Appealed (2 page)

Pity.

I gaze down at her. “Now, peaches, we'll continue our conversation.”

That nickname fits too. Her silken skin is all peaches and cream. And the way she smells,
Jesus
, the way she tastes on my tongue—sweeter and softer than a ripe peach on a summer day.

Strands of blond hair dance across her collarbone as she bucks beneath me, giving my dick even more fabulous ideas. “Fuck you! I'm done talking.”

“Good. Then how about you shut that beautiful mouth and listen? Or I could always gag you.”

I may gag her anyway, just for the fun of it. Probably should've held on to her panties.

“I hate you!”

I chuckle. “No, you don't.”

Her brown eyes burn into me, the same way they branded me decades ago. “I never should have trusted you again.”

Keeping her wrists pinned above her, I lean back a little to enjoy the view. “Bullshit. Best decision you ever made. Now listen up, buttercup . . .”

And I start to tell her all the things I should've said weeks ago. No—
years
ago . . .

•  •  •

“I had a weird dream last night.”

I pace behind the couch with a racquetball ball in my hand. When I get to the end, I bounce the ball against the wall, catch it with one hand, then turn around and head the other way. I talk easier, think better when I'm moving.

“I was on a beach . . . at least I think it was a beach, I don't remember any water. But there was sand, I was digging in the sand.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

Some people think it's weak to see a therapist—but they couldn't be more full of shit. It takes some big brass balls to bare your thoughts to another person. Your fears, faults, down-and-dirty desires. It's like a workout for the soul. It forces you to see yourself—the real you.

And I think that's the problem—most people don't want to see themselves. They prefer to believe they're actually the person everyone on the outside thinks they are—not the selfish, deviant asshole who's really calling the shots.

“The grains were rough—white, beige, and black, and I kept digging deeper. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I knew it when I found it.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

“It was a ruby. A ruby in the sand. But here's the weird part—when I tried to pick it up, it kept slipping from my hands. No matter how hard I tried, how much I tightened my grip, I couldn't hold on to it. Fucking creepy, right, Waldo?”

My therapist's name is Waldo Bingingham. He's a soft-spoken, contemplative kind of guy a few years shy of retirement. All his other clients call him Dr. Bingingham, or Dr. Bing for short. But I like Waldo—it's pretty much the most awesome name someone could be named. If your kid's name is Waldo, at some point in his life, you're gonna have to say,
Where's Waldo?
And that's hilarious.

He gazes at me patiently. He removes his dark, thick-rimmed, 1960s Walter Cronkite–era glasses and cleans them slowly with a tissue. It's a strategy he's used often in the years I've been coming to him. He's waiting me out—giving me time to answer my own question.

Bounce, catch, turn.

But this time, I'm genuinely determined to hear his professional opinion. What the fuck does it all mean, Waldo?

He finally blinks first. “I thought this week we had decided to discuss how you use sexual intercourse to avoid intimacy.”

I roll my eyes. “Sex, sex, sex—that's all you Freudians want to talk about. Is that all I am to you—a piece of meat? A cock with legs? Well”—I chuckle, tapping my prosthetic limb—“leg, anyway. Is the wife holding out on you again?”

He writes a note on the pad in his lap. “We can also add how you use inappropriate humor to deflect conversations that make you uncomfortable to our list of topics for future discussions.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

“No, I'm just a funny guy. Life's too serious—it's not gonna weigh me down. Besides, I think you're way off base on the intimacy theory. Screwing is by its very nature intimate.”

“Not the way you do it.”

“Are you judging me, Waldo?”

Yeah—I just get a kick out of saying his name.

“Do you want me to judge you, Brent?”

“Do you think I
should
want you to judge me?”

I've been in therapy since I was ten years old—I can go around and around like this all day.

“I think you're using this dream to avoid discussing how you use sex to avoid intimacy.”

“No—it's just messing with my head. I want to know what it means.”

