by Monroe, Max
It rings three times before her voice mail picks up, and I wait dutifully for the beep to prompt me to talk.
Beep.
“Liz, what the ever-loving hell? The assistant I’ve ended up with in your absence—if you can even call her that—is completely unacceptable. She’s filing her fucking nails and talking about Sexy City and women I’ve never heard of, and instead of working, she keeps taking pictures of her coffee cup and tits, and I need you to come back in for a few days until you can find a replacement for her. Call me back, call me back, call me back.”
I’ll deliver her baby myself if it means I don’t have to deal with the woman who’s been taking duck-face selfies all day behind her desk.
I glance at the clock to get an update on the time now that Hillary isn’t here to remind me of it and her goddamn margaritas, and its numbers glow their evil red truth like a demon’s eyes.
It’s five after four, and the law library closes at four thirty.
Fucking hell.
I jump up, swing my suit jacket off the coat hook and over my shoulders, and grab my keys, wallet, and phone, and charge toward my office door. When I step outside, what should be Liz’s desk is devoid of the vapid, margarita-loving nail-filer. Apparently, after our encounter, quitting time came even earlier for Hillary.
Or should I say Hell-ary? Her presence in my office has certainly made it feel like Satan decided to pop in today and fuck my shit up.
Son of a bitch. This day is a disaster.
With absolutely no choice but to get shit done myself, I run for the elevator and push the call button six times, as if my enthusiasm will make it arrive faster. It’s going to take a miracle to get me there on time. But I can’t get anywhere in the Huffman Industries case without looking up the jurisdiction parameters of a similar case with the same judge ten years ago, and I promised Gene Huffman some kind of insight by tomorrow.
And I keep my fucking promises. I do what I say, and I get results. It’s what’s gotten me this far—it’s what’s made me the most sought-after corporate lawyer in North America—and there’s no way in hell I’m going to start presenting some mediocre bullshit now.
The elevator comes, and I jump inside and start pushing the door close button manically.
It does close—eventually—but I’m almost certain I’ve just confirmed that the door close button isn’t actually wired to anything other than a light. It’s there just to make you feel like you’re doing something.
Time ticks as an annoying collection of flutes plays something reminiscent of funeral music in the background—something I’ve never noticed before.
It’s a good thing I didn’t hear it for the first time on the way into the building. I might have taken it as a sign that I was free to live even more recklessly.
I smirk at the thought. My friends would absolutely shit themselves if I got any crazier than I am now.
Luckily, when I get to the lobby, my driver is at the front desk chatting with security. He looks up and sees me and, used to my pace, starts walking toward me and the door immediately.
“Hey, Vin,” I greet as he holds the front door of the building open for me.
“Mr. Hawkins.”
“The car is here?” I ask, and he nods.
“Got the spot right out front.”
“Great,” I murmur as I scan for it. “I need to get to the law library in the next fifteen minutes.”
Traffic in New York is never anything other than awful, but Vinny Hugano is the best goddamn driver available.
There’s never been a time he hasn’t gotten me somewhere on time, no matter the circumstances. I’m talking pigs flying, fat lady singing kind of obstacles, and still, he’s made it happen. I’m not sure if he’s a magician or immortal or maybe somehow related to a vampire or deity, but I’m not stupid enough to look Edward Cullen in the mouth.
So, today, I’m almost positive he’ll manage. Bolstering our chances for a timely arrival, the law library is only five or six blocks away.
Vinny opens my door, and I slide inside as he rounds the front and climbs in the driver door. The Suburban is fired up before I’ve even got my door closed all the way, and we’re pulling away from the curb.
I take out my phone and glance through emails before dialing Liz again. It goes to voice mail once more, but this time, I don’t bother leaving a message. I’ll just demon dial her until she answers as soon as I’m done with this errand.
And I find a few new text messages inside a group chat with my closest guy friends.
Thatch: Poker night is tonight, and you clowns better be there.
Kline: This has to be the twentieth text message you’ve sent about poker night in the last twenty-four hours. We get it, T. It’s tonight. We’ll be there.
Wes: You planning on sending out invitations you got off Etsy next? Make us RSVP and shit?
Thatch: Don’t tempt me. I’ll send a singing-fluffing-telegram to your office, Whitney.
Smartasses. The whole lot of ’em. I laugh to myself and continue reading the rest of the exchange.
Trent: We’ll be there, Thatch. We’ve all said we’d be there one million times.
Milo: Well, most of us will be there. Cap might not be able to come because he’s swamped at work. Liz is out on maternity leave, but I think his new assistant Hillary might be able to play a few rounds once she finishes up margs with the girls.
Fucking bastard. I roll my eyes and type out a response.
Me: Aw, poor Milo. Are you feeling insecure because I hung up on you? You know ole Cap still loves you, sweetheart.
Milo: Aw, thanks, honey. That means a lot. And you know what? Don’t be too hard on yourself that you’re currently out running your own errands because your new assistant left work early and is busy consuming her first marg…
Me: Funny fucking ha-ha.
Sadly, he’s not far off from my reality, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Of course, though, my bastard friends aren’t finished trying to razz me.
