by Evelyn Adams
I laughed with the others as Meredith told a story about a bride who wanted a penguin wedding cake. When the waiter brought our drinks, I glanced at the doorway, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed to find Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous gone.
“TOOK YOU LONG enough.” Jared slapped me on the back and put a rocks glass of Macallan in my hand. There was an advantage to having friends who knew me so well.
“I got sidetracked on the way in.” I took a swallow of the smoky amber liquid, remembering how fucking good the petite detour with the big eyes and tight curves felt in my arms.
I glanced in the direction she’d gone when we parted and found her sitting at a table with a group of women. Her face turned in my direction as if she’d felt my gaze, and I sucked in a breath at the sucker punch to my gut when her eyes met mine. If the speed with which she glanced away was any indication, she’d felt it too.
“Nice,” said Ben, stretching his neck to follow the direction of my gaze. “It’s about time you got interested in someone. Which one was she?”
“The redhead is stunning,” said Jared. “Hell, they all are. Want to move the party over there?”
Actually, friends might be overrated, I thought, uncertain why the idea of reducing the encounter to a pickup opportunity bothered me.
“Matt’s waiting for us in the kitchen. He’s going to be pissed if we ruin his oysters.” The excuse sounded lame, but it’s all I had.
“You sure, man? It’s been a long time since Julie,” said Ben, his voice taking on a serious note that wouldn’t get us anywhere I wanted to be.
“Positive. Let’s go before Chef has an aneurysm.” I tossed back the last of my Scotch and turned toward the door to the kitchen, not waiting to see if the others followed me. The sooner I got the beautiful woman who managed to bring all my protective instincts roaring to life out of my sight, the sooner I’d be able to get her out of my mind.
Matt was cursing up a blue streak behind the line. Not at his staff. I’d known the temperamental chef long enough to know he was a ball buster, but he didn’t fit the terrifying the line cooks stereotype, especially since so many of them were older than him. He made it a point to hire people with roots in Creole cooking and then help refine what they already knew. If he’d had to swear at them, they’d have been gone already.
From the sound of it, some poor patron had the nerve to order the trout amandine without the almonds and with the meunière sauce on the side. Matt was worse than Frank Lloyd Wright in his obsession to details. Wright built in furniture so his clients wouldn’t mess up his designs by moving in their own things. Matt gave people his food the way they were supposed to eat it.
“It’s not trout amandine without the almonds. May as well make it without the fucking fish. Cochons.”
By the expression on their faces, a couple of the cooks might have sympathy for the patron with the possible nut allergy, but they weren’t about to say it out loud.
“Pesky customers getting in the way of your genius again?” I asked, moving close enough to the line so Matt could see me but not close enough to get in the way of the white-jacketed servers hurrying to pick up finished plates.
If the restaurant’s dining room and bar with its white tablecloth tables and bottle-lined walls were an homage to Tennessee Williams’s New Orleans, the kitchen belonged to Degas. It was copper vent hoods and scarred wooden counters and the heady aroma of charbroiled meat and peppers—fire to the cool civility of the front of the house scene.
“About fucking time,” said Matt, glancing up from the fish he was preparing. “Go sit down.” He motioned with his head to the chef’s table tucked in one corner of the kitchen. He occasionally did VIP dinners for patrons who wanted a more intimate experience, but not as often as he could have. Mainly, I guessed, because he couldn’t hold his tongue.
“The hospitality is inspirational, man,” said Jared.
“Fuck you.” Ignoring us, he turned and gave a few brief instructions to the cook beside him before picking up a platter from the cold prep part of the line and coming around the counter to meet us. “Nina,” he said, grabbing a server as she went past. “Get someone to bring us a bottle of the Trevisiol.”
“Yes, Chef,” she said, changing directions to hurry off and do his bidding.
“Eat them before the ice melts.” He set the platter of oysters on the well-worn wooden table in front of us and watched while I lifted one of the shells from its bed of crushed ice.
