“You’re right, that’s not good. I’m going to need you to level with me here, GT. We have attorney-client privilege, so be honest. Have you been lying on your taxes?”
“No,” I said, vehement. “No, Marc, I swear. This has to be a mistake.”
“All right. The first thing they’re going to do is an audit. We’ll need to pull together all your records—tax returns and every scrap of supporting documentation. Who’s your accountant?”
“My assistant Andrea does my accounting.”
“She does your taxes?”
“Yeah.”
Marc paused. “You don’t have a third-party accountant handle your taxes?”
“No. Andrea has an accounting degree. She’s always handled it for me.”
“That’s raising a red flag for me, GT.”
“You think Andrea made a mistake on my taxes?”
“If this is all due to an honest mistake, it’s more than one. An audit is one thing. Tax evasion is another. That means they have reason to believe you’ve falsified information to get out of paying what you owe. That’s not a mistake, GT. That’s either multiple mistakes over several years, or it’s something worse.”
June’s warning ran through my mind. She thought I trusted Andrea with too much. I’d figured she was overreacting—letting unnecessary jealousy cloud her judgment. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“What do we need to do to find out?” I asked.
“Does Andrea keep your files and records somewhere I can access without her knowing?”
“Yeah, I can give you my password.”
“Send it. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find.”
“Thanks, Marc.”
“Sure. Don’t panic yet. I’ll get back to you.”
While I waited to hear back from Marc, I decided to do my own digging. I almost never looked at my financial records. That was a lot of what I had Andrea do. She was more than an average assistant, and I paid her accordingly. It had always seemed so much easier to have one person who could do everything from make dinner reservations to oversee my investments. Andrea was good. She was on my team.
Wasn’t she?
I spent two days poring over tax returns and bank statements. I didn’t know what I was looking for. At first it all seemed like Greek to me. I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. How would I know if the numbers were wrong? And more importantly, would I be able to find the cause of any discrepancies?
After a while, things started to make sense. I could see where some of the numbers were coming from—matched them to my sources of income. My football salary was straightforward. I knew what that had been, and the numbers all added up.
But when I got to the ancillary income sources, especially a few of the smaller endorsement deals, something seemed off. I had to look up the contracts to be sure, and then I had a hard time finding them. My files looked to be meticulously organized, but there were key things missing. I’d done a commercial for a car dealership a couple of years back, and I couldn’t find a record of it anywhere. And it didn’t look like it had been reported on my taxes. That wasn’t good.
My tax payments didn’t make sense either. What Andrea was reporting on my tax returns as having been paid didn’t match what had come out of my bank account each quarter. It looked like I’d been overpaying, not underpaying, at least compared to the amounts Andrea had calculated. So if that money hadn’t been going to pay my taxes, where had it gone?
I called the bank and my sense of dread grew. My tax payments were all routed through a second account—an account that didn’t have my name on it.
There was no reason for Andrea to filter my money through another account. No good reason, at least.
When Marc called the next day, we compared notes. We’d both come to the same conclusion. Andrea hadn’t made a mistake on my taxes. She’d been stealing from me.
She’d underreported my income to the IRS, but still pulled the full amount of my tax payments from my bank account. We hadn’t been able to trace exactly where that money had gone, but it seemed clear that Andrea was pocketing the extra.
Marc advised me not to tell Andrea I knew the truth. He needed more time to prepare before we moved on this. He gave me a list of records and documentation to find, and we set up a meeting for the following week.
He also advised I keep the details of my predicament to myself for the time being. He didn’t want word getting back to Andrea that we were onto her—giving her time to cover her tracks, or get rid of evidence.
And I didn’t want June to know. I felt like the world’s biggest idiot for letting this happen. Just when I was getting settled—finding a new direction, a new place in the world—this had to knock me on my ass. And it was my own damn fault. I’d been acting like a spoiled athlete, letting someone else handle my shit, assuming it was fine. Assuming I could trust her.
I didn’t understand why Andrea had done this. I thought I’d been a good boss. I paid her well. Didn’t make ridiculous demands or act inappropriately with her. Was this retaliation for something? Or was she just an opportunist with a low moral code? From what Marc and I had found so far, it didn’t look like she’d been stealing for the first year she’d worked for me. The second year, there were a few numbers that looked wrong, but nothing on a large scale. Maybe she’d been testing me, seeing if I’d notice. When I hadn’t—because I just let her do her thing without checking on any of it—she’d gone further. Taken more.
I texted her to say I was going dark for a little while. I needed time to get my head together, so I wouldn’t be reachable. In reality, I didn’t trust myself to speak to her. If this all turned out to be true, she’d betrayed me. And I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forgive her.
I didn’t know if I’d be able to forgive myself, either.
32
June
I stood on the sidewalk with Cassidy, Scarlett, and Leah Mae after meeting them for Saturday brunch. All three of us stared up at the banner strung across Lake Drive. It was white with black lettering and silver and gold starbursts that were reminiscent of fireworks.
