by Xavier Neal
I’m barely settled behind my desk for six minutes when Francis Dornan comes strolling into my office. “You have good news for me, Wheeler?”
My face struggles to remain indifferent. “Not exactly.”
He lets the scowl on his middle-aged face deepen. “Wrong answer.”
“West took an unexpected, unannounced vacation to South Africa this morning.”
His face tightens.
“Left at six a.m. No return time noted at this moment.”
Francis shoves his hands into his black suit slacks. “What the fuck do we pay you for, Wheeler?”
The castigation while predicted is still infuriating. “To serve papers.”
“Then why the fuck weren’t papers served?!”
His rhetorical question grits my teeth.
“You have the easy goddamn job.”
Easy? Hunting people down, having dogs try to take a chunk out of my ass, and wine glasses thrown at me is easy? Having to be clever about verifying who they are before being devious in the delivery of documents is easy? If it’s so goddamn easy why don’t lawyers do it themselves? If it’s so fucking easy why do I get paid well above the yearly average salary of someone else in my field?
“I suggest you find a way to fucking get it done or we might have to look into finding someone else who can.”
Despite my desire to bite back at his threat, I merely mutter my compliance, “I understand.”
He disappears the way he came, and I quickly get up to shut the door behind him.
As much fun as it would’ve been to counter with demanding he fly me, my boyfriend, and my girlfriend across the world to get my job done, there are clauses in their pre-nup that prevent me from serving him on any other ground than U.S. territory. Their fucking agreement has so many rules to work around you’d think the damn thing was the manual to a bizarre board game.
After spending a couple hours with my tail tucked against my balls and weeding through punishment grunt work, I decide to call it a day.
On my walk to the parking garage, my cell phone vibrates, displaying me a loving face. “Hey, Aunt Whit.”
“Oh good, you’re alive.”
The melodramatic sarcasm is given a heavy sigh. “Really not in the fucking mood. It’s been a shit day.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she quickly replies. “Wanna come by for dinner and bitch about it?”
“Nah. Headed home for dinner now. Maybe next time.”
An all-knowing hum seeps from her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I open my car door and toss my bag in. “Come on, Aunt Whitney. What?”
“Just curious if you’re headed to your apartment or to your boyfriend and girlfriend’s house.”
My arm leans against the roof of my car in quiet confusion.
“Because you called it home.”
Their house is home. Well, not officially, but it sure the fuck feels that way. Just because they haven’t technically asked me to move in doesn’t mean I don’t live there. I’ve got a bunch of shit all around the house. Favorite foods in the fridge. Shampoo in the shower. Closet space I had to fight Gwenny for. Whether or not my name is on the mortgage that’s home the same way they are.
Ha. Look at me sounding all grown up and shit.
“There’s nothing wrong with that nephew,” her voice invades my thoughts. “I just thought it was kind of cute.”
I grouse my objection while getting into the front seat. “Not cute, Aunt Whit. I’m sexy. You know this.”
“Arrogant. I do know that.” We lightly laugh together before she adds, “And it would be nice to experience your arrogance in person again one of these days. Feels like we hardly see you anymore. Plus, it would be nice to meet the people my only nephew has managed to fall in love with.”
My head hits the back of my leather seats. “I’ll talk to them tonight. Maybe we could have you guys for dinner or something.”
“Who’s cooking? ‘Cause I damn sure know it ain’t you.”
“Hey! I can cook!”
“Since when?”
“Since Gwenny taught me you have to turn the crock pot on if you expect it to do the hard work.”
Only took me ruining three meals before I finally grasped that concept.
“You can use a crock pot?”
“And I can cook bacon now.”
“Would you look at that?” She snickers. “You may not be a lost cause after all.” There’s not room for a wise ass remark. “I definitely wanna meet the people responsible for teaching you how to do more than dial out for pizza.”
“I’ll text you with a good day and time.”
“Do that,” Aunt Whitney snips.
“Swear.”
“Alright. Drive safe. Love you.”
“I love you too, Aunt Whitney.”
Downtown traffic is a nightmare. Between being cut off repeatedly and nearly rear ended in my GT Mustang more than I can stomach, I almost decide against going to their place to bury my sorrows in a beer closer to my apartment instead.
By the time I’m finally walking through the front door my stress levels have peaked at an all new high.
I enter the living room where I’m immediately greeted by two loving faces, “Hey!”
Just the word from their lips alleviates the agony of the day. I drop my bag on the loveseat and sigh, “Hey.”
