Come Again

by Poppy Dunne

  What the hell am I talking about? Fraser’s going to beat the shit out of Gavin. And while I am in many ways here for that, I know that this is going to give Gavin exactly what he wants: a way to exploit Fraser and this situation.

  “Fraser, hold on,” I cry, but it turns out I’m not the one who gets there in time. Fraser’s pulling back, ready to take a hard swing at Gavin’s face—and the little bitch kind of falls backwards onto the bed with a squawk—when Justin swoops in and grabs Fraser. Yes, that’s right. Justin ‘so non-confrontational he won’t take a hard stance on what we should have for dinner’ is literally holding a seething Fraser back from beating the shit out of someone. While Gavin sits up, looking obviously relieved, Justin turns back to Fraser.

  “It’s going to be a lot worse if you touch him. Legally, you need to back off.”

  “Yeah, listen to whoever the fuck this guy is,” Gavin slurs. And then Justin turns around. And then, oh my droogs, and then shit gets real.

  “Justin Brightman. Emma and Lily’s brother, and Lily’s attorney.” He crosses his arms over his chest while Fraser paces around like a puma in a bespoke suit. One false move from Gavin, and he’s going in for the frenzied British kill. “I’m still deciding what kinds of charges we’ll be pressing, Mr. Walker.”

  Gavin snorts, and reaches for another mini-bottle of booze. Looks like Crown Royal. Keep it classy. “What kind of charges? Ass groping?”

  “We’ll start with fraud, kidnapping, and attempted assault.” Justin says it smoothly, and Gavin sprays a mouthful of alcohol. Oh baby, someone get me a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine, and a vibrator, because this is simultaneously entertaining me and turning me on. I mean, I wish my brother weren’t involved in that last part, but you can’t have everything.

  Even Fraser stops stalking around; he seems impressed. Lily’s got her head through a sweater, but not her arms, and stands there half-dressed with her mouth open.

  “What? What the hell do you mean?” Gavin sounds blustery again, so Justin goes in for the kill.

  “You work in the literary department of CAA, don’t you? Meaning you don’t handle performance-related talent.”

  “Well. Thing is.” But Gavin’s stammering now. Oh, I am gonna need a cigarette.

  “So your offers to represent my sister were fraudulent, and you used those false offers to entice her to Palm Springs. Kidnapping’s a bit of a reach, I agree, but I’ve made more difficult things stick. I’m sure I can work something up. That’s not even counting using your power in the relationship to try forcing Lily to have sex with you. When she refused, you physically threw her out of the room. She sustained some injuries.” Justin’s always been a pale, almost ethereal looking guy, but I can practically see his heart rate skyrocketing, the flush of moving blood spreading over his face. He looks alive, man. “In addition, while I’d have to do some research on international cases, there’s the matter of fathering a child and abandoning fiscal responsibilities for said child. Even if there’s no legal case to be made there, your reputation will suffer. Ask Harvey Weinstein how life is treating him these days.”

  Gavin doesn’t answer, but from the clenched look on his face—and probably his asshole, but I’m not going to check—it seems that Justin’s hit a home run this time. Lily claps her hands with glee at seeing this sack of shit taken down. Me, I’m more inclined to get right up in his face and grind up on him, laughing maniacally while pouring Crown Royal on his head, but that’s just me. I am who I am.

  “So I suggest,” Justin continues, signaling me to open the door, “that you consider sending some kind of support to your daughter and her mother. And I’d also, if I were you, contemplate resigning from CAA. I don’t want Emma working in such a hostile environment.” Man, if Gavin leaves, Thea is going to be the happiest hipster in town.

  Gavin stares sullenly at the carpet and doesn’t respond. As we start to herd ourselves out the door, I hear the bedsprings creak as he stands. Oh crap. Looking to get a last word in.

  “Are we sure the kid isn’t Fraser’s? It’d explain why she’s defective.”

  Call it a potshot. Call it a low blow. Call it Ishmael. Call it whatever you like, but the intention is super obvious: to make Fraser, or any other red-blooded, decent human being want to turn around and kick Gavin’s ass. That way, Gavin gets some legal firepower, and also gets the satisfaction of seeing Fraser unable to control himself.