Bootleg Springs Do-Over Prom
Saturday, May 7th
“All I know is, Devlin better ask me,” Scarlett said.
“To the prom?” Cassidy asked.
“Yep,” Scarlett said. “A do-over prom for grown-ups? I’m going and he’s bringing me.”
Leah Mae looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I’m so excited.”
“Why are you even worried about it, Scar?” Cassidy asked. “It’s not like he’ll ask someone else.”
Scarlett put her hands on her hips, her head tilting up toward the sign. “He better not if he knows what’s good for him.”
Cassidy laughed. “Bowie already asked me.”
“He did?” Scarlett asked. “I mean, that’s good, he better. Did Jameson ask you, Leah Mae?”
Leah Mae nodded, then clutched her hands to her chest. “We should all go shopping for dresses. And I’ll do our accessories.”
“Sounds fun,” Cassidy said. “What about you, Juney? Did George ask you to the dance?”
“This entire conversation is oddly juvenile,” I said. “You sound like you’re in high school.”
“Aw, don’t be grumpy because you don’t have a date yet,” Cassidy said, nudging me with her arm. “I bet he’s planning on asking you.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“That’s my point,” Cassidy said.
By the looks the girls were sharing, I got the impression they knew something—or understood something—that I didn’t. The truth was, I was experiencing a strange surge of jealousy toward Cassidy and Leah Mae. They had prom dates. I did not. It stood to reason that if George wished to attend the Do-Over Prom, he’d ask me to accompany him. But he hadn’t. What did that mean?
I hadn’t seen much of George in the last week. Since we’d returned from Philadelphia, he’d been busier than normal. I’d been busy with work as well as co
ntinuing my quest to uncover more information about the supposed Callie Kendall.
I’d spent my evenings reading more of the books Piper had recommended. But I was beginning to wonder if exploring my emotions through reading romantic fiction was as good an idea as I’d originally thought. I’d found myself alternatively laughing, crying, and feeling inexplicably aroused, depending on the content of the stories. Each book was like an emotional roller coaster. I couldn’t decide if I liked the ride, or if it had been better when I’d pushed my feelings aside, only observing them occasionally.
“Don’t worry, Juney, I’m sure he’s going to ask you,” Leah Mae said.
As if on cue, George turned the corner, appearing in front of us. He was dressed in a gray waffle knit shirt and jeans. His dark hair was delightfully combed back and in his hands—those hands that I still found inexplicably fascinating—was a large… something wrapped in crisp brown paper.
“Ladies,” he said, then met my eyes. “June Bug.”
He handed the something to me. At first glance, it looked as if it was going to be a bouquet of flowers. But it wasn’t flowers. It was a Romanesco broccoli.
I stared at the beautiful chartreuse flower bud. It resembled a cross between cauliflower and broccoli, but what made it amazing was its natural approximation of a fractal. “This is so beautiful.”
“I’m sorry if this is a silly question, but what is that?” Scarlett asked.
“Romanesco broccoli,” George said. “Its buds form a natural fractal, the branches making a logarithmic spiral.”
“It’s math in flower form,” I said, my voice awed.
“Wow,” Scarlett said. “He’s good.”
Cassidy, Scarlett, and Leah Mae started backing up slowly, leaving me and George somewhat alone on the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” I said. “This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever given me. It’s very visually pleasing.”
“So are you,” he said, and I heard a muffled aw from behind me. Apparently the girls hadn’t gone far. “I have something to ask you.”
My eyes flicked up to the banner, then back to him. There was no reason my heart should have been racing the way it was, nor that I should have been experiencing such a rush of excitement. It made no sense for my bloodstream to suddenly fill with adrenaline, as if this was a crucial life moment. If he was about to ask what I thought he was about to ask, it was just a dance—and an odd dance at that.
But in that moment, I really wanted him to ask.
“I was wondering if you’d be my date for the Do-Over Prom?”
My brain flooded with endorphins and I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “Yes. I would love to be your date.”
He stepped in, slipping a hand around my waist, and leaned down to kiss me.
“They’re so cute, I can’t stand it.”
“I know, they really are.”
“That’s it. I’m going to find Devlin and he better be ready to ask me to this dance.”
“Do you have plans tonight?” George asked. “I thought we might have a stay-in date night, if you’re not busy. I’ve missed you this week.”
“I’ve missed you too. I’d love a stay-in date night.”
“My place or yours?”
“I think yours is the better choice. Mine has Jonah, who is a perfectly decent roommate, but is also home tonight as far as I’m aware.”
“Mm,” he said. “A night alone with my June Bug. Whatever will I do with you?”
A tingle rushed down my spine. “That was a rhetorical question meant to be suggestive, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed it was.”
“Then given that the definition of a rhetorical question is one for which the asker doesn’t expect an answer, I’ll just say… I can think of several things.”
He kissed the tip of my nose. “Me too.”
* * *
Mellow hopped over to George as soon as we arrived. I had to admit, she was extremely cute. Her diminutive size, soft white fur, and light blue eyes were quite appealing. She ran around us in a circle, her little nose twitching. George picked her up and brought her close to his face, touching their noses together.