Bounce, catch, turn

Waldo sighs. Giving up and giving in. “Dreams are a reflection of our own subconscious. The expression of feelings and desires our conscious mind doesn't want to acknowledge. It doesn't matter what the dream means—only what it means to
you
. What's your interpretation?”

My first thought is my subconscious is telling me I need a vacation. Somewhere warm and tropical, with umbrella drinks and hot women in small bikinis.

Or even better—no bikinis.

But that's too simple. The dream was different. It seemed . . . important.

“I think it means I'm looking for something.”

Waldo puts his glasses back on. “And?”

“And when I find it, I'm afraid I won't be able to keep it.”

He nods. Like a proud papa. “I think you're right.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

This is why therapy rocks. With those four approving words, I feel a sense of empowerment—solid self-awareness and competency. I may not know what's coming around the bend—but I sure as shit will be able to handle it when it gets here.

“Now . . . back to your intimacy issues.”

I make a complaining sound in the back of my throat—grumbling like a kid who's been made to sit at the table to do his homework. I settle on the couch, resting one arm across the back. “Fine. Hit me, sempai.”

He suppresses a smile and glances at his notes. “You mentioned Tatianna was coming to town last week. Did you see her?”

Tatianna is an old friend. In the biblical sense. She's also a real live princess. If Disney ever decides to go naughty, Tatianna could be their muse. She's a couple of dozen relatives away from the throne but her blood is as blue as it gets. And if there's one thing royals know how to do, it's party.

“We got together, yes.”

“And how did that go?”

I stretch my arms over my head, cracking my neck. “She came. She left.”

We both came actually. In the bed, the kitchen, the hot tub in the backyard. It was a nice visit.

Waldo nods. “You said Tatianna is engaged now?”

“That's right. The next time she comes to the States she'll have
Duchess
in front of her name.”

The last real duty of today's nobility is to make sure the fortune stays in the family—by producing little heirs and heiresses who can inherit it. Which, sadly, means no more fun times for me and Tatianna.

“Your business partner, Mr. Becker, he's engaged also?”

“Yep, three months out and counting. He hasn't officially lost his mind, but he's damn close.”

Few things in this world are funnier than watching Jake Becker—a big mountain of a guy—being forced to contemplate flower arrangements for the table centerpieces in his upcoming nuptials.

“And your other partners, Mr. Shaw and Ms. Santos, they're expecting their first child soon?”

I nod again. “Yes, a boy. Little Becker Mason Santos Shaw.”

That's the name of our law firm—where we're all partners, criminal defense attorneys. I think it's only fitting the first child born to our firm be named after it. Haven't convinced Stanton and Sofia yet, but I'm working on it.

Though now that I think about it—I wonder if they'd be more open to Waldo?

“How do you feel about that, Brent? That so many in your inner circle are getting married, having children, moving forward in their lives.”

“I think it's great. I'm thrilled for them. I mean, up until last year, Jake was a hard-core bachelor—a Dark Knight in a lonely Batcave without a Vicki Vale. But now he's got a gorgeous woman and a house full of kids. He's happier than I've ever seen him.”

Waldo scribbles on his notepad. “And is that something you want in your life? Marriage, children?”

I narrow my eyes. “Has my mother been calling you again?”

“Every month.” Waldo sighs, rubbing his forehead. “But you know I don't discuss our sessions with her.”

My dear mother should probably schedule some sessions of her own—considering last month she asked their butler, Henderson, to make inquiries into her adopting a grandchild. Since I—her only son—have been so very derelict in my duty to give her one. Cue the guilt trip.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “All right, here's the thing—I'm happy for them, of course. But there's a part of me that thinks now they're trapped. Tied down with all that responsibility. I, on the other hand, have my work to keep me busy—but I can still jet off to Switzerland to go bungee jumping, or fly-fishing in New Zealand. With one phone call I can fuck two hotel heiresses six ways to Sunday, then watch them go to town on each other while I recoup for round two.”

