Temper for You Page 3

  Meg…when she opened the door, it knocked the wind out of me. I’d convinced myself—after she’d unceremoniously kicked me to the curb in the middle of the coffee shop—that my memories were idealized after nine months fantasizing about her. Nope. She was even more stunning than I remembered, and every part of me responded to the sight of her. My brain stalled, deprived of oxygen, as all of the blood in my body detoured southward. While some parts appeared to be stupefied into complete stillness—for example, my mouth, which was apparently unable to form words—another part of me was rising to the occasion and begging for attention. Yes, Little West was pointing due north.

  Everything about Meg was complex and captivating. No one could deny her astonishing beauty, one that was wholly her own with no references to famous faces, past or present. Her face held hints of exotic distant locales, tempered by a sweetness that reflected the warmth she exuded. Her bone structure, covered in smooth olive skin, was a sculptor’s dream. Her almond-shaped eyes of various shades of green—not unlike the empress marble I’d just installed in my master bath—with a ring of copper around her pupils were captivating. They were expressive and perceptive, but in their depths I could see vague shadows of pain. Pink lips with a slight pout that belied the radiant smile they produced had kept me mesmerized throughout our one-and-only dinner. Her thick, shiny brown hair had been damp when she opened the door, as if she had just showered (that particular observation likely conjuring the graphic images now tormenting my sanity). It was the type of hair a man could grab hold of without causing damage or pain. Her body though…Victoria’s Secret models would kill for her body, and I’d known men who would sell their souls to spend a night exploring every God-given curve. She was the perfect balance of fit and curvy, tall but lithe, soft and firm.

  She’d captured my attention the first time I saw her, so distracting that I’d nearly forgotten the purpose of my visit. All I’d wanted was to march over and follow her around like an eager puppy. When I finished my conversation with Samantha that day, I had to haul my ass out of the coffee shop to prevent myself from looking like a fool.

  When I’d returned days later, I was better prepared for her impact, ever ready to make my move. I was charmed by her guileless, tongue-tied ramblings. How a woman could be drop-dead sexy and completely adorable at the same time was beyond comprehension. Those two qualities should be mutually exclusive. I was so perplexed by the intoxicating combination, I again missed my opportunity. Never one to give up, I returned two more times until she felt more at ease with me and then I went in for the kill. Success.

  On our sole date, it became clear that her intellect and passion matched—if not exceeded—her outer beauty. Our conversation remained mostly surface, but I learned she was a twenty-five-year-old graduate student, studying at Hensley University to attain her doctorate in sociology, she lived alone at the time, had no family to speak of, and was only interested in a casual relationship. I nearly indulged in a touchdown dance with the last proclamation.

  Following dinner, I also learned that she was a fantastic dancer, while at the end of the night, I discovered her kisses were more effective than any narcotic known to man. I knew it in my gut that if I had pushed, she would have been tangled in my sheets that first night…her eyes were screaming, ‘take me.’ I don’t know why I didn’t accept their invitation, but I’d convinced myself we needed one more date to build anticipation.

  Unfortunately, that was our first and last date. Three days later it all imploded when I walked into the café to talk to Samantha and Meg greeted me. Sam was furious at my ‘conniving’ and Meg was livid at my ‘manipulation,’ promptly canceling our date after declaring me an asshole. Let me state for the record, I had no clue Meg was unaware of my interactions with Sam. In our brief, pre-date conversations, she’d indicated that she knew I was a lawyer. She’d been working at least two of the days when I’d gone to talk to Sam. It wasn’t until “dump day” (as I liked to call it) that I came to realize Meg thought I was the assistant District Attorney for Sam’s case. Wasn’t that a kick in the head? Five years earlier and it might have been true.

  Her rejection burned, especially since she never gave me a chance to offer any explanation. There was no hesitation or consideration—I was dismissed instantaneously for conduct unbecoming.

  It should have rolled right off my back. I wasn’t invested. There were plenty of beautiful women begging to spend a night in my bed. I’m not cocky, it’s simply fact. I’m good-looking, wealthy, and one helluva fuck. There’s never been a shortage of hot, willing bodies. Why did I care that this girl discarded me so easily?

  I had zero interest in any relationship that even verged on committed. It’s just not my scene. I wasn’t dysfunctional; I tried the relationship route after college, but it wasn’t for me. Why stick to one flavor when there were countless options available? Some people needed the co-dependency a relationship provided because they weren’t strong enough to stand on their own. They needed a partner beside them to hold their hand or pick up their shit—literally and metaphorically. That’s not me. I brought home more than enough to pay someone to pick up my literal crap and had enough of my own metaphorical shit to pick up, thank you very much. I didn’t need anyone to hold my hand because—bottom line—I’m not a weak-ass pussy. I had neither the time nor the interest in dealing with someone else’s shit. I did it for my Pops when he needed me and because I loved him, but I’ve taken that trip already and have the frequent flier miles to prove it—no need for a return leg. The only trips I took these days were hassle-free, expectation-free, commitment-free good times that ended with a smile on everyone’s faces.

