CHAPTER 3
Eric
My phone alarm blaring on the nightstand drags me savagely into consciousness. Fuck, I feel like I just closed my eyes a few minutes ago. How the fuck is it morning? Reaching over, I swipe the screen to silence the fucking foghorn alarm. I blow out a long breath and scrub my hands over my face, trying with all my might to ignore the raging boner tenting my boxer briefs—courtesy of a vivid dream featuring a certain long-lashed twink.
I can still feel his hands on my body. I can still taste him on my tongue. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking. I can’t even find the right words to describe the way he looked up at me. On his knees, lips stretched to capacity with tears dripping down his face. He was perfection.
My dick twitches, and without much thought I wrap my hand around the base and squeeze. I’ve never had a bathroom hookup affect me so much; maybe it's because he ditched me and I never got another taste. He asked me to wait for him at the bar, and like an eager beaver I did just that. I sat down, ordered him a drink, and waited… and waited. I probably should have realized sooner that he had left, but I guess I kept hoping. An entire hour passed before I could bring myself to accept that the hookup of my dreams had dined and ditched.
I replayed every interaction for hours before I relented to sleep. He had come so hard. I felt it on my tongue, I saw the evidence of it on the stall door. I can still remember how eager he was to have my dick in his mouth. His blown-out pupils, his flawless makeup had drawn me right into his web. I was sure our evening had just begun. That after one more drink we could catch an Uber back to my place and he would lay like a pillow princess and let me devour his body inch by fucking inch. Edge him until he cried so pretty for me and begged for my cock to fill his needy hole.
I get up with a groan, knowing I could lay here all day and think about Lashes. I’m rock hard and dripping precum at the mere memory of last night. God, that hot mouth and smooth ass. He took everything I gave and he was eager for more. Unfortunately, I know nothing about the guy. Not his name or age or even his occupation. I literally have no clue how to find him other than go back to Jacks and question the bartender, maybe stake the place out for a night or two. Fuck, what I wouldn’t do for a repeat. Well, I mean I wouldn’t actually stake the place out—that's a step too far—but maybe if I happen to be in the neighborhood I could ask the bartender if he knew the guy's name. Surely he would remember the guy in makeup and lace. That's not weird, right?
The only thing I can do now is try to give my dick some relief with my hand in the shower, then get ready for another day at the office. Maybe I’ll find myself working late again and suddenly very thirsty. Turning on the taps, I laugh at my own crazy thoughts. I will not hunt the guy down. He obviously wasn’t interested in anything more than a hookup, or he wouldn’t have run off like that. Last night was a one-time thing. A glorious, random once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.
I wouldn’t even have been at the bar last night if it wasn’t for Jackson. My best friend stopped by on his way out of the office and told me I was becoming my father.
“All work and no play makes Eric a boring bastard,” he sang through my office door, making me slam the lid of my laptop down mid-report.
Jackson and I have known each other our whole lives. He’s been my best friend since we were toddlers and our moms were best friends. We went to school together, then went on to be college roommates. He has been by my side for all my highs and lows. He was the first person I came out as bi to: the asshole just looked at me and said, “It was my ass, wasn’t it? My ass is so glorious you’re now into men."
I scoffed back at him, shaking my head. "Jackson, I've seen your bushwhacked straight ass before, and I can assure you I have zero interest in going there."
Jackson looked amused, then slowly hiked up his belt and glanced down. "Then it's my dick, isn't it? Tell you what, I’ll even take one for the team and let you blow me for practice.”
I have never sucked his dick to this day, though to be honest, he really does have a great ass.
Jackson was there for me when my mom died. As much as I love my dad, he coped with her death by drowning himself in his work, practically forgetting he had a kid. Jackson and his family looked after me. Growing up, I took care of my dad. I was the parent reminding him to eat, dragging him away from his computer to sleep while I was at school because he stayed up most nights researching. Mom died from an aneurysm, and with Dad being a neurologist, he couldn’t accept the fact he never saw the signs before it was too late. While Dad made it his life's mission to try and save others from the same fate as my mom, I chose to honor her by following in her footsteps to become a lawyer.
I did always promise myself that I would not turn into my father, though. I made Jackson swear to never let me get too far down the rabbit hole that I forget how to have a life. My mom wouldn’t have wanted that for me or my dad, but he’s a lost cause now. I’m lucky if he remembers to return my calls. So, yeah—Jackson is there to remind me to live. Apparently his way of doing that is swinging open my office door, calling me a boring bastard and flipping me the bird before leaving.
