Brynn's one of the few people who know that I still have my virginity. We'd been friends for a long time and she never teased me about it like the few others had when they'd first found out.
"Now I'm thinking that's a lost cause. Just like the few other boyfriends I've had, he's just not special enough. He'd rather blow me off than… let me blow him."
Brynn had laughed and then said, "I think that's your problem, Riley. You're wanting your first time to be so special, with 'the right guy.' You should just let loose and go with it, see what happens."
"With Charles?" I'd asked her, scrunching up my nose skeptically.
She'd shrugged.
"Well, if you guys can work out whatever's been going on with you this time around, then maybe. Although, it seems like maybe you both know it's time to call it quits, but neither of you wants to be the one to push the 'End" button."
"Again," I corrected her. "Neither of us want to be the one to push the 'End' button once again, after we've re-started it so many times."
Charles and I had broken up so often it wasn't even funny. I don't even know why we keep trying. Except that his dad is the founding partner of my law firm, and pressures him to stay with a "rising star" at the firm, such as myself. He thinks my ambitious attitude will rub off on his son, who would rather play video games than write briefs.
"When I really face the truth, Charles and I are together for all the wrong reasons," I'd confessed to Brynn. "I used to think he only stayed with me because his dad wanted him to, and that's probably true. But then, why do I stay with him when he keeps ditching me for better plans? I suppose I like that the founding partner of the firm wants me to be dating his son. I'm afraid I won't be able to stad on my own two feet without him propping me up."
"Don't be ridiculous," Brynn had said. "You've always been a straight A student. You've more than earned your place at the firm. But I think change is just hard. It's easier to stay with the wrong person than take a step to be alone or find someone better."
"Yeah," I'd sighed, downing the rest of my wine. Brynn had happily poured me another glass.
"If you're going to break up with him, do it soon, so you can lose your virginity to someone else," Brynn had said, in her no- nonsense way. "And in the meantime, at least treat yourself to a mind-blowing orgasm."
I'd just looked at her, before finally finding the nerve to confess a secret even worse than the fact that I'm still a virgin.
"I… don't exactly know how to do that, either," I'd finally said.
"What?" she'd exclaimed, her eyes growing wide. "You don't masturbate?"
"It's not that I never have," I'd told her. "I just… haven't had the best luck so I don't get what it's all about."
"Girl, you've got to be kidding me," she'd said, standing up.
She went over to her bedside table, pulled something out of a drawer, and came back.
"Here," she says, handing me a silver, egg-shaped contraction wrapped in plastic. "Don't ever say I never gave you anything."
"What is this?"
I'd held the egg in my hand, realizing that I had an idea what it was, but feeling rather embarrassed.
"It's a magic bullet," she'd said. "Your own personal vibrator. Don't worry— I haven't used it. I just ordered a new one from Simple Pleasures because I wore my old one out. But for you, I can wait and order another one."
"Oh my God," I'd said, blushing. "I can't believe you just have these lying around."
"Whatever," she'd said, rolling her eyes at my innocence, as usual. "There are entire sex toy parties based off these things now. I'm hardly the only woman in America with a vibrator— or six— in my bedside stand."
"Six?"
"Riley," she'd told me, shaking her head. "Just try it. You'll love it. I promise."
So here I am. After way too much wine and too little sleep, I'd woken up at Brynn's house at five a.m. and bolted home. I hate trying to sleep after I've had too much to drink— I always wake up early and can never go back to sleep.
After lying down in my own bed and trying to get back to sleep for a while, I gave up. There's still half an hour before I have to start getting ready for work, so I take the "magic bullet" out of my purse and stare at it.
This is really it. My first orgasm. Here it comes.
I lie back on my pillow and spread my legs. I hit the "on" switch and put the vibrator up to my clit.
Mmmmm. That does feel good…
It hums against me, cold and metallic as it works its magic. I still feel silly getting so up close and personal with an inanimate object. I decide to think about Charles.
But I can't. After trying to picture him, all I can think of is the text he sent me, which let me know once again exactly how unimportant I am to him. How I wish I could be with a different guy— one who appreciates me and who wants me to be pleasured. Not just someone who is with me because his dad wants him to be. Because he's used to life being handed to him on a silver platter and to doing whatever Daddy wants to make him happy.
I can't think about that right now, though. I have an orgasm to accomplish.
Instead, I try to conjure up images of celebrities I think are hot. Muscular, toned guys— strong and courageous and not afraid to take risks.
Finally, I feel a tingling down below. I draw my breath in, waiting for something more.
But nothing else comes.
Was that it?
Damn it. I don’t even know.
I was expecting erupting fireworks, but that was just a little fizz.
I should keep going. Try again.
I know that if Brynn was here she'd be saying, "Don't give up. You deserve this."
But it's time to get ready for work. At least I felt something. It was a step in the right direction.
