by Lex Martin
As soon as I’m at my desk, I grab my phone to text Josh. I don’t typically text clients, but this morning he told me it’s his preferred method of communication.
The meeting with the boss went well! I’ll let you know once I hear back.
Little bubbles pop up on the screen, and then a minute later, my phone buzzes with his message.
Good to hear. As long as you promise the whole world won’t find out I’m a complete deviant.
Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart. After a moment, I add, And you’re not a deviant. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to express yourself with your body.
I wait for his response because I know he’s read my message. When he doesn’t immediately respond, a twinge of disappointment hits me.
As I look over our texts, I roll my eyes at myself. Cross my heart? Who writes that? A fifth grader?
But just as I’m setting down my phone, it rings.
My screen flashes Mr. Mansicle—my code name for him—and my heart rate kicks up into the stratosphere.
Don’t be a spaz, Evie. Just because your client is prettier than Henry Cavill doesn’t mean you have to turn into a twelve-year-old with a crush. Because there will be no crushing!
I’m pleasantly surprised by how cool and collected I sound when I answer the phone.
“Mr. Cartwright.” Wow. I like calling him that.
“Evelyn, really, please call me Josh. And thank you for the update.”
God, that voice. A shiver runs through me.
“My pleasure. By the way, I’ve been thinking about ways to ensure your privacy, which made me wonder how much personal information you had to divulge to start your blog. If you had to use your real name to start your website or anything we’d need to redo with a more veiled identity.”
“That’s a great question. I created it on Tumblr, which doesn’t require more than an email account and password, so I don’t think anything of significance could be compromised on my end.”
“Good to hear. I just wanted to double-check.”
“I appreciate that.” He clears his throat. The line is quiet and then he adds, “Listen, about this morning…”
“I hope you think our firm can meet your needs.”
“Of course. No doubt you can. But I wanted to apologize for being so forward. I probably shouldn’t have stripped out of my clothes in the middle of a coffee shop to show you my birthmark.”
Maybe not, but what a vision it was.
A stupid smile breaks out on my face, but I force my voice to be serious. “You didn’t offend me. I appreciate that you understood my need to confirm your identity. The last thing I would want is to represent someone pretending to be you.”
“My brother once pretended to be me when we were kids,” he says offhand. “And he acted like a total turd to this girl I used to like.”
How adorable is he?
I laugh. “Did you get even?”
“Of course. When he had some friends sleep over, I snuck into his room in the middle of the night and dipped his hand into a warm bucket of water.”
“You made your brother wet his pants? That’s pretty dastardly,” I tease.
“All is fair in love and war, darling, but you probably know this, being an attorney.”
I’m a little dazed with his new term of endearment, which I’m sure he meant in the same Rhett Butler way I meant dastardly. “Honestly, I try not to play dirty, but I definitely go hard.”
Go hard.
Images from his blog instantly come to mind, and all I can think about is Josh going to pound town.
He’s quiet, and then I hear a shuffle of papers. “It’s good to know I have a tiger on my side.”
Yes, and she’s purring right now.
I close my eyes. What is wrong with me? Shaking my head, I hurry to finish this conversation before I say something stupid.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear back from the partners.”
God, would I like to touch. And maybe lick.
6
Josh
“For more than a hundred and eighty years, the enterprising Cartwrights have been true leaders, taking Portland from a forested trading outpost on the Willamette River to the elegant, modern city it is now. With a tradition of excellence and public service, each successive generation of Cartwrights has contributed to its enduring legacy of orderly development, dignity, and civic-minded design.”
It’s Saturday morning. Governor Lockwood, speaking from a podium in front of a wide, red velvet ribbon fastened across the entrance to Spencer’s new high-rise building, addresses the crowd assembled outside in the misty rain.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I won’t be getting out of here anytime soon. Spencer already droned on and on about his senatorial campaign, and the governor is only getting started on her collective ass-kissing. But this is what people do at these events. I can’t hold it against her.
In a suit, overcoat, and hat, I’m more formally dressed than the rest of the North Face-wearing crowd, but since there’s a chance that my picture will end up in the media coverage of the event, I need to match the rest of the family and appear sober and proper even though I hate being in the crosshairs of the press.
Drew, on the other hand, dons the full splendor of ripped black jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, showing that he really gives no fucks and that his invitation consisted of a text from me. With a rehearsed smile on his face, he listens, likely planning a drinking game in his head based on how many times the governor says the word “enterprising.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but there’s no way in hell I’m looking at it, because it’s either registering hits on my dick blog or a call from my attorney. Not a single use for my phone is safe in public these days.
But thinking about my phone reminds me of Evelyn and her piercing gray eyes, those delicate freckles on her beautiful face, and her sweet, albeit awkward, mannerisms, which make sense. She probably doesn’t get many clients who need to confirm their identities using random body parts.
I can’t call her now, though, because the subject matter of our conversation would definitely not contribute to the enduring legacy of the Cartwrights. I don’t think anyone would consider my dick’s architectural adventures to be an elegant, modern design, or one displaying the dignity of the enterprising Cartwrights mentioned by Governor Lockwood.