FYI: there is no TMI in a therapist's office.

“If I'm jonesing for a family fix, I can swing by my friends' houses for dinner and be the favorite uncle to their kids.” I open my arms to emphasize the brilliance of my theory. “All the perks, none of the obligation. Life is short—I want to live it. And I really like living it free.”

He regards me for a moment and says, “Mmmm.”

Then—nothing.

“
Mmmm
, what?” I ask. “I think we're past ‘
mmmm
,' don't you, Waldo?”

He taps his lips with the end of his pen. “Well, it's apparent that you believe what you say. That you
think
you want this self-focused, low-responsibility lifestyle. The way Pinocchio wanted to cut his strings so he could be a real boy.”

“But?”

There's always a but.

“But I wonder, deep down, if you've outgrown that philosophy. If you actually crave something more profound in your life. Commitment isn't always a burden, Brent. It can also be the source of unimaginable joy and satisfaction.”

I clear my thoughts and search my mind—the way Luke Skywalker did when Obi-Wan was teaching him the ways of the Force.

Nope—I got nothing.

“You're barking up the wrong tree on this one.”

He shrugs. “Then ask yourself this: As “tied down” as your friends may be, do you think any of
them
are dreaming of rubies in the sand?”

Have I mentioned that Waldo can also be one shrewd son of a bitch?

I
've seen my last name inscribed on libraries, hospital wings, and the like, but there's an extra thrill seeing it on the Law Offices of Becker, Mason, Santos & Shaw. Because it's mine, not my family's, something
I
did on my own. When you grow up in the shadow of all the accomplishments of those who came before you, that's a big deal.

Jessica, our summer minion—also known as an intern—welcomes me with starry eyes and a stack of messages. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mason.”

I take the messages and avoid eye contact, keeping my face neutral. It's a well-practiced move. Because interns are hungry, enthusiastic, willing to bend over backward.

And that's particularly true of Jessica.

The way she stares, the way she accidentally brushes her tits against my arm, the way she walks by my office when I'm working late, says she's willing to let me bend her any which way I want. And Jessica's not your average-looking minion—tall, redheaded, with hips every man would imagine holding onto doggie style. She's hot.

She's also twenty-four.

I don't know when twenty-four became too young—I just know it is.

“Thank you, Jessica.”

I walk up the stairs to the top floor. Dark-wood floors, original crown moldings, and bold-toned window dressings give the area a professional, historical elegance. Two desks—one occupied by our secretary, Mrs. Higgens, and one for our paralegal—are stationed along opposite walls, with two long, brown leather sofas facing each other on the remaining ones.

I nod to Mrs. Higgens and head into my office to work the rest of the afternoon.

•  •  •

At four o'clock I stick my head outside my office door to collect my client, Justin Longhorn. He's a typical millennial slacker—brown messy hair, beat-up skinny jeans, a retro Nirvana T-shirt over a lanky form, his thumb busily sliding over the latest iPhone.

Before I can greet him, sixteen-year-old Riley McQuaid walks down the hallway. She's been working here a couple of hours a week this summer. Riley is the oldest of the six McQuaid kids.

Jake's
McQuaid kids.

If you don't understand the significance of that, you will in a second. Because what happens next feels just like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Or the mating dance of pubescent ostriches. There's some really weird stuff on YouTube.

Their eyes drag over each other, head to matching-Converse-sneaker-covered toes.

Justin lifts his chin. “Hey.”

Riley pushes her curly brown hair behind her ear. “Hey.”

No good can come of this. And I'm not the only one who thinks so.

“Heeey,” Jake says—in a low growl from his office doorway—where he looms large with crossed arms and quicksilver gray eyes.

Jake Becker is a hell of a guy, one of my closest friends. He can also be a scary overprotective motherfucker when he wants to be. The scowl he's sending my client's way has reduced older, larger men to tears.