I brought the oyster to my lips and tipped the entire thing into my mouth, not bothering to stifle my groan of pleasure as the sweet briney liquor hit the back of my palate.
“What is that?” I liked my oysters with cocktail sauce I knew better than to ask for, but what Matt offered us was something so much better. There was the clean taste of icy-fresh oyster combined with the sharp bite of citrus, topped with a heat that was more than simple pepper.
“Gulf oysters with kumquat and pink peppercorn granita,” said Matt. He picked up a shell and tossed back an oyster, smiling like someone immensely pleased with himself. “They go on the menu this weekend.”
We made quick work of the rest of the oysters while Nina returned with a bottle of prosecco and four stemless flutes. The crisp sparkling wine was perfect with the mineral taste of the oysters. I resisted the urge to wax on about the pairing. No reason for Matt’s head to get any bigger. He knew he was a master; reinforcing it just made him harder to live with.
He motioned to the older man expediting and four plates appeared, holding chunks of seared mustard crusted beef on a bed of white beans. Matt hadn’t bothered to ask how we wanted our steak cooked. I honestly don’t think he cared, which worked for me, I thought as I cut into the perfectly rare filet.
“Are you playing this weekend?” asked Ben after Nina cleared our plates and swapped our wine glasses for rocks glasses of Scotch.
I took a swallow of the Macallan, letting the earthy amber liquid roll around on my tongue while I waited for somebody else to answer. Since Julie left, I didn’t play as much as the others. I didn’t want to. Or I hadn’t until an hour or so earlier when the beautiful brunette fell into my arms, which was crazy. I wasn’t interested in anything serious. Fun maybe, but nothing that even whispered at a relationship. Ending things with Julie cured me of those impulses.
I’d never seen the woman before, which meant she probably wasn’t already in the lifestyle. It was a small enough community and I’d remember those big brown eyes. I loved the way her clothes screamed sex, but she still blushed for me. Her hesitation to meet my gaze and the way she’d softened in my arms made me think there was more there. Much more, but that could be my protective side. Seeing her almost fall and then catching her pushed every one of my buttons. Closet submissive or not, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in being part of anyone’s BDSM Welcome Wagon.
“Maybe you can bring the woman who sidetracked you to the club,” said Jared.
It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me, and I shook myself back to the present.
“You hardly ever play anymore,” said Matt. “Not since she-who-must-not-be-named.”
Ben snorted. “He made a Harry Potter kink reference. That’s all kinds of fucked up.”
“I’m not wrong,” said Matt, his expression uncharacteristically sympathetic, which only set my nerves even more on edge. “It’s time for you to get back in the game. Someone new could be good for you.”
I hadn’t been to Bacchus since the clusterfuck—not the fun kind, either—months ago. I could still picture the expression on the guy’s face as the bouncers dragged him out of the club after he went too far with the woman he had bound to the horse. He’d kept insisting he’d known what he was doing. That he’d been trained. It seemed like every heterosexual guy in the world was turning into a self-proclaimed Dom and none of them knew what they were doing. I couldn’t do much about the glut of Dom wannabes, but I sure as hell intended to do everything in my power to make s
ure no one else got hurt. That was as far as my involvement in the club was going to go.
“I’m not interested in anything aside from this twenty-five-year-old single malt,” I said, determined to steer the conversation in a different direction.
I tried to call Julie’s face to mind to help me remember why jumping into something new was a bad idea. But instead of blonde hair and blue eyes, my mind filled with dark hair and brown ones.
“EXPLAIN TO ME AGAIN WHAT we’re doing here.” I smoothed the skirt of my ladies who lunch suit and snagged a mimosa I was sure was more carb-laden orange juice than champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
“I’m here to make nice with future clients, and you’re here because you love me, and you don’t have anything better to do.” Elena hit me with a smile that dared me to contradict her, her hazel eyes lighting up mischievously.
