by Anna Paige
I stalked straight over to the glasses, and after dropping in one of the clubs signature spherical ice chunks, poured myself several fingers. Wordlessly, I raised my glass in the direction of my confused friends and downed the entire thing before refilling and sinking miserably into the plush leather booth.
"Hard day, amber eyes?" Spencer joked, indicating that he'd seen Jessica accost me. He was goading me; he knew the nickname was one of the main reasons I broke things off with her. He slowly sipped his Scotch and looked at me expectantly, a sly smile on his face.
"Yeah, Clay, you never drink that fast." Brant added and focused on his nearly empty snifter of Brandy, blissfully unaware of the Jessica sighting.
He and Spencer could have passed for brothers. Both were the same height and build, roughly two or three inches shorter than me, both had dark hair. The only difference was their eyes. Brant's were a light, icy blue while Spencer's were so dark brown they looked black.
Those dark eyes paired with Spencer's dark hair made him look intimidating unless he was smiling, which he often did. I'd actually watched the security guard at our bank keeping a wary eye on him as if he gave off some kind of dangerous vibe.
I found that fucking hilarious, particularly since he was the kind-hearted one of our group.
I cut my eyes at Spencer. "So, you saw Jessica waiting to pounce and you didn't warn me? Thanks, bro."
"I didn't see her until it was too late. Sorry." He glanced over to where she stood talking to some poor bastard who had the bad fortune to stumble within reach. "She get her claws into anything important?"
"Nah. I'm used to fending her off. I just hate being cornered like that." I shrugged, eager to move on.
Spencer was shaking his head at me when the server made an appearance, taking particular interest in whether he needed anything or not. She was obviously new since the staff here was well aware that flirting with him was a waste of time. To my knowledge, he hadn't so much as looked at a damn woman since his divorce. Bitch took half his shit and all his testosterone, apparently. He smiled politely at the server and turned back to our conversation without ever noticing her interest.
Poor bastard.
She was kind of hot.
Brant looked over at me with a knowing expression and a shake of his head. He saw it, too. "So, how many calls have you gotten from Shepard this week?" He rolled his eyes. "It was a record week for me with three calls, Spence got two, and we're running out of ways to tactfully express our disinterest in his offers."
I couldn't help the scowl on my face. "None. Unless Caroline has been brushing him off and not mentioning it, I haven't gotten any calls from him this week or any other week." I couldn't decide whether to be grateful or offended.
Spencer laughed. "He probably did enough homework to know you'd be the first of us to tell him to go fuck himself."
"Sure would." I sipped my bourbon and shook my head. "I'm still trying to figure out why neither of you have done it yet."
Brant shrugged and returned his attention to his glass while Spencer jumped right in with an answer. "Simple. He's a snake. The best way to get rid of a snake is to wait for it to get bored and slither away. If you engage it, poke at the damn thing, you risk getting bitten. We may have a damn good thing going but we've got nowhere near the clout he does. If we piss him off, he could refocus his efforts on ruining us just for the hell of it. He doesn't have many friends but he does have deep pockets and a mean streak. Let's just bide our time until he loses interest."
"I'd rather hand him his balls on a silver platter but that's just me." I joked. "Probably why I'm not allowed to handle that side of things, huh?"
Brant laughed into his glass and Spencer nodded emphatically before changing the subject. "Did you get a chance to meet the new assistant while you were in Denson?"
It took me a minute to decide on a response. I didn't want to sound too affected one way or the other. "I did. I gave her a quick tour of the property and she brought by the rental agreement for the cabin. She seems competent enough."
Brant chimed in. "I looked at her résumé the other day. She's so overqualified for this job it's pathetic. CMO of a marketing firm slumming it as Clay's assistant? That's like Muhammad Ali in a slap fight." He looked at Spencer with something akin to awe. "How the hell did you manage that?"
Spencer laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Boredom is a great motivator. It's not like there's much going on in Denson. She was pretty stoked at the idea of having something new to do."
Brant turned to me with a smirk. "He begged." Spencer huffed indignantly and leaned forward to refill his drink, ignoring the accusation as Brant continued. "That's the only logical explanation for someone who is that smart and accomplished to want to take a bullshit job like that. I bet he cried a little, too." He chuckled and looked over at me for support.
"Oh yeah. I bet he crawled into that realty office on his hands and knees, pleading with her to take the job because we couldn't find anyone else in that shithole town to do it."
"Fuck. You. Both." Spencer didn't sound quite as bored as he wanted to. His shoulders were bunching in that tell-tale way they did when he was getting annoyed.
"Aww, come on, Spence. Don't be like that." Brant managed to barely hold back his laughter, but it was obvious in his voice.
He pointed at Brant, hand and voice both steady. "So she's well-educated and doing a small time job. Can't imagine how anyone would find satisfaction in that. Right?"
The remark was a thinly veiled reference to Brant's own level of intelligence. The bastard had an IQ near 180, had graduated high school at fifteen, and was smarter than every professor who taught him in college. He was a fucking genius, no doubt about it.
"Point taken. Yes, I work with my hands for a living despite what was expected of me and I love every minute of it. Maybe she is the same. No judgement. I was just fucking with you."