Jason turns the volume down on the home improvement show he’s watching. “You look like you’ve had a hard day. Want me to get you a beer?”
His kind gesture receives a nod. “That’d be great, Blondie.”
My boyfriend smiles and offers one to our girl. “You want one too, baby?”
She places the book she was reading down on the coffee table. “No, but thank you.”
He rolls away at the same time I drop down on the sofa beside Gwenny in the space she’s surrendering to me.
Rather than offer words of solace, she pulls my lips down to hers and sucks the bottom one into her mouth. I groan at the contact. Groan at the way she nips until my mouth opens wide. Groan at the devilish way she presses her tongue to mine.
The temptation to take her right on the couch is throttled by the coldness nudging itself at my bicep. I manage to pry myself away from her to turn to Jason who leans over to offer me the same greeting. When our mouths lock his tongue touches mine with tenderness. Understanding. Sweet silent apologies for an unkind day. An urge to take my bad day out on his tight ass grabs a louder groan from my chest.
At that moment, he pulls back, and smirks. “Feel a bit better?”
I take the beer, glance at both of them, and helplessly smile. “Much.”
Jason and I clink before I gulp down my first taste.
“Wanna talk about it?” He asks.
Gwenny folds her legs on the couch cushion beside her. “You should talk about it. Keeping that kinda anger built up can allow it to manifest at the wrong times in the wrong ways at the wrong people.” She begins pushing her wavy hair into a bun. “You taught us that.”
“You two listened?”
“It was either that or have to pay for earplugs. Listening seemed to save us a couple bucks, right babe?”
Jason chuckles, and I immediately give him a head tilt. “Oh, you thought that was funny.”
“I think your butt hurt attitude is hilarious.”
The mirth they’re enveloping me in is incredible. I shake my head and have another sip. They patiently look on, waiting for me to give them something, which only proves once more what we have goes far beyond the perimeters of sex. “It was just…hell at the office. A client I was supposed to serve divorce papers to fled the fucking country and his assistant gave me no time to even attempt to deliver them. Young Dornan handed me my ass about it and then bullshit easy cases to make sure neither my time nor my hands were idle.”
Gwenny stretches her arm around the back of the couch behind me. Her fingertips give my shoulder the softest stroke. “Is this div
orce case more important than the others have been in the past? Is it more important than some of the subpoenas?”
“It’s a bigger pay out. It’s the whole reason the Dornan Law firm was ever split in two. Francis Dornan likes being a high-priced divorce attorney because it’s almost always less work and more money than what his father, Edward Dornan, does, which are white collar cases. He enjoys the challenges almost as much as the money.”
“And you’re like the permanent bitch boy,” Jason sighs his sympathy.
“Pretty much. But it pays well. Keeps steaks on the table.”
At least I try too. They refuse to let me pitch in for utilities, so now I pick up the grocery tab as often as possible.
“That you still don’t know how to cook,” Jason jokes between sips.
Gwenny interrupts my comeback. “Why does this one have a bigger payout?”
“Because the client is crazy. Possibly certifiable.”
Her face twitches in concern.
“This will be the guy’s seventh divorce-”
“What is he, the lost cousin to Elizabeth Taylor?!”
Jason and I quietly chuckle.
“Seventh divorce and each set of pre-nups has crazier clauses than the last. He goes out of his way to make it difficult for anyone to file divorce from him. And one of the clauses this time around mentions whoever manages to serve the other person with divorce papers first gets the beach house in Maui.”
“Why do I feel like you’re playing some screwed-up game that should be called Who Wants to Fuck Over a Millionaire?” Jason shakes his head. “What kind of danger are you in by putting yourself around people like this?”
It’s hard not to smile at his concern. “I’m fine, Blondie. I know who I’m dealing with. I know which security company he uses, how many body guards he travels with, and how impossible it is to practically reach him. That’s part of my job. Assessing the situation before I throw myself in it.”
“We don’t like worrying about your safety,” Gwenny chimes in.
“Don’t you even start in on him about safety,” Jason bites.
His point is met with a quick nod. “Yeah. I’m not the one running around the city like she has a fucking cape on her back and a death wish.”
“You are both being very dramatic.”
“Who pays for a bodyguard and then ditches him whenever she gets a lead?”
“I can’t afford to miss out on certain opportunities!”
“And I don’t want the people I love to end up in a fucking body bag!” Jason barks. His eyes swing to me. “Either of you. Am I making myself heard on your situations?”
My beer soars to my lips at the same time Gwenny eyeballs the candy dish on the coffee table.