Thatch: Cap, before you get too busy running your own errands, can you give me Hillary’s number so I can call her and see if she’ll fill in for you? We can’t be short a player.
Me: You bastards better bring extra money tonight because I’m going to clean you the fuck out.
I lock the screen of my phone and grin.
I’m a fucking corporate lawyer. My poker face is aces, and there’s no doubt I will steal all their damn money tonight.
Yeah, but first, you’re going to go to the fucking law library to do the kind of research that, at this point in your career, you should be paying other people to do for you…
“Fuck this day,” I huff with a sigh. I haven’t been to the library to do my own research in at least five years.
Shit, probably more.
I’m fairly confident I’ll figure it out, but this is a real pain in my ass. I’m not at this place in my career anymore. I’ve worked ninety-hour weeks for the majority of the last several years to make sure of it.
We pull up in front of the architecturally impressive building that houses the library, and Vinny hits the locks. After years of working for me, he knows I won’t wait for him to come to my door and doesn’t even bother attempting the formality.
I shove out and jog to the front door, holding its heavy, nine-foot weight open for a woman exiting and flashing her a smile. She blushes, and some of the bitterness I feel because of Hillary disappears.
In general, I love women.
Love talking with them, working with them, listening to them, looking at them…and goddamn, do I love fucking them.
Bent over, leg lifted, missionary, cowgirl, wheelbarrow, doggy style, spooning, in the shower, against the wall—I’ll fuck a woman any way, anywhere, and I’ll make sure it’s the best goddamn sex she’s had in her whole entire life.
That’s what makes it so offensive when someone like Hillary comes along and puts absolutely no effort into her intelligence. It gives the rest of
the female population of goddesses a generalized bad name, and quite frankly, it gives me a fucking headache.
I pass by the marble front desk in a hurry, but my swift stride does nothing to stop me from noticing the stunning woman sitting behind it. With blond hair, soft skin, and a pink-and-black-flowered sundress slipping off the edge of one petite shoulder, she has her head down and is tucked toward her phone with a pair of earbuds in her ears.
Hot damn, my eyes are loving this view.
She’s concentrating so hard on whatever she’s doing that she doesn’t notice me, but I don’t have time to alert her. As much as I’d love to, the clock is fucking ticking.
The computers are up a floor, so I take the stairs two at a time until I make it to the top, turn right, and head straight into the research room. An empty spot right in front beckons.
I make it to the computer and bring it to life with the mouse and then get to work on my search. A transcript of the court minutes will be on file somewhere in here, but I’m counting on my search to tell me where.
When I finally find the shelf location, I click out of the search engine, make my way out of the computer room, and find the file in a hurry. When I pull it from the shelf in its blue folder, the thickness worries me.
I sure as fuck hope I’m going to be able to find what I’m looking for in this thing by tomorrow morning.
I do a quick scan of the pages, but I don’t have time for much else. It’s five minutes until close, and these are the kinds of files they don’t let you take with you. If I’m going to have the time to find what I’m looking for, it’s going to have to be tonight as I read through copies after poker night with the guys.
Decided, I hurry to the staircase leading to the main lobby and make my way down it.
The pretty blonde at the desk is still there, looking down and fiddling with the material of her sundress as I approach. Damn, that’s sexy. I’m practically mesmerized by the way her French-tipped nails move against the fabric and, every once in a while, brush against the silky-smooth skin of her toned legs.
But with a quick shake of my head, I bring myself back to reality.
She’s a little goddess, yes, but I need these copies more than I need my next fucking breath.
But when she doesn’t look up immediately, I have far too much time to study the exquisite lines of her face closely, and before I can stop myself, a new challenge presents itself.
How am I going to get her attention without startling her? And more importantly, how long, once I have it, will it take me to get inside her?
I guess it’s a good thing I’ve always been quite skilled at multitasking…
Ruby
My breath catches and hangs in my chest like it’s trapped inside a balloon as the audiobook narrator softens her voice to a seductive hum.
God, I love audiobooks like this, where it’s dual narration throughout the entire book.
It makes the story jump off the pages and come to life.
I’m just getting to the part in the book where the hero and heroine come together for the first time, after a week and a half of reading in dribs and drabs thanks to the requirements of adulthood, and the anticipation has my nerves shot all to hell.
There’s been thrusting and touching and a whole hell of a lot of tongue, and I’m as close to climax as the heroine is at this point.
That’s it, Sergio, push me over the edge.
“Oh God,” Catarina moans in my ear, the fall into a pleasure-filled abyss all but in progress.
My eyes close and my chest tightens as I rub at the fabric of my sundress to steel against an unsatisfied ache between my legs.
It’s been a year and some change since I’ve felt the stroke of a man for real, and, with how busy I am, I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I sleep, eat, go to law school, go to work, and on days like today, when I have a hint of free time, I do things like cover for my best friend Kevin at his job at the law library.
I need this orgasm more than Catarina does—and she’s a thirty-five-year-old excommunicated nun having sex for the first time ever.
I blink languidly, so ready to hear Sergio’s heartfelt, sated words I’m almost shaking—and look right into the caramel-brown eyes of a man I’ve never met.