I’m not building anything with my dick, except an online reputation that she will never know about.
But it’s what I’m interested in. My thing.
Ha. My thing.
My phone vibrates again in my pocket, and I realize I’m hoping it’s my new attorney.
Last night when I took pictures for my blog, I started with Sandi Sundae for inspiration, but my mind soon went to Evelyn. I’ll admit it—I jacked off thinking about how beautiful she was. Not the plastic skin of Ms. Sundae, but the tones of a real woman. I imagined the way she tilted her head and bit her lip when she thought, the way her tits looked like they were going to pop out of that blouse, and how her hair seemed long enough to wrap around my hand as I plowed into her from behi—
Shit. I’m in public. I can’t think about that or I’ll get hard. I glance over at Drew, who has an expression like he can’t believe I made him come to this, and I silently apologize for dragging him with me. I try to focus back on the ceremony. But having been here for an hour, standing in the rain, hearing speaker after speaker praise my brother for his green building, for moving the city again into a new era of design and modifying the iconic downtown skyline, blah, blah, blah, I just want to get the fuck out of here.
He’s not the only one who modifies iconic skylines.
I don’t have a choice in events like this, however. When the governor finally cuts the ribbon, I plaster on a smile and get slapped on the back by everyone, saying, “You must be so proud of your brother.” I smile and agree, but secretly I’m thinking, Which one?
“Let’s go to the after-party,” I tell Drew.
He barks
out a laugh. “That’s what we’re calling it? I thought it was going to be an incredibly dull gathering with a baby, a tiny lunch that will require you to stop by Taco Bell on the way home, and”—here he adopts the tone of Governor Lockwood—“a celebration of the next generation of enterprising Cartwrights. Who will be true leaders, unlike Joshua Cartwright, the secret pervert.”
If looks could kill. “Quit mentioning it in public. Seriously. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
“But then you would have lost the bet.”
This is true.
Walking down the street to the parking garage, Drew shakes his head. “Dude, you know you’re gonna be the elder statesman soon with all these new Cartwrights. You’ll be leading with your staff of life. Your rod of power. Your—”
I shove him into a planter box, and he laughs hysterically.
It’s a short drive from downtown to my parents’ house, which the rest of Portland knows as the Cartwright Mansion. A late 1880s Greek Revival-style estate on a hill, it’s open to the public a few days of the year.
After I moved out—for boarding school, then college and grad school—I came back and realized that the rest of Portland sees my family home much differently than I do. They see original antiques, artwork by Thomas Hill and Albert Bierstadt, and early indoor plumbing and electricity, which have been updated.
I see Drew running through the building with a baseball bat when he was thirteen, and my dad yelling at him that repairs to the columns would cost $25,000 each.
We park in the twelve-car garage, get out, saunter over to the white tent where my mother has set up microscopic food served by obsequious waiters, and I get a good look at the other guests sipping champagne and talking.
Goddamn it.
I yank Drew by the neck and pull him over to the side, next to the chocolate fountain.
“She’s here.”
“Of course she is. When’s she not around?”
I roll my eyes.
Tiffany, my ex, still has this flounce in the way she walks, like she owns the place. Even though we broke up seven months ago when she told me she just wanted to be friends—in contrast, I’d bought a ring—she still shows up often, invited by my mother, who has been best friends with her mom since childhood.
She’s this permanent fixture I can’t seem to get rid of, though I’d love to, especially once I realized she cheated on me. Her excuse? That’s what I got for working such long hours.
Worst, though, is that it still bothers me, and while I’d love nothing more than to tell her to fuck off, it’s not worth the tsunami of crap my family will spew if I upset her.
That’s right. She fucked up, but I’m in the doghouse for disturbing the almighty marriage plans our two families have had since the dawn of time.
As usual, Drew correctly reads my thoughts. “You’d think your family might get a clue that you didn’t want her around after the drunken stupor you were in when she left. That was like a month, dude. I didn’t think your liver would recover. I mean, you’re not as young as you once were.”
I reach for two glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter, hand one to Drew, and clink glasses. “Awesome. Glad you reminded me.” He laughs and takes a sip.
At least I’ve been able to avoid her at the last few family events.
I’m about to lean in to give Zannah, my sister-in-law, a kiss on the cheek when the governor strolls up, cooing at the baby. I’ve known Annabelle Lockwood my whole life, and while she seems down-to-earth, she’s here on a mission—to campaign for my brother.
I smile at Zannah, who grins and snuggles her nose into the top of the baby’s head. Drew’s always had a crush on her, so instead of being his usual schmuck self, he’s asking the new mom how she’s been sleeping.
The governor turns to me. “You must be proud of Spencer. He’s so young to have accomplished so much. And look at this baby!”
“Yep, he’s a handsome guy.”
My brother Henry walks over with his business partner. “Nice to see you, Governor Lockwood.”
“You too, boys.” Boys. They’re both on the board of Great Northern Timber Company and responsible for billions in sales. I guess when someone has known you since you were born, you’re always a boy.
When Zannah starts talking with Annabelle, Henry pulls me over to the side, excusing us. “Hey, Josh, you doing okay?”