  What I couldn’t wrap my brain around was why I couldn’t shake off the regret of missing dessert after my dinner with Meg. Why did my mind still conjure images of her late at night? Why did the mere thought of her make my dick rock hard at the most inopportune times? Okay, the answer to that one was obvious—the girl’s body was made for sin, and I was nothing if not a sinner. It must have been the missed opportunity, the rejection, and…and…pheromones! Studies were always talking about how pheromones screwed with the brain, reducing impulse control and overriding established behavior patterns. I blamed the pheromones—pesky little fuckers.

  Yet by some miracle, I managed to buy the townhouse adjacent to hers, and thanks to a broken sprinkler head, I finally received my chance at redemption. Did I take advantage of this golden opportunity? No! I screwed the pooch royally, which was completely unlike me. I blew it…not once but twice.

  I could have recovered from the first screw-up—I’m a persuasive bastard—but there’s no way to recover after my last hatchet job. What the hell happened? I was always cool—the freaking definition of cold calculation—and never ruffled, but something about her set me off-kilter.

  As a defense attorney, I made the majority of my obscenely large paycheck from defending parties that were more than likely guilty (not that I ask). But in this case, she was wrong. The Varbecks were not bad people. They were parents desperate to get their son help, and if he was beyond help, contain him permanently for the safety of the public. Their son was Satan—pure evil, no doubt. There was no fixing him, and deep down they knew it and never would have let him loose on the streets. However, they were still parents with two other children who they were frantically trying to protect from the media circus and stigma the trial would bring.

  The original plan I proposed was solid: convince the victims that an invasive public trial would reopen fresh wounds and offer them extremely generous restitution for their suffering. Once the victims were no longer willing to testify, strike a plea deal with the district attorney that ensured Heath would spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security mental institution. Do it all under the radar and contain the goddamn media.

  The public would be safe, my clients would gain a small measure of peace, and Heath’s siblings’ lives would not be marred beyond repair by the trial of their depraved brother. Most importantl
y, the victims would obtain the reassurance that their attacker would never be free and enough money to rebuild their lives, pay medical bills, cover future counseling, buy a house…whatever they needed. My plan was an effective and efficient solution to an unparalleled mess of pain and suffering, and best met the needs of everyone involved.

  When Heath was killed in prison (thank God for small miracles), I reworked the plan accordingly and persuaded the Varbecks to offer seven-figure restitution to each of the victims, which also helped assuage the family’s misplaced guilt. It was brilliant—I was brilliant. I orchestrated the best outcome possible for everyone, in circumstances where no one could ever be deemed a winner.

  It was one of the few accomplishments I could honestly be proud of.

  When Meg attacked, using her beautiful mouth to throw spiteful words that cut deeper than she will ever know, I lost my composure. Her accusations, in any other case, might have been warranted, but this time I did well and—for once—my conscious was clear. I was actually able to sleep at night without guilt plaguing me. It was such a novel feeling that when she tried to take it away, my composure faltered. I lost my cool, and along with it, my second chance at getting between those long, inviting legs.

  Damn pride.

  Damn temper.

  I was almost positive those assholes cost me the single most memorable night of my life.

  "Sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go it’s pretty damn good." -Woody Allen

  Meg

  Desperate for my morning hit after a restless night’s sleep, I stumbled to the kitchen, opened the cabinet that housed the mugs and coffee, and stretched on my tiptoes to reach my stash on the top shelf. I broke off a square of my treasured Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt and popped it into my mouth with a sigh of pleasure—ah, that’s what I’m talking about. Everyone I knew required a cup of coffee in the morning to get moving and start their day. Not me….I needed a chocolate fix. After a moment of debate, I broke off a second square—it had been that kind of night.

  I may have slept, but I didn’t rest. My dreams were plagued by warm caramel eyes that promised endless hours of yet unknown satisfaction. Damn the man. He was indisputably the most beautiful creature I had ever seen…devastating, that was the word for him. If the whole sleazebag-lawyer thing didn’t work out, there’s no doubt Calvin Klein or Armani would be knocking down his door. His defined bone structure with high cheekbones, prominent jaw, and strong brow were every woman’s fantasy. And his lips…I wanted to bite those full, luscious lips. Add the chocolate brown hair that begged to be pulled while locked in an undulating embrace…irresistible!

  What was wrong with me? I knew he was a conscienceless miscreant. Shouldn’t that knowledge work as a sedative to my recently awakened—and usually dormant—sex drive? But no, my otherwise mute inner hussy jumped up and down, shouting like a drunken sorority girl after losing her third game of flip-cups, every time he entered a room.

  It had taken months after I’d learned who he was and what he had done to force him from my mind. I lied to my friends, pretending to dismiss him without a second thought, but I couldn’t lie to myself—I still craved him in an unfamiliar and overwhelming fashion.

  And now he was going to live next door.

  We didn’t even have a few feet of lawn separating us…no, he was a narrow flower bed away. I could only wonder what I had done to piss off the bitch known as karma to justify this turn of events.

  That’s a lie.

  I knew what I had done, and I deserved every torturous moment.

