently full, she selected a lime, squeezed it in, and stirred with a finger.

  Brody didn’t exactly know Phebe, but he knew her enough to know this was out of character. And if he were a betting man, he would say it had nothing to do with their misadventures last night and everything to do with work. Phebe didn’t say a word, but walked to the patio ledge and looked between the buildings to the park. Knowing when to stay silent, he took time to fix his own gin. The first sip was everything. To hell with typical.

  “I just got fired.” The words fell from Phebe’s mouth onto the worn brick and flopped around like a dying fish. Neither one of them knew what to say to put it out of its misery. Brody was too stunned, and Phebe had obviously never uttered those four words before. She took in a ragged breath and massaged her temple with a fingertip.

  “Can I ask why?” Brody finally offered.

  “Because I accepted a better job from a competitor, and my boss is an asshole who used it as an excuse to fire me.”

  Brody’s low, soft whistle pealed into the warm afternoon air. “Asshole,” he finally said, but didn’t offer an apology like most people would. That wasn’t what she needed. She needed to talk. He needed to listen.

  “He’s not even going to let me stay and close the deal I’ve spent the last six months working on. Although I am this close.” Phebe raised her thumb and index finger, which were almost touching. She looked at them, not Brody. “I accepted the new job on the condition Stewart Capital allow me time to finish my current project’s approvals. Anybody could build it after that. Thought I was doing BHI a huge favor. But, nope, nothing, nada. Pack your shit and get out. That’s all he had for me.”

  “Stewart Capital?” Brody asked. Every true local left in the city knew Stewart Capital. Had it not been for their vast revitalization of the city’s crime-infested boroughs, the Olympics never would have come to Georgia. Had it not been for the Olympics, and the infrastructure that came with it, Atlanta wouldn’t be the empire city of the South.

  “Stewart Capital.” Phebe nodded. “They’ve hired me as chief operations officer for the entire southeast.”

  Brody crossed his arms over his chest and gave another low whistle. Phebe was bound for the stratosphere of commercial real estate, and her asshole boss obviously couldn’t stand the thought.

  Silence gaped between them, but neither moved to fill it. A comfort level was establishing itself. Brody could feel it. It was the kind of comfort that made silence a good thing. That was rare.

  Phebe breathed a heavy laugh and turned to sit on the ledge that faced him, unbuttoning her blouse farther. Brody choked trying to cover an appreciative groan and diverted his gaze before he mentally finished the job himself. Atlanta. Braves. Baseball. Freddie. Freeman. Base. Ball. Bat. Run.

  “He doesn’t know it, but I recorded the entire conversation.” Phebe’s eyes danced. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I play it back for him…in court.” Phebe took a sip of gin and rested the glass on her lips, thinking about what she’d just done. Then she burst out in a reckless peal of laughter. “I’ve also talked to my attorney. Steve can’t be allowed to treat anyone else the way he’s treated me.”

  “You’re going to sue?”

  Phebe looked into her glass, the smile fading, and gave a small shrug.

  “No. I’m going to speak up for the employees whose voice may not be as loud as mine. If he’s doing it to me, he either is or will do it to someone else. I can’t let that happen. Not now.”

  “Good for you.”

  Phebe nodded and then shook her head like she didn’t want the praise. “The good news is, I now have a month off between jobs. So I can spend every waking hour giving him what he deserves like I always wanted to.”

  “Wow, Phebe. I’m really happy for you. About the new job, I mean.” Metal chair legs scraped against brick when he stood. He walked over to her, tapped his glass against hers in celebration, and leaned a knee on the brick wall beside her.

  “And to think this morning, I was certain you would be my biggest distraction today.” Phebe didn’t look up when she spoke, knowing exactly what her comment would do to him. Maybe she had been paying more attention than he’d thought. Instead, she swirled the ice in her glass and stared at it. Brody wasn’t as good a poker player. His entire body reacted to her comment, jerking in one of those uncontrollable spasms you try desperately to hide, but never can. Fuck it, why try? He liked her. And she obviously liked him.

  He sat his gin on the ledge, then reached down and gently took her wrist. Pulling her to her feet, he took her glass and set it by his. Their fingers instinctively laced together. Hers cool and wet, soft and delicate. His trembling slightly and damp for an entirely different reason. It was the first time they had really touched, yet it
felt like they’d done it for years. Pulling her against him, he brushed a hair off her glossed lips and looked down into her gray eyes. The storm clouds had passed, but the sunshine hadn’t yet returned.

  Phebe was arguably the strongest, most confident woman he’d ever met. She didn’t let her walls down with many, if any, he bet. Yet here she was, baring everything to him in the most unguarded way. Strong as she was, she was wounded. It radiated from her and seeped into his every pore. The steely determination that usually burned through her was missing—muted, no doubt, by the day’s massive upheaval. In that moment, she needed someone else to take charge. If he was reading her right, she wanted it to be him.

  All he wanted was to kiss her.

  With the sinking sun painting the buildings in soft, sideways rays, it was a perfect moment for such things. But he didn’t kiss her. Using a woman’s vulnerable emotional state to further a connection wasn’t his style. She needed a shoulder right now, not a tongue down her throat.

  “Hmmm…” he said, and wrapped her in the kind of bear hug that would chase the bad things away. “I’ll have to up my game and try again tomorrow.”

  Phebe turned in to him, burying her face in his chest. She giggled, her breath hot against the thin fabric stretched over his pec muscles. The sensation did crazy things to that spot down low in his stomach again. He didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

  Her arms slipped around his sides, squeezing him back. She turned her head and settled a cheek into the nook in the center of his chest. It wasn’t until she was nestled there that he realized how potentially awkward the gesture could’ve been. Considering how briefly they’d known each other. But it wasn’t. It was actually perfect.

  “You own this building,” she said again, like it wasn’t a truth she’d fully accepted. “All by yourself?”