Spencer's face fell a bit when he realized how Brant had taken the comment. Brant wasn't known to joke around often and had truly meant no offense. Something about being as smart as he was also left him ill-equipped in social situations. It was that trait in particular that had been the foundation of our friendship. Being so much younger than everyone else in college, he'd stayed to himself and tried to focus on his courses. For the most part, he was invisible.
Then, in our third year, Spencer and I were paired with him for a huge project. We'd sneaked into the lecture hall late, hiding at the back so we could nurse our hangovers in relative obscurity, and ended up sitting beside Brant. When we were assigned in groups of three according to our seating, Brant became our third.
We learned more from working with him on that assignment than we learned in the entire rest of the course. He was fucking brilliant.
When some of the frat guys started hassling him a few months later, Spencer and I stepped in. He was younger, smarter, and quiet by nature, which made him a prime target. I was still in my barroom brawler phase so it worked out well for everyone. Except maybe the frat brothers who got their asses handed to them.
From that day on, it was the three of us. We spent the next year planning a business, and the year after graduation we made it happen. That one for all and all for one shit wasn't just something you read somewhere. It was something we were and are.
Brothers.
Spencer reached toward the small table that held our drinks — along with an assortment of garnishes that no man in his right mind would add to booze this good — and flicked a lemon slice at Brant, laughing to break the tension. "Suck it, asshole."
Brant calmly placed the fruit in his mouth and bit down, making a disgusting slurping sound before flipping Spencer the bird.
I cleared my throat and waited for their attention. "We came here to celebrate, boys. I say it's time we get to it." I raised my glass, the ice orb clicking against the side. "To another job well done." They raised their glasses in salute and we took a deep drink to commemorate the occasion.
Spencer a
dded, "To the next job. Well, jobs. May they go just as smoothly as the last."
The pleasant burn of my aged bourbon was somehow tempered by the thought of the upcoming project. Oh, the build would go great despite my intense desire to avoid it. Our work was never anything short of spectacular. That wasn't my vanity talking. It was a fact.
This time, though, no matter the budget, the cost would be a lot higher.
Maybe higher than even I could have predicted.
SUNDAY MORNING FOUND me and Ali out picking berries before the dew had even evaporated, tasting a few along the way and chatting agreeably. There was no awkwardness, no wary distance. We just fell into step with one another like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was disturbingly exhilarating.
It took three trips to get all the berries in the truck. We settled into a companionable silence as we carried the last batch toward the parking area, each enjoying the morning sun before the heat settled in and made the day miserably hot. As we stood at the rear doors and loaded the berries in the back seat of my rig, Ali reached down and plucked up a handful. Occupied as I was with strapping the flats of fruit in on my side, I was startled when an enormous, blood-red berry was suddenly right in my face, held there by small, delicate fingers. I glanced up at Ali. She grinned at me playfully and held it up for me to taste, almost daring me to eat from her hand.
Challenge accepted.
Not taking my eyes off hers, I wrapped my lips around the plump flesh, slowly biting down and savoring every sun-warmed drop of juice. Her hand shook almost imperceptibly, and I watched with satisfaction as a shudder rippled over her. Still not breaking eye contact, I retrieved a berry from the flat in front of me, holding it to her lips. When she started to drop the hand that she had used to feed me, I took it in my free hand and repositioned it so that I could capture the last bit of fruit.
Watching her intently, I nibbled and sucked the last of the strawberry she'd offered, patiently waiting for her to take a bite. I allowed her hand to drop from my lips but held her wrist in my grip, not wanting her to take it back just yet. She watched me, transfixed for a moment before slowly parting her lips and placing them around my offering. Moving slowly, obviously enjoying both the berry and the moment, she sank her teeth in, her lips nearly brushing the tips of my fingers. The soft sucking sound she made as she captured the juice that threatened to spill over her lips nearly broke my resolve.
Fuck. I wanted to be the one licking that sweet juice from her lips.
I was so close to acting on it that my tongue made an involuntary pass across my lower lip, mirroring her movements and making her eyes widen as she watched me. I could practically taste the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her skin. What had started out as a playful gesture had turned into a wildly erotic moment, one that I knew held the power to break me, as did she.
My internal struggle raged on. Every cell in my body screamed for me to take this woman, the throbbing erection that strained against my jeans leading the damn charge. My pulse buzzed in my ears as my grip on her wrist tightened fractionally, preparing to pull her in and claim her mouth. I'd half convinced myself that one taste was all I needed, just one fleeting trespass over the line before retreating to a safe distance.
Yeah, right. She eats a goddamn strawberry in front of you and you're ready to jump her right on the spot. You're a pinnacle of self-control. So, what happens when you see her with a banana, fucknut?
It was with the sheer force of will that I managed to release my hold on her. As my fingers released her and skimmed over the skin of her wrist, I saw a flicker of disappointment in her expression followed quickly by a look of relief. She dropped her eyes and the air around me cooled, as if her gaze had been a blanket that was suddenly ripped away, leaving me cold and exposed.
