kick myself for not getting her number.
She’s too old—too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a course I would love to chart.
I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This getting-to-know-a-woman-first shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is risking contraction of an STD really such a big deal?
And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my valuable life short. Hell yes—it’s a big deal.
No fuck—no matter how spectacular—is worth dying for.
That should be the tagline in every high school safe-sex campaign.
My secretary opens my office door, and I’m grateful for the distraction . . . until she informs me an unscheduled client is here asking to see me. Remembering how this went down the last time, I’m about to tell Mrs. Higgens to tell them to fuck off.
Until she adds, “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is her name, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”
My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. If I believed in signs, this would be a big, flashing neon one.
I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”
7
M rs. Higgens heads out of the office and a few moments later, Chelsea and her fidgeting, noisy gaggle of nieces and nephews come into my office. She’s wearing a casual outfit—definitely “mommy wear,” but on that body it screams sexy. A dark green sweater that highlights the red in her auburn hair. Snug blue jeans tucked into high brown boots accent those endless legs—and the tight swell of her supple ass. That’s a pleasant surprise—I didn’t notice her ass the first time we met, but it’s fucking gorgeous.
She adjusts her grip on the baby carrier and her smile is strained. “Hello, Mr. Becker.”
I stand up behind my desk. “Chelsea, it’s good to see you again. What brings you . . .”
My eyes scan each of the faces that crowd my office, and I realize one is missing.
“Where’s Rory?”
Chelsea sighs. Before she can speak, the grouchy girl—fourteen-year-old Riley—answers for her. “The idiot got arrested. He stole a car.”
“A car?”
In a week, the little shit went from mugging to grand theft auto. That escalated quickly.
The small towheaded one, Rosaleen, continues. “And then he crashed it.”
The two-year-old supplies sound effects. “Brooocshhh.”
The smart one, Raymond, adds, “And not just any car—a Ferrari 458 Italia Limited Edition. The starting price is around nine hundred thousand dollars.”
I look to Chelsea, who nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story. He’s in juvenile detention—serious trouble this time.”
This time implies there’s been other times—my almost-robbery notwithstanding.
Jesus Christ, kid.
Chelsea explains in a strained voice, “My brother has dozens of attorneys in his contact list, but none of them are defense attorneys. I had your card . . . and you seem like a good lawyer.”
Out of curiosity, I ask, “What makes you think I’m good?”
She raises her chin and meets my eyes. “You look like a man who knows how to win a fight. That’s what I need—what Rory needs.”
I take a few moments to think—to plan.
Chelsea must interpret my silence as rejection, because her voice turns almost pleading. “I don’t know what your typical retainer is, but I can afford—”
My lifted finger stops her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Wait here.” Then I point to Raymond. “Come with me.” And to the oldest girl. “You too, Smiley.”
As they follow me out the door, the brooding teen corrects me. “My name is Riley.”
“I know. But I’m going to call you Smiley.”
“Why?” she asks, like it’s the stupidest, most vile thing she’s ever heard.
I smirk. “Because you’re
She’s too old—too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a course I would love to chart.
I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This getting-to-know-a-woman-first shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is risking contraction of an STD really such a big deal?
And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my valuable life short. Hell yes—it’s a big deal.
No fuck—no matter how spectacular—is worth dying for.
That should be the tagline in every high school safe-sex campaign.
My secretary opens my office door, and I’m grateful for the distraction . . . until she informs me an unscheduled client is here asking to see me. Remembering how this went down the last time, I’m about to tell Mrs. Higgens to tell them to fuck off.
Until she adds, “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is her name, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”
My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. If I believed in signs, this would be a big, flashing neon one.
I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”
7
M rs. Higgens heads out of the office and a few moments later, Chelsea and her fidgeting, noisy gaggle of nieces and nephews come into my office. She’s wearing a casual outfit—definitely “mommy wear,” but on that body it screams sexy. A dark green sweater that highlights the red in her auburn hair. Snug blue jeans tucked into high brown boots accent those endless legs—and the tight swell of her supple ass. That’s a pleasant surprise—I didn’t notice her ass the first time we met, but it’s fucking gorgeous.
She adjusts her grip on the baby carrier and her smile is strained. “Hello, Mr. Becker.”
I stand up behind my desk. “Chelsea, it’s good to see you again. What brings you . . .”
My eyes scan each of the faces that crowd my office, and I realize one is missing.
“Where’s Rory?”
Chelsea sighs. Before she can speak, the grouchy girl—fourteen-year-old Riley—answers for her. “The idiot got arrested. He stole a car.”
“A car?”
In a week, the little shit went from mugging to grand theft auto. That escalated quickly.
The small towheaded one, Rosaleen, continues. “And then he crashed it.”
The two-year-old supplies sound effects. “Brooocshhh.”
The smart one, Raymond, adds, “And not just any car—a Ferrari 458 Italia Limited Edition. The starting price is around nine hundred thousand dollars.”
I look to Chelsea, who nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story. He’s in juvenile detention—serious trouble this time.”
This time implies there’s been other times—my almost-robbery notwithstanding.
Jesus Christ, kid.
Chelsea explains in a strained voice, “My brother has dozens of attorneys in his contact list, but none of them are defense attorneys. I had your card . . . and you seem like a good lawyer.”
Out of curiosity, I ask, “What makes you think I’m good?”
She raises her chin and meets my eyes. “You look like a man who knows how to win a fight. That’s what I need—what Rory needs.”
I take a few moments to think—to plan.
Chelsea must interpret my silence as rejection, because her voice turns almost pleading. “I don’t know what your typical retainer is, but I can afford—”
My lifted finger stops her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Wait here.” Then I point to Raymond. “Come with me.” And to the oldest girl. “You too, Smiley.”
As they follow me out the door, the brooding teen corrects me. “My name is Riley.”
“I know. But I’m going to call you Smiley.”
“Why?” she asks, like it’s the stupidest, most vile thing she’s ever heard.
I smirk. “Because you’re
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