Every time I saw him do that it made me think of babies.
We’d brought dinner with us, so we dished up onto plates. We sat together and ate, chatting about how our weeks had gone. Mellow was content, nibbling a treat of fresh greens.
After dinner, we decided on a movie. George turned it on, then sprawled out on the couch. He was so tall, he took up every inch.
“Where am I supposed to sit?” I asked.
He reached for me. “Come here.”
I settled down between his legs with my back against his front, my head resting against his chest. He leaned his cheek against my head, slid an arm around my waist, and pressed play.
Lying with him like this felt good. His body was warm, the firmness of his athletic frame both comforting and arousing. He traced little circles across my belly with his fingers and nuzzled his face against my hair.
His masculine scent deepened my relaxation, as did the feel of his chest as he breathed. His other hand slid up my ribcage to cup my breast over my shirt. He massaged it gently and a low groan emanated from his throat.
I shifted slightly, the hardness of his erection pressing into my back. I loved the way that felt. Up until now, the male anatomy had been somewhat alarming to me. My experiences with it hadn’t been entirely positive.
But I felt safe with George. The framework he’d created to gradually increase the intimacy of our interactions was working. I could feel the change happening inside me. My affection for him was growing, my desire to be close to him increasing. I was not only comfortable with his touch, I craved it—found myself wanting more.
He groaned into my ear as I moved again, pressing against his hard length. “Mm, June Bug. You feel so good.”
His hand slipped beneath my shirt. He teased my nipple while he kissed my ear. Waves of sensation shot through my body, traveling across my skin, in my veins, through my bones. His breath on my neck was warm, and he kept murmuring softly in my ear.
That exquisite pressure built between my legs. I rolled my hips, instinct taking over. I needed friction. Contact. Movement.
George slid his other hand down my belly, to the waistband of my pants. “I want to touch you, baby.”
“Yes. Please.”
He groaned, pushing his hips up so his erection dug into my backside. He wasted no time unfastening my pants and slid his hand into my panties.
“You want me to touch your pussy?” he asked softly in my ear. His fingers brushed lower, closer to where I needed him.
“Yes.”
“That’s my girl.”
A delicious wave of pleasure stole through me as his fingers delved lower. His hands. His large, glorious hands. One slipped beneath my bra to cup my breast. I glanced down to see the other disappearing between my legs. I was still mostly clothed, and yet the image of his hands on me this way was intensely erotic. I loved those hands and I loved what he was doing with them.
His finger traced the seam at my center, his touch still soft and gentle. “Is your pussy wet, baby? Do you want my fingers inside you?”
“Oh my god, yes.”
“That’s my beautiful girl,” he murmured. “I want to touch that perfect pussy.”
I closed my eyes, surrendering to the sound of his voice in my ear, the feel of his fingers teasing me. My nipples were so sensitive every brush of his hand and the feel of fabric against them made me tingle.
He dipped a fingertip inside and I gasped at the intense rush of feeling.
“Is that what you need, baby?”
I nodded.
His finger slid in further, moving easily through my wetness. In and out, his palm pressing against my clit, his finger giving me the friction I needed so badly.
I bucked my hips against his hand, seeking more.
“Fuck, June, I love making you feel good. Your pu
ssy is so hot. So wet. Do you want more?”
“Yes.”
He growled low in his throat and slid two fingers inside me. My legs opened wider, my head falling back against his shoulder. He thrust his fingers in, moving faster now, and ground his cock against me in a matching rhythm.
“That’s it, my beautiful girl,” he said. “You like that? You like my fingers inside you?”
He was stirring me into a frenzy. My cheeks flushed and tension built in my core. I kept my eyes closed, focusing on nothing but the way this felt. His palm rubbing my clit. His fingers moving in and out of me. The wetness, the heat, the delicious pressure.
“George,” I whispered.
“Yes, my sweet June Bug,” he said. “Yes, fuck, your pussy feels so good.”
The pressure in my core rose to a peak, a tight, hot bundle of tension that had me whimpering, begging for more. Begging him to keep going.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
And then I came apart.
The orgasm rolled through me as dozens of tiny explosions fired off. I clenched around his fingers. Once. Twice. Again. Shuddering and pulsing as I rode his hand through my climax.
When it subsided, he slid his hand out of my panties and threaded his arms around my waist, holding me tight.
I needed more than that. I needed to hold him, too.
He loosened his grip on me as I spun around so I was facing him. I straddled him, letting my legs slide down either side of his waist, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
His erection pressed between my legs as we embraced. I moved against him, rubbing up and down a few times. He groaned. That low growl emanating from his throat was so masculine. So erotic.
I sat up and met his eyes, licking my lips as I unfastened his pants.
“June Bug, you don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Like the rest of George Thompson, his cock was impressively large. It strained against his pants, springing free when I lowered his underwear. I took a moment to admire it. The smooth head. The thick shaft. It was a thing of beauty.
Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four Page 22