  Fraser is rising to the bait like a handsome, surly fish swimming towards a wriggling worm. The worm in this scenario is Gavin, obviously, because it’s important to cast according to type. Fraser wheels around and storms towards Gavin, looking like a smoldering, electric slab of sexy fury about to do a lightning strike. Or something, I don’t know weather terminology.

  So, both to save Fraser from the legal ramifications of smearing Gavin over the ground, and because I am a red-blooded woman who has had it up to here with this shit, I do a spin, storm up to Gavin in a straight line, and…well, I don’t SING for him. I just focus really, really hard on hitting the G.

  That’s groin, for those following at home.

  I do exactly what I demonstrated to Sawyer in Justin’s kitchen, and bring my knee up in a fast, striking motion. I feel myself connect right on target; I even give a “hi-ya!” to spice up the effort. Gavin’s mouth forms a perfect little O of surprise, and his face pales. Then it tinges green. Then he slumps over, hands between his legs, and ends up lying on the carpet.

  That is the first and last time I will ever make contact with Gavin Walker’s private parts.

  Also, I think I kind of screwed up our case a little. Oh dear. “Sorry! Sorry, Jus. I, ah, that is…” I hem and haw, but then Fraser says something that sets all the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

  “That was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice is little more than a growl, his gaze molten. His broad chest rises and falls as he stares at me like I’m the goddess of war, or vengeance, or bitchiness, come down to deliver an ass whooping upon deserving creeps. The charge between us in this instant is electric. He’s still standing there, legs a bit astride like he’s riding an invisible stallion or some shit. He’s all primed and geared for action, every muscle tensed, every inch of his stubble rising in challenge. He’s like a poem of—

  “We need to get out before someone calls the police,” Justin says. Fraser and I both blink and shake our heads. The ecstatic moment of hormones evaporates. We have to be sensible, modern age adults now.

  “Ah,” is my response. And we all get the hell out of there, but not before I grab that bottle of Crown. It pays to be prepared.

  A few minutes later, we’re downstairs in the parking lot. The desert wind has cooled a bit; now it just feels kind of balmy and nice. Justin looks between Fraser and me, as if judging who’s going to do what first and for how long. Fraser continues to brood in my direction, with a pinch of smolder. I finally have to be the grown up.

  “I need to take Lily home.”

  “I could drive her, if you and Fraser want to take your car.” Bless my big brother, he is going all out to give us a hand. And after the erotically charged ball-smashing we both just engaged in, I know that once I had Fraser in the car, it wouldn’t be thirty miles before we were pulled to the side of the road and in the backseat, my legs wrapped around his neck, while he shoved every thick, glorious inch of his…

  Maybe Justin should drive Lily home.

  No, no, my preternatural sexual chemistry with Fraser can’t interfere with some deep soul searching we both need to do. We can’t screw our way out of a sober, adult discussion of our problems. Or can we?

  No, we can’t Emma.

  “I’ll. That is.” Fraser starts and stops the conversation a couple times, then gets the carburetor running on it. He straightens his shoulders, flicks imaginary lint from his sleeve. That is classic man body language for ‘this is not so important.’ “It’s my car, Justin. I’m the one who needs to take you home.”

  “Oh.
Right. Ha.” Justin winces at his obvious mistake. I love you for it, brother mine.

  “Not to be a huge brat, but I, like, really want to go home.” Lily’s hopping back and forth and shivering. Fraser nods, takes my keys, and opens the door for her. A gentleman to the end. The most perfect, fascinating, hot, wonderful, infuriating gentleman I’ve ever known.

  Sexy, too. That’s a word that never goes out of style.

  Fraser opens my door, too. Then he holds out a hand for mine. “It’s only polite,” he says, still sounding rigid—and not in the fun way. Our supercharged moment back in the room really is over. Though when I give him my hand, and he helps me into the car…well, a flush of goosebumps washes over my body. I think my nipples perk to attention right then and there. It’s been a few days without his full and physical attention, after all. I miss that.

