Time Served Page 27

  Oscar lifts a shoulder. “Nobody. We were just sparring. Your boyfriend needs to blow off steam sometimes.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Just reminding myself.”

  He transfers his big gym bag from one hand to the other. “Ah.”

  “Anyway. I’d better get that cab.”

  “Right.”

  “Good night.”

  “‘Night.”

  I pass Oscar and pull open the door, pausing when I hear my name. “It’s not my place,” he says, squinting at the light that shines over my shoulder. “But you should talk to him.”

  “I did.”

  “I know. I just saw him. Nothing I could throw at that guy could make him look as bad as he does now. He’s alone in there.”

  “That’s what he wants.”

  “He took a few hits to the head tonight. He doesn’t know shit. And I don’t mean ‘alone’ metaphorically. I mean, there’s no one else in the locker room.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Thanks, Oscar.”

  “Take care.”

  He leaves and I continue inside, fully intending to ignore the well-meaning-if-misplaced advice. The crowd has dispersed somewhat but the gym is still crowded and smelly and I inch around the perimeter of the room, scowling inwardly when I spot Jailbait giggling with her trashy friends.

  I feel a wave of heat as I pass a door and look over my shoulder to read the sign: Locker Rooms. The showers. That’s where Dean is. Without really meaning to, I lean back against the door, feeling it give way easily behind me. I close my eyes, trying to muster up the common sense to run out of here and all the way back home, but instead I step through into a small vestibule. I rest a hand against the Men’s door and hesitate. If Oscar’s wrong and Dean isn’t alone, I’m going to make an ass out of myself. And if he’s wrong and Dean doesn’t want to see me, I’m going to feel like an ass too.

  The muted sound of running water cuts off abruptly and I count to ten before pushing open the door. I’ve never been in a men’s changing room, and am relieved to find that I’m alone. A hallway to the showers leads off from the far wall and I hear wet footsteps approaching.

  I stay near the door, ready to bolt if it isn’t Dean. And maybe even if it is. I don’t have long to debate, however, because two seconds later he steps into the room, white towel wrapped around his hips. He spots me immediately and freezes. I prepare myself for the expected wrath, a derisive and dismissive, “Did I not make myself clear five minutes ago?” but Dean’s face falls for a split second before the features smooth out, and he shakes his head, almost desperate. “What are you doing here?”

  I make myself speak, even though my lungs feel like crumpled paper bags. “I don’t want to break your heart.”

  Dean inhales shakily.

  “And I don’t want you to break mine.”

  “You already walked away once.”

  “I was seventeen.”

  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and avoids my eyes.

  “I’m not going to leave you,” I continue, taking a few cautious steps into the room. “And if you tell me to go this time, I won’t come back, either.”

  I wait for him to tell me to get the hell out, but instead he drops onto a bench, facing away from me. The muscles of his back strain against his tan skin, fresh bruises already forming.

  I move to the end of the bench, in front of Dean, whose hands come up to clasp my hips. His eyes are locked straight in front of him, as though he can’t lift them any higher.

  “I don’t know what this is,” I say honestly. “All I know is that everything I thought I wanted isn’t enough.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re not the same people.”

  Dean shakes his head.

  “We won’t make the same mistakes.”

  Another shake.

  “Maybe we won’t fall in love.”

  A pause, then another shake, less certain.

  “But in the meantime...” I shuffle forward and spread my legs to straddle his thighs, skirt hiking up to accommodate him. I lower myself to sit on Dean’s lap and he slides his hands up my back, under my jacket. He pushes it off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, reaching one hand up to cup my head as the other shoves the skirt over my hips.

  I feel his erection against the front of my panties and feel myself grow wet in response, moaning when he pushes a hand between my legs and strokes me through the damp silk.

  “Rachel.” He groans helplessly when I kiss him, and I absorb the sound. I may have been the one to instigate this, but Dean doesn’t know how to follow anyone’s lead and swiftly takes over, dominating the kiss. The towel falls open and I feel the hot head of his cock on my inner thigh, then he’s pushing my panties out of the way. He’s just started to work himself inside when he hesitates. “I don’t have a condom.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He mumbles a thankful curse before driving in the rest of the way, fingers clutching my hip, anchoring me.

  My breath comes out in rough, relieved gasps, and I have to concentrate on relaxing to let him in. The panic and frustration I’d been feeling all week converge in my chest, a hot, painful ball of emotion that’s desperately craving release. I shift and press down until I’ve taken him completely, scorching sensitive tissues both inside and out as his hands and cock stroke expertly.

  I lift up and slide back down, and we quickly find a rhythm, both slow and frantic, mouths fused together, fingers twined at our sides as though no part of us can bear to be apart right now. “I’m close,” I groan.

  I drag my nails across his back as I come, pulling him near, feeling his sticky-damp flesh on my forearms. He shudders beneath me, inside me, and I realize that for once I’m the one who’s fully dressed while he’s naked. And finally I see that the clothes are no barrier at all, they’re a flimsy, temporary wall that keep nothing out and nothing in. Our bodies have never been the ones that needed guarding.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “That’s not right,” Dean says for the four-hundredth time the following morning. “If you earned it, you should be second seat. Or second chair. Whatever.”