  Lying alone in my bed last night, I could practically feel his presence seeping through the sheetrock, tormenting me. As my hand slid down my stomach in response, I chided myself before firmly tucking both hands beneath my pillow to ward off any temptation. Subsequently, I spent the next hour debating the merits of moving out before vowing not to let him run me off.

  He. Would. Not. Win.

  Yep, a double dose of chocolate was necessary this morning.

  Seeing the time, I hustled up to my room and threw on pair of skinny jeans, a cream-colored peasant shirt, and tan knee-high riding boots (my Christmas gift from Sam last year). I slid my arms into a cropped leather bomber jacket (another garage-sale bargain), picked up my messenger bag, and headed for the door.

  Thankfully, my car—Old Bessie, as Ev called her—started without drama. It was a short drive to Hensley University, where I’d spent two years of undergrad to earn my bachelor’s before completing my first year in the Ph.D. program. Now, halfway through my third semester of grad school, I officially had a master’s degree in sociology and approval for my proposed dissertation. With two to three years of studies remaining to complete the requirements for my Ph.D., Hensley would continue to be my scholastic home for quite some time—I hoped.

  After three back-to-back classes and countless hours of reading ahead of me, I headed home to crack open some books. Popping another square of chocolatey goodness to fuel my studies, I trudged to my room. Settling on my bed with textbooks and journals surrounding me, I flipped open my Walmart clearance-sale laptop and waited for the sucker to boot up. Eons later, I was finally able to access the desktop and launch my student email to confirm the reading assignments. On a whim, I decided to peek at my personal email account, which I rarely bothered to check as only a handful of people had the address. I sucked a tense breath through my gritted teeth when I saw that there was a message from Jay. Regardless of how much he had done for me, he was still a reminder of the past I struggled to forget. It wasn’t his fault, and he’d been incredibly good to me when I needed him, but still…

  I steeled myself to face the specters of my past and opened the email.

  * * *

  Hey Hun,

  It’s been a while since you checked in. How are you? Keeping out of trouble?

  Remember your promise not to jump into any fires unless I’m there to pull you out!

  Things are good here in NC. Same old, same old for the most part. I met someone. She’s a sweet thing with a body that brings me to tears. She said she loved me, but she may just love my skills ;-)

  Let me know if you’re ok. I worry (I know you just rolled your eyes at me).

  Miss you,

  Jay

  * * *

  Despite my initial trepidation, I was smiling as I closed the email. The past that Jay represented burned less than it once had. Seven years after leaving him behind in North Carolina, time was finally healing old wounds.

  I spent the next two hours reading about the theory and practices for compiling empirical data. Yawn! Thankfully, I was saved from bored oblivion by GriffLo’s arrival.

  “Megalicious, get your butt down here and have some dinner with us,” Sam called from downstairs.

  After unburying myself from a mountain of books, I headed to the kitchen. Griffin was unloading an insane amount of Chinese food on the table while Sam brought over the drinks.

  “I see you guys decided to order one of everything on the menu,” I laughed, only partially kidding.

  “He’s a growing boy,” Sam teased, patting Griffin’s stomach. “Plus, he needs to build up his energy…I have big plans for him,” she finished with a salacious grin directed at her man.

  Griffin swatted her tush playfully in response. “Your plans for me involve rearranging all the furniture in your bedroom, and not in the way I’d prefer. Food may be the deposit, but that smile better be hinting at settling the remaining balance in more enjoyable ways.”

  “We’ll see how much you complain about the rearranging, then I’ll make my decision on any tips,” Sam said.

  “Lo, please…you can’t resist me,” he said with utter confidence. “But don’t worry, I can’t resist you either—never could.”

  I loved seeing them like this. Sam had overcome more obstacles than any single person should ever have to face. Life may have broken her, but she’d pulled herself back together— with the help of
Griffin—and was stronger now than ever before. She was the person I wished I could be: pure and brave, she was goodness personified. I may be three years older than Sam, but I looked up to her, despite the fact that she regularly embarrassed me with her lack of filter and inappropriate over-shares. Sam was Sam, and in her own way she was looking out for me. She’d found her happily ever after, and now she was on a mission to find mine…even if she had to cram it down my throat. I loved her for caring though.

  Griffin captured my attention with a nudge and stage whispered, “How much you want to bet that after rearranging the furniture three times, she’ll decide to put the pieces back in their original spots?”

  “I’ll bet you five dollars you can distract her and never wind up lifting a bulging bicep,” I countered at full volume.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed at Griffin.

  “Dammit, Meg. Stop foiling my evil schemes. Now she’s onto me.”

  As we passed around the food containers, I was careful to avoid the favorite dishes, only scooping a small helping of each of the ‘less-favorites.’ Seeing that the restaurant had provided ample white rice, I loaded my plate with the complimentary item.

  I was about to dig in when I felt two pairs of eyes boring into me. I heard Griffin’s displeased grunt and looked up in time to catch Sam’s chin jerk. Before I knew it, Griffin had nabbed my plate and spooned heaping mounds of sesame chicken (my favorite—and Sam’s) and orange beef (my other favorite—and Griffin’s) without saying a word. Sam plucked a cheese wanton (my absolute favorite) from the bag next to her and dropped it on top before pushing my overflowing dish in front of me.