When I walked into Jacks last night for a drink and maybe find a hookup to break my dry spell, I was certainly not expecting to have my mind blown by a Louboutin-wearing brat.
Now, I’m standing in the shower, watching as my release swirls down the drain along with any hope I had of ever seeing Lashes again. After stepping out and drying myself, I head to my closet and pull out a fresh deep green suit, a cream shirt, and a muted blue tie. I have a pretty relaxed schedule today, my only major task being to interview someone Cliffer referred to as “The perfect paralegal." I guess since I have rejected every candidate they have sent me thus far, they think I am looking for a damn purple unicorn—when really I just want somebody competent. I’ve worked with Drew Cliffer for a few years now and he is dedicated to his job, almost to a fault. So if he is saying this guy is perfect, I gotta believe there is something special about him.
I sit at my desk looking through my latest case. It's pretty much a slam dunk—the evidence is in my client's favor, as well as the fact he has an airtight alibi. Why this case has even gotten this far is beyond me, but I guess that's why the defendant fired his previous lawyer and hired me. I don’t usually like to talk shit about other law firms, but the amount of mistakes in this file is mind blowing. Mistakes that I’m hoping my latest candidate can spot off the bat.
A paralegal with experience and good instincts should be able to pick this case apart. Motions that were supposed to be filed aren’t mentioned, the suspect hearing is unacceptable, there are no witnesses listed, and the guy's alibi was never checked out. The guy was on CCTV footage at a ball game, for Christ's sake. If someone asked me, I would say it was prepared by a freshman at college, not a professional lawyer or paralegal. This amount of oversight from the cops and the guy's representatives is outrageous. It could mean an innocent man goes to prison and the guilty party walks free.
My mom always told me that it’s better for one guilty to walk free than one innocent to be convicted. She is the reason I am in this career; she was so passionate about seeking justice for the innocent. I remember watching her while she worked. Preparing case files and prepping for court hearings. She was always so focused and never left a stone unturned. She would pace the living room asking questions out loud, playing out potential scenarios that could happen during trial. It was fascinating. I already knew before she passed that I wanted to do what she did; to feel what she must have felt when she won and her client was found innocent.
I could just as easily go to the DA’s office and work for the prosecution, but I have never been one to be ruled by politics. I would rather fight for the little guy. Which means my case selection is always tougher. Some would say I only take cases I know I can win. That I go for low-hanging fruit. Those people are idiots. It has never been about me winning anything. This isn't a game. This could be life or death for somebody. I decide my cases based on my first interview with a client. I have spent a long time fine tuning my bullshit detector. I have studied body language and sat through seminars on microexpression and profiling. I want to help those who are innocent, or those who made a terrible mistake and regret it with every ounce of their being.
When I find that person and they hire me, I become a dog with a bone. I will not leave any stone unturned and I will pace my apartment talking it out just like my mom did. But behind every great attorney is an even greater paralegal that they can trust to be as invested as they are.
Which is why I haven’t hired any of the candidates that have applied for the position so far. In the interim, I’ve just been borrowing help from the junior attorneys in the office. Dammit—I take it back. I really do have to find that purple unicorn. One with experience and confidence that shares my values and work ethic. Easier said than done, clearly. Perhaps this next candidate will be the one. Maybe he will pick up the file in front of me and point out every terrible mistake, then just take himself to a desk to fix it. Is that too much to ask for?
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a knock on my door. Guess it's showtime. I get up and button my suit jacket, then move to stand at the side of my desk before calling for them to come in.
Drew greets me with his bright smile. “Good morning, Eric, I have somebody I would like you to meet. Hopefully you have already had your morning coffee—you might need it with this one.”
The lilt in his voice makes me frown. Is he up to something? Am I being pranked?
Drew receives a well-deserved and clearly jovial back-handed smack to the bicep for that little comment, but I can't actually see past Drew to who his assailant is.
“See what I mean?” Drew laughs and steps to the side. “Eric, this is Jordan Bell, the incredible paralegal I told you about.”
His words register somewhere in my mind, but my brain is currently in a blender as I spiral at the man in front of me. He’s wearing loud-yet-fashionable checked pants, a black shirt, and a large brown belt cinching his waist—all topped off by black boots that add at least four much-needed inches to his small frame. My mouth goes instantly dry when I reach his face and spot the subtle hints of make up he’s wearing, including fucking lashes.