She’d pulled her light-brown hair back into a smooth twist and she wore the Chanel suit like she’d been born for it. I knew better. She’d been raised by a single mother in a house it would be generous to call modest. The veneer of wealth she wore like a second skin was earned, not her birthright. She’d paid for it by having exquisite taste and the ability to transform a space into something both beautiful and uniquely suited to its inhabitants. She might not have the pull or the client lists of some of the older, more established interior design firms yet, but she would. With her drive and skill, I didn’t have any doubts that it was only a matter of time before she ruled the city.
“I have lots of things to do.” She arched an elegantly groomed eyebrow at me and I didn’t bother trying to hide my smirk. “Okay, maybe not, but I do love you.”
It was odd not to have to go to work every day. I’d gotten used to logging in a generous number of client hours every week, but my business was more than that. I spent easily twice as much time on marketing and coaxing potential clients to take the plunge and hire me. Glancing around the room at the polished to within an inch of their lives women, I wondered if any of them had benefited from my services. I hoped so. Every woman deserved her orgasms the way she wanted them, but with the cease-and-desist hanging over my head, it was hard to think of any of that.
“So what do we do?” I might not be able to think about my own business, but I could at least help my friend. “Divide and conquer? Thin the weak from the herd?”
“Sure. Nothing says high-end interior design like hunting metaphors.” Elena set her half-empty glass on the nearby tray. She clearly exercised more restraint when it came to carbs than I did. “Just be nice. Charming, if you can manage it without hurting yourself. Being seen at these things gives me credibility when I’m asking people to trust me with their homes. They feel more comfortable if someone they know recommends me or they recognize me from one of these things. Until I score a big job like something on the Garden District Home Tour, this is my best advertising.”
It made sense and despite my current emotional state, I ought to be able to manage friendly and approachable, if not charming. I followed Elena to a table with two empty chairs and shared smiles with the women already seated. My friend quickly fell into a conversation with the woman sitting next to her. It wasn’t exactly a what do you do for a living kind of crowd and I searched my brain for an opening line. Thankfully, I was saved by a size-zero blonde in a simple sheath dress I was sure cost more than most people’s mortgage payments, tapping on the open mic.
“Hello,” she said with a nervous giggle as the mic amplified her voice. “I’d like to thank you all for coming today to support such a noble cause. Before we get started with the rest of the program, I’d like to introduce one of our most important benefactors, Counselor Erik Jensen.”
I glanced from the mimosa I was sucking down to the head table to see who was the unlucky dude in a room full of bored rich wives, and the breath caught in my throat.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous was making his way to the microphone. Good Lord, my memory hadn’t done him justice. If anything, he was more delicious than I remembered. His custom-made suit—the man had seriously fine taste in clothes—was charcoal this time, with a scarlet silk tie I was trying not to picture wrapped around my fist. Or tied around my wrists. When he stretched out his arms to grab the podium, I got a glimpse of tanned wrists and small onyx cufflinks.
For someone who made a living from others’ fetishes, I had remarkably few of my own, but if I had to name one, it was a man’s wrists. I loved how strong they were, how different from mine, how they looked against my pale skin. Add a good watch and I’d go weak in the knees. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous was wearing a very good watch.
I had to stop thinking of him like that. I had a name for him now. Erik Jensen. And then he opened his mouth and my good intentions died.
“Domestic violence is an important cause to me, perhaps the most important,” he said, his melted caramel voice washing over the room. “There are few sins a man can commit worse than mistreating a woman or child. I’m grateful to be able to support an organization that works so hard to protect the women of this city and their families. Thank you for having me and thank you for the work you do.”
Unless you were talking about signing a check, I doubted that any of the women in the room did any actual work. That didn’t stop them from applauding loudly at Mr. Jensen’s compliment. They were still clapping as he made his way from the podium and out the door. The disappointment in the room was palpable when the other women realized he wasn’t coming back, but for me, it was the first time I could catch my breath since he’d taken the stage.