We drove to the diner in relative silence
WHEN WE DROPPED the berries off at the diner, Ali insisted on treating me to breakfast as payment for my assistance.
As we walked into the diner and out of the heat, I noted the sign on the door that boasted the best fresh strawberry pie in Virginia. Glancing around, I was surprised by the interior. Either someone had paid out the ass for a beautiful retro makeover or this place was the genuine article. The real soda fountain, Wurlitzer jukebox playing softly in the far corner, leather booths, and chromed counter-stools could have been done by most designers and made to look appropriate. There was something about the feel of this place, though.
The lighting, the obviously one-of-a-kind pieces, they made me think it was the real deal. It had a feeling of history, so overwhelming that it was hard to look away, as if ghosts of patrons past were welcoming you to their favorite hangout.
The mouth-watering smells from the kitchen elicited an immediate response from my stomach. The smoky scents coming from the grill mingled together in the air in such a way that after one whiff, I was instantly ravenous.
Ali let me scope the place out for a bit before indicating a table at the back. We took our seats amid the sounds of forks clattering and coffee spoons clicking against ceramic cups.
Our waitress came by and brought us coffee, leaving menus strictly for my benefit since Ali basically helped manage the place. I told the kindly older woman — whose name was Fay according to her nametag — to take her time getting back to us, since I had no idea what I wanted.
Well, I knew but what I had in mind was most definitely not on the menu.
After a few minutes, the silence between us was beginning to get uncomfortable. Deciding to break the ice a bit, I turned to Ali. "I noticed the size of your book collection earlier. That bookshelf is packed. Did you bring them all here from D.C.?"
Ali and Talia's Denson domicile was a small apartment over a dry cleaning business that looked to have been closed down for quite some time. When I'd picked her up that morning, I'd briefly stepped into the apartment and noticed that the only personal touches — at least in the area I'd seen — were several canvases stacked against one wall and a huge collection of books. They were stacked tightly on a book shelf, on the coffee table, everywhere. I'd known instantly whose they were.
She visibly relaxed for the first time since what happened at the strawberry farm. "No, I didn't bring any of them from home. I've collected them all these last few weeks." She smiled softly as she spoke, a far-away look in her eye, her body there with me in the diner, but her mind wandering in some distant place. "There's a used book store two streets over from the office. I stumbled across it a few days after I came to town. Mismatched shelves from floor to ceiling and the smell of dusty old pages, it's my favorite place to spend time when Talia is in D.C.. I sneak over there during my lunch hour and dig through the stacks sometimes. There's a sitting area in the back where I'll sit and read while I nibble on a sandwich. I eat lunch at the diner when Talia is here but the noise in there keeps me from enjoying a book, too much distraction. While she's away, I have lunch with the books."
"Why not just bring them back to the office to read? It's pretty quiet there most of the time, right?"
She hesitated, her brow pinching in thought. "For some reason the quiet in that bookstore is different from the quiet everywhere else. Most of the time silence is the absence of something and it feels lonely. But in there, the silence seems to be caused by the presence of something, something extra that only exists in that room. Like all those books are a barrier to the noise, even the noise in your own head, holding the world at bay so you can enjoy their stories in peace."
I'd never been one to read for pleasure, never found the joy in it that so many people did, but hearing her talk about it and how it felt in that store made me wonder. Lately, I needed a little help with the noise in my head. Maybe it was worth looking into.
She studied me for a moment with a curious expression, absently fiddling with her locket. "Enough about my bookish tendencies. What do you do for fun? Any hobbies?"
Since I was trying to avoid any more sexually charged moments, talking ab
out my favorite hobby was out of the question. "I'm not sure I'd call it a hobby, exactly, but I do spend a lot of time working on custom design elements using salvaged materials. Furnishings, structural pieces, decorative pieces, whatever my mind will churn out." I shrugged. "Primarily, CBD builds houses. Some of our projects have been featured on MTV Cribs and some would have looked great in Gone with the Wind, just depends on what the client is looking for. I like designing the homes from the ground up, alternating ideas with Brant and trying to one-up each other with our creativity, but I still spend most of my non-working hours in my workshop making pieces that incorporate salvaged materials. No blueprints, no straight lines, just a sketch pad and a few tools."
Ali's soft smile returned as she asked, "So, is the work you do outside of the company's projects totally separate or do you build things to go in the houses, too?"
"Some of our clients request personalized pieces but I do the majority of the designs with no particular buyer in mind." I scrolled through photos on my phone, handing it to her and motioning for her to scroll through the album. "That first pic is a massive chandelier that went in one of the houses. I used old copper pipe and stained glass the client salvaged from his grandfather's estate. Several of the items in that album were sold at auction, pieces made out of old car parts and reclaimed wood. You'd be surprised at the amount of interest they get."
Ali took her time inspecting the photos, her soft smile radiant when she handed back the phone. "As excited as I am to find out you're an artist too, I'm kind of intimidated now. Those pieces are phenomenal."
I waved her off. "Don't even try it. I saw the paintings in your living room this morning. You're a pretty kick-ass artist yourself. I didn't mean to snoop but I couldn't look away, they were so beautiful."