Never had anyone outside of my aunts give a fuck about me like this. It’s irritating even if I really appreciate it.
“Look, I understand you both have jobs…both have jobs you love to do, but I need you both to come home at night,” his voice tries not to shake. “You both love the thrill of a chase. The high of a risk. I get it. I fucking love it. You both get these crazy sexy looks in your eyes when you’re telling a wild story about your success. But I still need you to both remember your safety shouldn’t be a gamble just to get a job done. There’s more to life than work.”
“Like each other,” Gwenny concedes, thumb giving my shoulder stroke. “We get where you’re coming from, don’t we, Hudson?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
I’ve also never had more than my aunts outside of work to truly give a fuck about. While they mainly think serving papers is a waste of a degree, they would probably flip their shit like Jason did if they had any real idea of some of the extremes I go to. It’s still strange having someone wanna protect me this much, but I really do love it. And him. Both of them. And I also feel the same level of instinct to wanna shield them as well.
“Speaking of people with their panties in a wad-”
“Fuck you,” Jason grumbles.
I triumphantly smirk. “My aunts are complaining they don’t see me enough. What do you think about having them over for dinner?”
“We finally get to meet the family,” Gwenny mocks. “He must finally be serious about us, babe.”
“Must be,” Jason joins in on the harassing. “You think we should break out the china?”
“Hate you both,” I mutter and have another swig of my beer.
“You love us,” my girlfriend continues her teasing.
“So much,” he adds still grinning.
“Ugh.”
It’s fucking true. Even though I rarely say it.
“Is it okay or not?”
“Of course it’s okay.” Gwenny thumps me in the ear. “It’s stupid you even thought you had to ask.”
“It’s not my house-”
“Bullshit,” they snap in unison.
Hearing confirmation to my earlier feelings stirs up more emotions than I care to deal with. I can’t fucking turn into a weeping pussy every time shit gets this…sentimental. “Alright, since it apparently is my house, I say we go fuck in the kitchen, and eat take out off of a naked Gwenny.”
“Second that,” Jason instantly agrees.
She attempts to reach for the paperback she was reading. “I don’t.”
My foot lands harshly on the book, which causes her hand to fly back. “Democracy is a bitch, Gwenny.”
Her glare becomes playful. “Who says this house is a democracy?”
“It’s either that or a dictatorship. And if it’s a dictatorship you’ve gotta have dick to rule it.” I give my crotch a jiggle.
When I glance over at Jason he does the same. “Sorry, baby. You lose either way.”
Gwenny’s face heats in an obvious result of being turned on, not annoyed. She rises to her feet, removes the baggy white t-shirt she’s wearing, and states, “It’d be wise to remember how Cleopatra embodied the spirit of a goddess and brought an entire country to its knees.”
My eyes dart to her hardening nipples in their black lacy bra. Just the pending sight of them has me surrendering, “You want me down on mine right now?”
Gwenny winks and slowly begins backing up. “You two can fuck me in the kitchen, but I’m picking the takeout, and we’re eating on the back patio.”
Jason and I exchange a brief look before nodding at her together. “Deal.”
The two of us prowl after a sexually taunting Gwenny.
Fuck, I’m glad I have them to come home to. Doesn’t matter how shitty any day goes. As long as I get to end it with them, it was a day worth waking up for.
Jason: I wanna wake up more mornings with my nuts in your mouth baby. Haven’t stopped thinking about that shit.
My fingers quickly swipe away the text.
God, I love when he sends me dirty little texts during the day. Hell. When they both send me little sexy reminders I’m on their mind. I actually crave getting the messages more than I do the candy bars buried in my purse.
The gorgeous, thin Cuban woman who is sitting in the chair across from me croaks, “I think there has been a mistake.”
Hearing her finally speak after six minutes of silence is a relief. I fold my hands together and place them into my lap. “No mistake, Mrs. Sanchez.”
“We agreed upon only thirty.”
“And I am not in the business of screwing people over.” My assurance is accompanied with a polite smile. “You not only sold something rare, you sold me something particularly valuable to you, personally.”
She challenges the statement with lifted eyebrows.
“That’s an abstract portrait of you, isn’t it Mrs. Sanchez?”
Her voice quietly corrects, “Maria.”
“Maria.”
“Yes.” She does her best not to give the painting another look. “I’ve had it for…years.”
“But your husband recently lost his job and the bills are piling up. You also have a small daughter at home to think about.”
A concerned l
ook coats her eyes. “How did you-”