  Hell, I miss him. When I look up at Fraser, he seems on the verge of speaking. But then, he simply shuts the door and walks back to Justin, hands shoved in his pockets. Always so close with us.

  Why can’t we just take that one step and get closer? Why—

  “Can we stop at a drive thru? I’m starving,” Lily says. Right. What would life be without family? I watch Justin and Fraser start up the car, pull out, and head off into the night. With a sigh, I follow.

  “I thought you were on a strict no carb diet?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t expect to get trapped by a pool all day. I started thinking about those little cactus looking plants, what are they called?”

  “Succulents. Actually, let’s take this long drive as an opportunity to fix your base of general knowledge.” I smile at my sister. “First of all, that quote on your Instagram? I don’t think George Washington said that.”

  25

  Fraser

  Vengeance is a dish best served cold. For the life of me, I can’t recall who said that. Was it William Shakespeare, or Bruce Willis in one of those Die Hard films? The holes in my Cambridge education are on clear display just now, but I couldn’t care less. The point is, warm or cold, this vengeance is seasoned with a healthy dose of glee. And a few whispers of ‘fuck you, you despicable twat.’ I’m not a perfect man, after all.

  It says here, in Variety, that Gavin Walker has resigned from his position at CAA. It took only a day for him to make that decision. Justin’s threats might have had something to do with it, but I like to believe Emma was the deciding factor. I have never in my life seen a ball strike so well handled, or so deadly. Normally, the sight of a woman crushing another man’s balls gives me a twinge of empathetic pain. Instead, I found myself rather deliciously aroused by the image. Of course, only because it was Gavin on the receiving end of the ball crushing.

  I don’t think he wants to see her around the office any longer. Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed by that turn of events. I wonder who’ll take his place. Probably another glad-handing Hollywood frat boy, sun-baked and blow-dried. They keep those little bastards coming in by the busload. Well, whoever the new boss is, Emma will handle him, or perhaps even her.

  For now, it’s enough to stare at the sulky image of Gavin as he walks through the revolving doors for the last time. Apparently, someone thought this story important enough to get a real time snap of him. Whoever took this picture, I’d like to slip them a crisp fifty.

  My phone rings, and I pick up. “Yes, Cheryl?”

  “So my name isn’t Gorillas or Breasts any longer? You can’t just drop me like that, boss.” I can hear her fluttering her eyelashes. Seriously, she wears these beaded monstrosities that must weigh a ton on her eyes.

  “Our time was short but sweet, Cheryl. Do you have anything else before you head to HR for the inevitable complaint against me?” I lean back in my office chair.

  “You’re lucky I don’t just do that,” she laughs. “Anyway, you’ve got a lady waiting to see you.”

  Emma? I’m on my feet in a second, adjusting my tie with the phone jammed against my shoulder. “Send her in,” I say, then slam the receiver down before Cheryl gets any further. The door opens…and in walks Gillian.

  She can see how I’m attempting to suppress disappointment. Gillian could always see right through me; right through everything, really. Except Gavin, of course. She grins as she sits in front of my desk.

  “Still haven’t spoken with Emma, have you?” She sets her purse on the ground as I collapse back into my own seat.

  “Not yet.” I feel more relaxed with Gillian since meeting Gavin at that desert motel. Confronting Gavin, seeing the little shit that he ultimately is and always has been, and having my secret out for everyone to see—something about it all has freed me from the past. The sight of Gillian no longer hurts. It doesn’t shame me. In fact, I feel some of the old friendship we used to share, before my massive and hopeless schoolboy crush. That friendship is a feeling I’ve missed. “Thank you for telling her everything, incidentally. I should have been the one to do it.”

  “Yes, but then you wouldn’t be yourself. A little change is good, but no one should shift up all at once.” She stretches out her arms. She seems as weightless and carefree now as I feel. A smile stretches over her face. “Your loan was worth it, incidentally. Anna’s come out of surgery perfectly. We’ll be staying on a bit longer, for recovery time and physical therapy, but the doctors say this will be the last big surgery she’ll likely ever need.” Tears shine in her eyes, though she blinks them back. Classic British fortitude, that’s the pair of us. Perhaps that’s one reason I need Emma so desperately; she knows how to shout and laugh and emote when I’m too silent, too wrapped in my own suffering. She draws me out, and I calm her down.