Oh, shiitake mushrooms.
I’m right on the cusp of coming by association, and a stranger is waving at me to get my attention. He smirks, and my stomach drops. Holy horny basketballs—can he tell I’m a millisecond from proverbial climax?!
A gorgeous, muscled, tanned, perfectly suited stranger who’s waiting on me to do my job might know what my O-face looks like.
Shiiit.
I rip off my headphones quickly, scrambling to pause the audiobook on my phone by clicking at the screen, but it won’t stop. I can hear the low hum of Sergio telling Catarina how perfect her pussy is, and I panic.
Oh God, if I can hear it, the gorgeous man with the dimples can probably hear it too!
I snatch the phone from the marble top of the library front desk and bang it against my other hand like I, all of a sudden, need to turn into the Hulk to turn off my audiobook. Of course, the bang does nothing other than throw off my equilibrium, dislodging the phone from its spot between my fingers and sending it into a ping-pong-like match between my hands.
I smile anxiously—read: like a lunatic—at the man who’s made patience look like a birthright, and I gasp when my lack of coordination finally outwits my persistence. The phone lurches toward the floor, and with a shattered screen and the money it will cost to fix it flashing through my mind, I do the only thing I can think of.
I grab the cord of the headphones, desperate to stop the descent.
Unfortunately, I’ve overestimated the strength of the cord entirely. The plug lets go, not only allowing my phone to smack into the stone floor with a sickening thud, but also switching the audio of my book from headphones to full speaker mode.
“Oh God, Sergio. I love your cock,” Catarina says, and for all the echoing going on in the centuries-old architecture of this fucking chasmlike place, she may as well have yelled it.
Holy audiobook orgasms. My cheeks flush pink, and my heart stops beating in an impressive showing of synchronization. I am mortified.
The man standing in front of me bites at the plump flesh of his bottom lip as his smile deepens.
“Fuck yes, you do,” Sergio says. “Your pussy loves it.”
Cool it, Sergio, you horny bastard!
I scramble for the phone on the ground, dropping to my knees without care for how hard the tile will be as they hit it and slapping at the phone like a cat with a string.
In a matter of ten seconds, I’ve morphed from a woman running the front desk at the law library into a flipping vaudeville comedy act. Add in some old-timey music and jazz hands, and I’ll be able to take this goddamn spectacle on the road.
“Oh yes. Oh yes!” Catarina shouts.
Good Lord, Catarina! Can’t you come quietly, for fuck’s sake?
If I didn’t know this was a contemporary romance audiobook, I’d be convinced Catarina was in the middle of a porno. For once in my life, I’m a little annoyed that the male and female narrators are so convincing.
I can hear the handsome man’s throat clear above me, but I don’t look up. I know the torture won’t end until I find the off button and successfully push it.
Frantic enough to try anything, I slap a flat hand over the device like a spatula, just to trap it from traveling any more, and reach over with the other to scoop it up. Almost like when you trap a spider with a cup and have to use a piece of paper to make sure it can’t get out.
I pick it up as Sergio climaxes, shouting his triumph for all of the New York Public Access Law Library to hear. “It feels so good,” he groans huskily a few seconds later.
My phone in check, I find the button with my thumb and push the pause button manically.
Unfortunately, I click it so many times, the device can’t decide what to do, swi
tching on and off in rapid succession, alternating between silence and Sergio and Catarina’s throes of passion.
“You’re gripping me so tight!”
Silence.
“God, Sergio, I love you! I love your cock!”
Silence.
Insanely hot stranger man and I stand in opposing silence—his smile growing by the second and my stomach trying to turn itself inside out—while we wait for my phone to decide on which command to land or for Sergio and Catarina to stop waxing poetic about their orgasms and each other’s private parts.
It comes to heel eventually—I am a human with opposable thumbs after all—but not before the embarrassment has had time to really percolate. If this shit were tea, it’d be dark as hell.
No milk, no cream, no sugar, just straight-up black and bitter.
I guess if there’s any silver lining to be had, it’s that the screen on my phone, somehow, remains intact.
“Interesting,” the man says softly when Sergio’s groans and Catarina’s moans finally give way to silence. “Very interesting.”
I try to cover my discomfort with fidgeting—tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, shifting on my feet, straightening nonexistent items on the desk, and turning behind me to grab a pen I clearly don’t need.
He doesn’t comment, but boy oh boy, the strength of his smirk when I finally meet his eyes is comment enough. It would melt paint off walls, cement off sidewalks, and seven layers of panties off a woman.
It’s the kind of smirk that clenches a fist around your heart and sends a zap of lightning to your soul.
It’s the kind of smirk that few men can do but all wish they could, and it’s all I can do to stay upright as I look at it.
“Um, hi,” I say, choosing the easiest words possible. I mean, it’s not really a choice, seeing as doing so is actually crucial to my survival, but it’s the route I go all the same. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to interrupt…” He pauses, and that smirk is still there, knowingly pointed in my direction. “But I need to make copies of this court transcript,” he says, holding it up and waving it in front of me just in case I don’t understand words. Given my current trauma, it’s probably not a bad idea.