  We’re sitting side by side at the counter island in his apartment, half-eaten plates of bacon and eggs in front of us. “They decided,” I say with a shrug. I’m not quite as okay with it as the shrug might imply, but yesterday feels like another lifetime. One when everything was up in the air and all I could do was wait for the pieces to start raining down so I could figure out what to do next. The second chair missed its mark, but at least I wound up with Dean on my side.

  “They’re morons,” he affirms. “Who’d pass you up?”

  You, I almost say. Remember? But I merely shrug again.

  “You shrug too much,” Dean says suddenly. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  I nearly snort orange juice out of my nose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I don’t shrug, Dean! You do! You’re the shrugger.”

  He looks at me from beneath a raised brow. “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  He kicks me in the shin with his bare foot. “Am not.”

  I push at his shoulder. He doesn’t move an inch. “Are too.”

  “Okay,” he says, looking at me sternly. “You know what? I’ve revised my opinion. You’re not very mature for a lawyer. That’s the issue.”

  I try not to smile. “Am too.”

  “Well, I object.”

  Now I do laugh. “Overruled.”

  Dean pushes away the empty plates and stands, towering over me. He’s bare-chested again, wearing only black boxers and bruises. “Don’t worry,” he says calmly, reaching for the hem of the oversize T-shirt I have on and tugging it over my head. “I like you anyway. Turn around.”

  I do, resting my elbows on the smooth granite counter as I face the kitchen, Dean behind me. Then I see the time glowing on th
e stove. “Oh my God!”

  Dean’s stroking hands pause. “I haven’t even started yet.”

  I push myself up and turn back around, trying and failing to move past him. “It’s twelve o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “So the party is today!”

  “What time?”

  “Three.”

  “Lots of time.”

  “Not lots of time,” I correct. “I have to get home, shower, change—oh God, I left the dress at the office. I have to stop at the office, pick up the dress, go home, shower—”

  He barely suppresses an eye roll. “I think I got it.”

  The cool edge of the counter slides along my back as I try to ease past Dean, who isn’t letting me move. “Can you call me a cab?” I try. “I have to get dressed.”

  “You can get dressed in...” He glances past me at the clock. “Thirty minutes.”

  “I don’t have thirty minutes!”

  “Who cares if you’re late?”

  “I do. They do. Everyone!”

  “Know what I care about?” He nudges me with his boxer-covered erection before reaching into his shorts and pulling it out for me to see. As if I had any doubt.

  “I care about that too,” I say primly, “and I’ll still care about it later. Promise.”

  “You’ve got three hours,” Dean says. “Calm the fuck down. We’ll get to your special party.”

  “There’s no ‘we’ in this scenario.” The words come out before I can think of a more tactful way to relay the message.

  Dean’s eyes darken. “Then what was last night?”

  I sigh. “I mean, there’s a ‘we.’ Just not at this party. I’ll go to the party. We’ll hang out later.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why can’t I come? Your partners invited me, didn’t they?”

  “I—”

  “And I graciously accepted.”

  “Dean—”

  “You don’t gotta do everything alone, Rach.”

  My mouth opens but no words come out. I don’t want to fight with him, but despite our recent progress, it still feels like too much, too fast. Like giving someone a life preserver and expecting them to sail the ship. We’re missing all the in-between pieces, the steps to smooth the transition from one world to the next, from a Camden boxing gym to an exclusive Chicago rooftop party.

  “It’s suit and tie.”

  He shrugs. “Fine.”

  “You just shrugged.”

  “Did not.”

  I fidget. I know this is a mistake, but I don’t have time to convince him. “Okay. If you want to come, come. Let’s go.”

  He slides one calloused palm up my bare torso, thumb grazing my tight nipple as it passes. Soon he’s holding my head in place and lowering his mouth, covering my lips with his in an unyielding kiss.

  “Dean...” I pull away. “We’re going to be late.”

  “We’re going to fuck,” he states firmly. “Get your head in the game.”

  I snort with laughter. “You’re an ass.”

  His second hand goes to said anatomy and squeezes hard. “I’m an ass who’d give you whatever chair you wanted.”

  And then it’s my turn to be overruled.

  * * *

  It’s nearly two o’clock when we get back into the city. Dean waits in the cab while I race up to the thirty-second floor to pick up the dress from my office, then six minutes later we’re stopped at the curb in front of my apartment building.

  I unzip my purse and am digging for my wallet when Dean’s fingers wrap around my wrist, painfully tight. I jerk away and look at him.

  “I got it,” he says. There’s a warning in his eyes that tells me not to push, even though the fare is over a hundred dollars and I can plainly see that it takes all the cash in his wallet to cover it. But there’s no time to argue, even though this money issue is going to have to be discussed at some point.

  “Thanks,” I say instead, both to Dean and the driver, who nods in response.

  We climb out, hurry inside and ride up in the elevator in silence. I’d like to consider myself someone who is good under pressure, but my hands are shaking when I try to open the door, and Dean has to reach past me to turn the key in the lock.

  “Calm down,” he orders, stroking my back. “We’ve got an hour. You’ll be fine.”