“Sure.” I down my champagne and signal to the waiter for another glass.
“Can I ask a favor?”
“No.” Henry may be older than me by two years, but I don’t have to do everything he says.
“Seriously, I need you.”
“No.”
He rolls his eyes and hands me an invitation. I don’t even want to look at it. Not another goddamn event. I glance at it and see that it’s a birthday party at a local museum featuring a traveling exhibit of Dale Chihuly glass sculptures. “I have two tickets to this. Rebecca can’t attend, so come with me.”
“Tough. Find someone else.”
“Dude.”
I raise my eyebrows and shake my head, and Drew comes over to rescue me. “What’s this all about?”
Henry immediately responds, “My baby brother is boring.”
“That’s a known issue.” Drew grins at me conspiratorially. “But he has his moments.”
“Thanks,” I say and take another gulp of champagne.
“So you’ll go?” asks Henry. He will keep at me until I agree. God forbid I don’t do what’s expected.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
Henry gets a big smile on his face. “Good.” He slaps me on the back, grabs his business partner, and wanders over to greet Tiffany.
Good thing he’s talking to her. Then I don’t have to.
But it makes me wonder how much longer my luck will last.
Donning black track pants and a dark gray high-tech Nike T-shirt, I strap on my running shoes and take the back stairs two at a time.
It’s Sunday, and the city is waking up. This is my favorite part of the day, when the sun peeks over the horizon, casting the city in a hazy orange glow. A posse of street sweepers methodically cleans the roads, and patient customers line up outside of Voodoo Doughnuts.
It rained hard last night, and the ever-present potholes are now puddles, dotting the downtown streets in a haphazard, almost paisley pattern. Late spring in Portland gives you the meteorological equivalent of blue balls—better weather doesn’t actually come. Still, there is an ease about the day that urges me outside, because it signals I’ve got a chance to get some sun. So rather than do my routine workout in the gym downstairs, I head for the trails that surround downtown.
My building sits alongside a park that takes up five wooded city blocks. Beyond that are winding, tree-covered paths.
After passing the swings on the playground and a merry-go-round, my muscles warm up, and I sprint past a covered area with picnic tables and a barbecue pit.
Now it’s just me and my body, forcing air out, moving my thighs, pounding the path. Exercise gives me the headspace to block out the crap from last night, where I’m not thinking about Tiffany or my brothers or familial obligations. It grounds me, helping me to appreciate the smell of the wet earth and pine needles, and the solemn hush of the forest as it drowns out the city sounds.
I run past a puddle big enough to stock koi and head into the forested section, when a surprisingly spry old dog races towards me, veers, and zooms past, intent on going somewhere like he’s late for a business meeting in which he is getting a corporate sponsor. Spinning around to watch him, I note with a chuckle that he’s laser-focused on the huge puddle, leash trailing after him on the path.
“Chauncey! Here, boy! No, boy, don’t go in the mu—”
The recognizable curves of my attorney, Evelyn, emerge from the trees, only this time she’s wearing a light pink tank top, gorgeous boobs jiggling as she runs after her dog.
Total inspiration for my next blog post.
She catches my
eye, recognition flaring, but she’s too focused on getting her dog to give me more than a breathy “Hey.” Predicting the inevitable, I turn and run after her.
I groan to myself. Now I have a view of her perky ass bouncing as she runs, her hair trailing behind her in a ponytail. Black leggings show off the curve of her lean legs and perfectly proportioned hourglass shape.
I’ve almost caught up to her, and she’s almost caught up to her dog, but not in time. Chauncey speeds up and splashes into a giant puddle with fervor only a dog could possess.
Evelyn draws her breath in sharply. “No!”
Hair flying, tits bouncing, ass full and gorgeous, she lunges for his leash in a desperate move to keep him dry, but he pulls her down shoulders first into the mud, dragging her several feet before coming to a stop.
She cries out and grabs her ankle.
I cringe, knowing that had to hurt.
Rushing to catch up to them, I crouch beside her. She bites her pouty lower lip, and I stare at it for a second, distracted, before I remember what just happened.
“Evelyn, are you okay?”
She struggles to stand up, clearly in pain, but it’s like she doesn’t want me to see. She nods yes, but I don’t believe her. I reach out a hand to help her out of the puddle, and in so doing get a good look at the damage. Her cheeks and clothes are muddy, her shirt is soaked through, and her knees have chunks of grass stuck on them.
Her dog, also covered in filth and looking pleased with himself, shakes it all off—all onto her—and sits next to her feet as if none of this happened.
“How bad did you hurt yourself?”
“Not bad,” she says, her voice strained as she straightens her body with a wince.
“Let me see.” I let go of her hand and watch her try to walk. She limps on one leg and wobbles before standing unsteadily before me.
“It hurts… a little,” she finally says, and she wraps her arms around herself as if to keep warm.
Then I realize, You dumbass, her shirt is drenched and it’s see-through. She’s crossing her arms so you don’t see her tits.
I strip off my shirt—it’s warm and I haven’t started sweating yet—and hand it to her. “Change your top or you’ll freeze.”