I wash the vibrator and put it in the drawer of my bathroom sink, covering it up with a makeup bag in case for some reason any guest ever needs to use this bathroom. I'll have to try it again another time. Maybe it's one of those things I'll get better at with practice.
For now, it's time to go to work, and see Charles, and start dealing with things I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with.
Chapter 2
When I get to work, Charles is nowhere to be found. I try to nonchalantly meander on over to his office to look for him, but a fellow associate named Trina stops me before I can even get there.
"Looking for Charles?" she asks, grinning.
Damn it.
She is not the person I want to see right now. She's always had a crush on Charles and I'm sure she's taking great pleasure in the fact that I'm unsuccessfully looking for him.
"I just needed to talk to him about a case," I say quickly, defensively, as if I had indeed saw or at least spoken to my boyfriend last night as planned, and just needed to talk business this morning.
"I see," she says, raising an eyebrow to show she doesn't believe me. "Well, I doubt he'll be in any time before noon. We had quite the night last night."
"You—?"
I trail off, trying not to sound surprised. What is she talking about?
"Oh yeah, after the Wharton Invitational— it's a shame you don't golf, by the way; it's a great way for female associates to be able to woo clients just like the male associates do, and there are some real hotties on the course as well— we took some clients to Closed Door."
She laughs, as if she had just told me he took them shopping at Walmart, rather than to the seediest strip club in town.
"Oh, he didn't tell you?" she asks, with pity, reading the look on my face.
"I—"
I begin, but I don't really have anything to say. I'm completely taken off guard.
"It's okay," she says, her lip pouting as if trying to be friendly. "I know a lot of— girlfriends— is that what you still are to him?— aren't into the strip club scene so he probably didn't want to hurt your feelings and tell you. I left at about midnight because I had to finish up on the Colvert case briefing but he was still partying hard. That's w
hy I'm betting he won't be in any time soon. Not that he has to—being the boss' son and all, you know?"
"Thanks for letting me know," I tell her, as if I'm truly grateful when clearly I'm not.
I'm about to tell her I have a lot to do this morning anyway, so I'll just catch him this afternoon. But I'm sick of taking crap from other people about my "relationship" with Charles.
"I'm sure his dad will be happy to hear that you guys were keeping the clients entertained," I tell her, with a grin as fake as the one she was just flashing at me.
"Oh, I don't think there's any reason to fill him in on that," she says, with a nervous giggle.
As if on cue, Charles's dad's secretary rounds the corner. Jack Holt has secretaries that will track down anyone he needs, at any time.
"Oh, there you are, Riley," she says, shaking her head nervously. "Mr. Holt has been looking for you. He would like to talk to you in Conference Room B."
Trina looks scared, so I wink at her, as if to tell her I'll be filling in Mr. Holt on everything.
Secretly, though, I'm just as scared as she looks. Jack Holt wants to do my evaluation today, and from the nervous look on his secretary's face, I can tell it won't be complete smooth sailing.
Today just keeps going from bad to worse.
Chapter 3
I timidly knock on the door of the conference room and Mr. Holt nods at me.
"Come in, Riley," he says, as if I've wasted his time by having his secretary look for me, when I didn't even know I was supposed to be here. I knew that there was a round of associate evaluations coming up but I didn't know when exactly mine would be.
I look around, remembering when I first interviewed for this job in this very conference room. And how I was so excited when I found out I had gotten it. I was so naïve back then, thinking it would be a picnic, when sometimes it's more like Hell.
I’m supposedly an up and coming lawyer at the law firm of Holt, Mason and Davis. My goal has been to make partner within the next couple of years. And I think I’ve achieved my goal so far, since I’m not only on the partnership track but according to my bi-annual evaluations, I’m doing sprints around all my fellow associates.
Except for Charles, of course. But he doesn’t have to make much of an effort, considering that he’s Jack Holt's son.
Now that I see the stringent requirements for everyone except Charles, I'm beginning to wonder if my career is really as secure as I used to think it was. It doesn't seem as if interviewing and getting the job is cutting it anymore. Instead, all associates are subject to strict evaluations and "suggestions" for improvement.
I'm beginning to wonder if I can ever possibly keep up with all the hoops they make associates jump through, or if they even have any intention of making us partners, or just finding reasons we're not good enough so they can sting us along as billable hour drones for seven years before cutting us loose to go work at some second-rate insurance defense firm.
"I'm going to keep this performance evaluation short and sweet, Riley," Mr. Holt says, without bothering with any kind of standard pleasantries first. “Your billable hours are great, your work is solid, your networking is as expected."
I nod, glad that all my hard work is being recognized.
“But your pro bono hours are not on track with the other associates’, and the only misgivings expressed by any partner have related to your fit here with the firm," he continues, making me feel crestfallen.
“My fit?” I ask, squirming in the oversized leather chair in the large conference room that is occupied only by Mr. Holt and myself.