He hadn’t noticed me. There was no reason for him to recognize me. I was sure he’d made more of an impression on me than I had him. That didn’t stop my heart from trying to double time its way out of my chest. What was wrong with me? I spent my days with men, being tied up by men. I thought I was long past the point when a simple attraction could knock me off my game. There was something about this man, something I couldn’t put a name to that was different from all the others.
With an increasingly familiar mixture of regret and relief, I turned my attention back to making conversation with the woman on my right.
“YOU’RE AWFULLY DRESSED up,” said Charlotte hours later, tapping her pale-pink lacquered nail against her desk.
I hadn’t bothered to go home to change after the benefit. Although after the overworked chicken mousse quenelles and baby vegetables, I’d been tempted to go for second lunch. In a city known for its food, it had been a disappointment, definitely not worth the calories I’d have to burn off later, which wouldn’t have stopped me if Elena had been willing to grab a po’ boy or beans and rice somewhere. But if we’d done that, I’d have told her about meeting Erik Jensen—if I could even call it that—and I wasn’t ready to do that. I didn’t like how unsettled he made me feel, and I didn’t want to try to explain it to anyone. At least not yet.
“I had a ladies who lunch thing with Elena. You said you had news?” Please let it be that all of this was a big mistake and I could get on with my life. I’d been playing every possible doomsday scenario in my head since I got Charlotte’s message. Dropping to the couch, I held my breath and waited for my friend to tell me everything was going to be okay.
She leaned forward in her chair, and my pulse kicked up about a hundred notches. “Our motion to dismiss was denied. I expected it to be.” She hurried on before I had a chance to swallow my tongue. “We didn’t really have any grounds to dismiss, but I had to try anyway. It would’ve been foolish not to.”
“So what happens now?” I asked, sucking in a breath and trying to get my racing heart to slow the fuck down.
“The court has scheduled the case management conference for Monday. After that, we’ll have a better idea of what to expect. The big thing right now is to keep them from being able to subpoena your client records.”
She may have said more but I couldn’t hear over the ringing in my ears. If they were able to get the names of my clients, it wouldn’t matter wha
t happened with the lawsuit. I’d be out of business before it ever went to trial. Discretion was essential to my work.
“Hey, don’t worry,” said Charlotte, coming out from behind her desk to sit on the couch with me. “I won’t let that happen. Things are moving faster than they usually do. I’m not sure why but it’s not a bad thing. And regardless of what the other party wants, the court wants us to settle.”
I didn’t know whether to find that reassuring or not. I wasn’t sure what settling would mean. I’d managed to squirrel a small amount of money away in savings, but if I had to change the name of my company or my brand, it would be like starting over from scratch. Worse. No one would take a chance on me if they had any inkling their identity might be exposed.
“What time on Monday? What do I need to bring?” I asked when I could breathe again.
“Nothing. You don’t need to be there. I can handle it myself.”
“I want to be there.” I couldn’t imagine sitting at home waiting to find out what was going to happen to my future.
“They won’t let you in the room,” said Charlotte. “The CMC is between counsel and the court. It’s just to set the schedule for discovery, any expert witnesses, and a trial date.”
When she said trial date, the ringing started in my ears again. I must not have done a very good job of hiding my fear, because she reached for my hand.
“It’s okay, Alex. I promise. It’ll be okay,” she said, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can come if you want to, but you’ll have to wait outside the room.”
“I can do that.” I nodded, wondering how I was supposed to sit in the hallway and wait for someone else to decide what was going to happen to the business I’d worked so hard to build.
I GLANCED AT my watch and told myself for the tenth time to get a grip on my fucking emotions. Thinking and feeling rarely went hand-in-hand, and thinking was what I needed for this case. Letting my emotions drive wasn’t normally a problem for me. In the eight years I’d been practicing law, I hadn’t come across a case that yanked my chain as badly as this one. Back Door Cinema versus Alexandra Smithson hit a little too close to home.