  The party is being held on a rooftop terrace on the other side of town, a beautiful catered affair with live music and hundreds of Sterling, Morgan & Haines staff and their partners. If I shower quickly, keep my hair and makeup minimal and find another taxi without too much trouble, I should be okay. Okay. The word makes me laugh, earning me a strange look from Dean. Things are anything but okay.

  “I’m getting in the shower,” I say, dropping my purse and stepping out of my heels. “Help yourself to anything, watch television, sit quietly. Whatever you want.”

  “So many options,” he replies dryly. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  I smile briefly and hurry into the bathroom, turning on the hot water and stepping beneath the spray before it’s completely warmed up. The cool water both tamps down my nervous energy and makes me shiver, teeth chattering as I wash my hair and shave as quickly as I can without hitting a vein. I climb out, slather on scented moisturizer and blow-dry my hair smooth.

  I leave yesterday’s clothes in a heap on the floor and step into the bedroom where Dean’s reclined on the bed, watching some sports program on TV. His gaze leaves the screen to follow my naked progress to the dresser, where I fish out one of the unworn sets of lingerie I bought back in early July and put it on.

  “A little slower,” Dean urges, muting the TV. “Move your hips more.”

  “Knock it off,” I order. “This isn’t for you.”

  “Who’s it for, then?”

  “Society. Public decency.”

  “That’s quite the statement you’re making.”

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “It’ll take me five minutes.”

  I glance at the clock—two forty—as I unzip the garment bag and pull out my red dress. It’s a pretty, fitted affair, meant for cocktail hour and perfect for the company party that starts at three o’clock in the afternoon and stretches on until nearly midnight. I shimmy into it and give a small start of surprise when Dean materializes behind me to zip me up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Now get dressed.”

  He laughs softly. “Aye aye.”

  I return to the bathroom to put on makeup and pin back my hair in its signature chignon, giving myself a critical once-over. If I had anything else, anything not red, I’d wear it, I swear, but I haven’t been shopping in too long and everything I have has already been seen.

  When I step back into the bedroom Dean is dressed in a dark navy suit, pristine white button-up and dark gray tie. He’s returned his attention to the sports show but promptly shuts it off to watch me try on eight pairs of shoes before settling on white stilettos. I keep the accessories minimal with a pair of dangly onyx earrings and a black clutch, then take a deep breath and turn to Dean. “Ready?” I ask. The question is unnecessary as he’s already standing, shoes on, looking like a badass movie star. I can’t help but smile. “Look at you.”

  He tenses slightly. “What about me?”

  “You’re so handsome.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. Let’s go.” It’s two fifty-five. It’s a fifteen-minute ride, so we’ll only be fashionably late. I smooth away invisible wrinkles and stride to the front door, which Dean holds open. He calls the elevator and I pass my clutch from hand to hand anxiously.

  “Stop,” he says, snaring my fingers and squeezing them lightly. “What’s the big deal?”

  I roll my eyes. “Everything at Sterling, Morgan & Haines is a big deal,” I tell him, stepping into the elevator when it arrives. “Or so they’d have you believe.”

  “I thought you liked it that way.”r />
  “I did. I do.”

  “So?”

  “So today is when they welcome the new first-years and make any special announcements, and everybody knows they’re going to name Caitlin second chair and I’ll be standing there in this stupid red dress, looking like an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot. You’re the smartest person I know.”

  I force a smile. “Thanks.”

  “And your dress isn’t stupid. It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You can’t swear when we’re there.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “Dean.”

  He shoots me a filthy smile. “Promise to fuck me in the bathroom and I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “That is not going to happen.”

  “You worried about your dress? Fine, you can blow me under a table.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “When’d you get so modest? Okay, just let me finger you in the cab.”

  I guffaw—a bona fide, donkeylike guffaw—as the elevator stops in the lobby and we stride out to the sidewalk. We flag down a cab, and, because I already saw Dean use up the last of his cash, I hand the driver the estimated fare and give him the address.

  I hear Dean inhale in protest, but he doesn’t say anything as we pull away from the curb. I reach over and take his hand, presumably to appease him but mostly to comfort myself.

  We reach the building, climb out of the cab and straighten our clothes. Sitting next to Dean helped hold back my nerves, but the now-familiar anxiety starts to creep in. What happened to the confident woman of years past, the one who looked upon this obligated gala as a chance to mingle and network? Where is the woman who saw this as just one more necessary step to the top? And who is the person standing in her place, wearing a red dress and holding the arm of an enormous ex-con, wishing they were back at home, watching television and eating takeout and ignoring everything else?

  I’m ready to suggest we turn around and do just that when I realize Dean is staring at something over my shoulder. I glance back and scowl when I spot Caitlin, ass sticking out as she bends over to reach into her cab and pay the fare. In stark contrast to my red dress, she’s wearing a white one-shouldered number that clings to her unfair curves and stops just above the knee. Her long blond hair hangs down her back like a perfect piece of satin, and when she straightens I see she’s wearing bright red lipstick and minimal makeup, making her look like a bombshell from the ‘50s. If Dean’s expression of raw male appreciation is any indication, he agrees.