I want to ask how I'm supposed to find time to do pro bono hours— volunteering to represent clients for free— when I've already billed more hours than any other associate. But I assumes he expects me to figure that out on my own.
And I'm intrigued— if not dismayed— by his use of the word “fit.” I need to fit in at the firm; I need to make it work. My parents had spent a lot of money on law school and would be furious at me if they knew I don’t make partner because I don't “fit in.”
“As you know, Riley, this firm has a strong and proud military tradition,” Mr. Holt continues. “And you’re the only associate who doesn’t have some tie with the military.”
I think about it and realize he's right: many of the partners had served in the military before going to law school, and many of the associates are in the Reserves. There are lawyers who had gone to West Point, the Air Force Academy, who had been in JAG before being hired by the firm, and who regularly volunteer at the VA, helping with disability cases or access to health care.
Except for your son, I want to point out to Mr. Holt, because Charles is the only other associate with absolutely no connection to the military. But he doesn't count.
Mr. Holt rarely speaks of my relationship with Charles at work, but when he does, it's to tell me that he’s glad his son hooked himself to a rising star: that I'm good for Charles and can keep him on track. I know he says similar things to Charles in private, and I know that's one of the main reasons that Charles and I are still together.
The unspoken assumption is that the normal rules of associate standards don't apply to Charles. He's expected to go to happy hours and golf tournaments with the partners and important firm clients, not slave away as a billable hour slave like the rest of us. And apparently, he doesn't need to have any military connection, although everyone else, including me, needs to meet that requirement.
It's not fair, but such is life.
If Mr. Holt says I need to have some connection to the military, and that I need to volunteer more pro bono hours to be a good fit for the firm, then that's exactly what I'll do. He's clearly signaling that I should kill two birds with one stone and volunteer in some capacity that helps the military.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Holt," I tell him, always the eager to please associate. "And I'll get right on it. Don't worry."
"I'm glad to hear that, Riley," he says, smiling at me and then looking at his watch, clearly ready for the next victim— I mean, associate who will have the next performance evaluation. He picks up my file and bangs it lightly on the conference room table.
"I'll have my secretary add a note to your file that we've discussed these matters and you're rectifying the situation. I appreciate your diligence and obedience. I just wish I could say the same about my son. But he's been better with your influence, so hopefully you'll keep rubbing off on him."
There goes my plan to talk to Charles about breaking up yet again, I think, as I stand up to leave.
I nod at Mr. Holt.
"Thank you for the evaluation, and have a great day."
"Margaret?" he calls out, before I've even opened the door.
I guess he's so busy trying to tell his secretary that he's ready for the next evaluation that he can't even bid me a good day in return.
That's okay, though, because my day has already been ruined, and nothing Mr. Holt can say at this point will make it any better.
Chapter 4
"Mom? Mom!"
What the fuck?
"Hey, you," I call to the guy, whose hair is long and greasy on the bottom and non-existent on top. "Knock it off."
"Or what?" he spits at me.
He's clearly drunk or high or just out of his mind because he's crazy. Who knows, with the kind of guys my mom likes to bring home with her.
Fuck.
How do I get myself into these situations?
One minute I'm balls deep in a blonde hottie I'd picked up at a bar, going at it like there's no tomorrow, making her moan, groan and call my name over and over and over. It's what I do— make women come. But then the next minute, I'm face to face with one of the losers my mom likes to date. I guess that's also what I do, whether I like to admit it or not— clean up my mom's messes for her.
"Or I'll have to knock it off for you," I tell him.
He's not stopping, so I have to carry through on my word.
Before I know it, I'm in
a rage, throwing fists, arms, kicking legs, feet— anything to get him to stop. And to make it clear how little I appreciate some loser who comes in and roughs up my mom.
"Jensen," my mom cries out, but I ignore her.
If she didn't want me to handle this, she never should have called me.
She should know by now that I'm not someone who idly sits around doing nothing. If someone I love— and yes, it's a strong word for my mom but I do love her; she's my mother, after all— needs help, I spring into action.
It's what I do. What I've always done. It's how I've done so well as a SEAL. I don't have awards for valor for nothing.
I keep going, pounding on the poor guy probably long after I have to, but it feels cathartic. I get out the rage of my past, my present, my future.
When he's lying in a ball on the ground, I finally stop and take a breath.
"Jensen, I didn't mean for you to do that," Mom says, wringing her hands frantically. "Do you think I should call for help?"
"Do whatever you think is best for you," I tell her. "You always do anyway."
I think about adding something else, but I don't. I just shake my head and walk back out the door, muttering to myself instead of out loud to her.
And maybe you should think about not doing things you don't mean to do, before you actually do them.
Chapter 5
“Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”
An inmate in an orange jumpsuit presses up against the gate of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.
I try not to grimace as I recoil at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.
But the prisoner’s question is valid, and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.
What am I doing here?
I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer. Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty jail instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.
SEAL's Virgin: A Bad Boy Military Romance Page 2