  It’s a good match. If only I hadn’t utterly fucked it up.

  But that’s not the issue right now. Anna’s health is. “I’m so glad,” I say, and mean it. “Thank you for coming to tell me in person.”

  “Of course. You’re the one who made it happen. Least I could do.” She leans forward, a sly expression on her face. I’ve a feeling I know where this is headed. “That’s my first reason for being here. Secondly, I have to know: have you spoken to her about our shared, rather melodramatic revelation?”

  Asking me to talk about my feelings is a bit like asking me to strip naked and run the Los Angeles marathon: I can do it, but it will be embarrassing and strenuously difficult. Also, my balls will likely become cold.

  Not everyone needs to know or think about that last part.

  “We still need to have a frank discussion.” I’m evasive when I want to be, which is nearly always. Gillian blows out her cheeks and flops back, the chair creaking beneath her.

  “Fras, I liked her. A lot, for what it’s worth. I’m telling you, if you let your pride and your stubbornness get in the way of this one, you’ll seriously regret it.”

  I’ll be damned if she isn’t right, but like it or not this is who I am. Changing that on the spot is not entirely easy. “I’ll think about it,” I say at last. Gillian rolls her eyes, but in a playful way. She’s not weeping and wringing her hands any longer, and I got to see Gavin get kicked in the balls. I’d say we’re both healing from the past.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go sit with Anna. You should come for a visit, if you like.” She takes her purse and stands. I rise with her. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, after all.

  “I might do that.” In fact, I think I will. Now that the shame and embarrassment have truly worn away, I can’t see any reason why not. She seems like a good little girl, once she gets her face out of her phone. “Is Tom coming over for the recovery period, or does he have to work?”

  “We’ll see how long it takes, and if he can get away from the office. But he’s wonderful.” Demonstrating perfect timing, Gillian’s phone buzzes. She takes it out, and her entire face suffuses with light. She giggles and shakes her head, sounding ten years younger in ten seconds. “He sent me a message. I need to give him a call, he must’ve just got off for the day.”

  That kind of giddiness is something I know she never
had with me; come to think of it, nor I with her. And the sight of it doesn’t hurt at all, probably because I now know what it’s like to feel that way. Weightless. Blissful. If it isn’t too late, I could feel like that again.

  In fact, I’m going to make damn certain of it.

  “I’ll see you at the hospital, then.” I smile as she heads for the door, then turns back.

  “When you’re next in London, come over for dinner. We’d love it.” I can tell she means it.

  “Sounds perfect.” I mean it, too.

  “On one condition.” She raises a brow. “That you bring Emma.”

  “We’ll see what the future holds.” But I’m grinning as I sit down and Gillian leaves. I think about Emma—her body, her cascading hair, her bizarre yet addictive sense of humor. She’s the type of woman I never thought I’d want—fitting, then, that she’d be precisely the sort of woman I need. Gillian insisted that I go and be honest with her? Well, she’s right. It’s what I should do. It’s what I need, after all.

  I pick up the phone. “Cheryl, I need you to connect me to the literary department at CAA.”

  “Seeking representation?” she drawls.

  “There’d better not be a joke coming, or you’re out of a job,” I warn.

  “Don’t you need talent first?” She finishes her wisecrack, a smile in her voice. “Should I clean out my desk, sir?”

  “First patch me through to CAA, then sit there and stew for a bit while I mull it over.” She merely laughs. Apparently I’m not quite the fearsome taskmaster I’ve built myself up to be. At least, not with the receptionists. Well, that’s a reputation I can live with. While Cheryl makes the call, I consider how I’ll go about this. Ask Emma to dinner tonight? Pick her up and sweep her away to a bed and breakfast in Santa Barbara? Take her to my place and reveal all my darkest secrets while stripping her naked?