Chapter 9
JETT
Locke Maris was incredibly fun to flirt with. It clearly made him uncomfortable, but just as clearly intrigued him. He was a conundrum. One I knew better than to provoke, but one I couldn’t seem to stop provoking anyway.
The woman sitting in my row leaned forward and blinked, absently patting her baby’s back to keep them asleep. “That’s Locke Maris.”
I smiled politely and nodded, distracted by the memory of the way his suit vest had accentuated his wide shoulders and narrow waist or the way his rolled-up sleeves had revealed the ink on his forearm.
Her voice sounded awed. “He was interviewed on WSB yesterday. I saw it on TV when I was waiting for a doctor’s appointment. Something about an expansion that creates new jobs in Atlanta and Savannah. Are you friends with him?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times. I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”
The man between us chimed in. “If I had someone offering me a job at a company like that, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’ve heard they pay great. Buddy of mine did an IT consulting gig there and said it was sweet.”
“Shipping’s not really my thing,” I said with a shrug before sliding his business card into my pocket.
But Locke himself? Fucking Christ, was he my thing.
My mouth had filled with saliva when I’d realized his was the body I’d fallen onto.
Every cell had begged to stay right there in his lap.
Thankfully, reality had come screaming in very quickly, and I’d snapped back into my Jethro Davis persona after a few moments of feeling suddenly tongue-tied around him.
Locke Maris had taken on superhuman qualities in my memory.
For three years, he’d become my secret crush.
My hidden obsession. Yes, Brenda, I had seen the interview he’d done on the Atlanta television station yesterday, not because I’d been in Atlanta, but because I had a fucking Google alert set on the man.
I’d watched it on my phone this morning while boarding my flight from Biloxi, Mississippi, where I’d finished up my most recent assignment.
I’d also seen the New York Times op-ed last month about the “positive global impact” of the “exciting new face of leadership” at Maris Holdings now that Locke’s grandfather was gone.
I should have told him I was sorry about his grandfather’s death. The news had hit global media outlets when I’d been home last Christmas with my family. We’d come in from spending one of those magically warm winter days out on the beach to discover Reynolds Maris dead of a sudden heart attack.
My heart had gone out to Locke. He’d spoken reverently about his grandfather, and I had to assume the loss would have hit him hard.
In addition to losing someone he loved, the death of Reynolds Maris had suddenly thrust Locke into a position of leadership for a global monolith with multiple billions of dollars in revenue and the expectations of high-level financial stakeholders around the world.
Do you think you run the entire world? I’d asked him. Because you sure act like it sometimes.
Feel like it sometimes, too, he’d said.
Locke was only thirty-four. But then again, he’d had the bearing of a CEO even at the age of thirty or thirty-one when we’d originally met. Powerful, capable, and driven.
Men like him were catnip. It was one of the reasons I’d requested a transfer back to New York six months ago.
The scene in Miami had been too different.
Too… easygoing for me. The men there hadn’t been as focused or as driven as the men I’d hooked up with in New York.
It had been too much like where I’d grown up, with chill vibes that better suited my dads than me.
I shook off thoughts of Locke Maris and focused on the upcoming meetings back at the office.
While my reports on the most recent case were completed and had been submitted, I needed to prepare to answer questions during our team debrief, as well as consult with the legal team regarding the arrests made in Mississippi.
As I started my music again and returned to the coded notes I’d been taking in my phone, the casual reference to human trafficking and other horrors in my notes struck me.
This kind of shit had become commonplace for me over the past five years.
My almost jaded acceptance of it all was one of the reasons Rocky continued to suggest I take some time off.
I’d had ten assignments in two years and had only taken a little time off to visit my family in all that time—a weekend home at Christmas and a week the month before that for my cousin Mattie’s wedding in Napa.
Working hard suited me just fine, especially when I had cases like a recent one in Spain, where I’d had my evenings and weekends free to find satisfying company.
The sex had been plentiful enough in Spain—and at my cousin’s wedding—to make the dry Sahara of Mississippi survivable, but I was definitely looking forward to some time back in New York.
While none of the men waiting for me in the city could hold a candle to Locke Maris, there were plenty of sexy guys to take my mind off him and everything else.
I spent the rest of the flight finishing my notes. By the time I deplaned, he was gone. Locke’s business card burned a hole in my pocket, so I pulled it out and studied it while waiting for the train. The cream card stock was velvety thick and engraved with bold, gold foil lettering.
J. LOCKE MARIS
Chief Executive Officer
Maris Holdings International
A Maris Family Enterprise Since 1872
Global Freight | Security Consulting | Port Operations | Arctic & Pacific Routes
Pier House, Battery Park, NYC
EA: Minerva.Willis@
On the back was a handwritten phone number I would never use.
I ran my finger over the letters, memorizing the information before turning it over and doing the same with his private cell number.
And then I tore the card into tiny pieces and threw bits of them away in various trash cans between LaGuardia and my rental in Chelsea.
As much as I loved fantasizing about Locke Maris, the man was straight. Yes, he’d been willing to experiment with me once. But letting someone suck your dick wasn’t quite the same thing as a more involved sexual encounter—the kind I wanted, needed, and deserved.
However, after the following two long days of endless meetings and three nights of absolute shit hookups, I decided I would rather suck Locke’s dick in a dank alley than expect a supposedly vers guy from Grindr to top me.
And maybe I’d had three too many heavy-handed cocktails. But while I was drunk enough to text him, I wasn’t drunk enough to put his actual name in my contacts.
This is Jett.
After a few long minutes, a response came in.
Catnip
I need to talk to you.
My heart leapt. The look he’d given me on the plane had been heated as fuck. I could tell he wanted me. He’d wanted me in Amsterdam, too. He just hadn’t allowed himself to do anything about it.
About what?
Catnip
Tell me where you are and I’ll send a car.
Posh in Hells Kitchen
Catnip
Be outside in ten.
When I got to his place, the driver directed me to a wood-paneled study, where Locke was sitting at a large desk, working on a laptop. A fire blazed in a nearby fireplace, surrounded by overstuffed leather seats. The room seemed old and well-worn. It suited him.
He glanced up when I walked in. “Sorry about that,” he said, shutting the computer and standing up before indicating the leather chairs. “Have a seat. Are you hungry? Would you like a drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
He looked incredible, as usual, but this time, he was dressed more casually than I’d ever seen him. A faded Columbia University hoodie, dark, late-night stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and his hair messy from running his hands through it.
Catnip. Jesus fuck.
I bit my tongue against the urge to lick my lips in anticipation. Last time I’d seen him, he’d rejected any physical encounter between us, but what else would he have called me here for but to suck his cock again?
“I have a business proposition for you,” he said as he stood and moved over to the chair opposite mine.
I opened my mouth to remind him I didn’t want a job at his company, when I realized maybe he didn’t mean business-business. Maybe he meant sex business.
“Okay?”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his knees, resting his elbows on his thighs. He studied the carpet for a beat before glancing back up at me.
“I need you to come with me on a trip.”
Before I could ask him what the fuck he was talking about, he continued.
“You’ll travel to Italy with me. By day, you’ll play my perfect assistant and event coordinator, catering to my guests’ needs.
But at night…” Locke’s voice was hypnotizing, challenging, practically daring me to disagree.
“At night, you will cater to my needs.” His eyes bored into mine. “And I have very specific needs.”
I stopped breathing.
Locke’s jaw tightened. “Complete discretion is required, as well as an NDA. No one will know you’re anything more than an employee helping the event run smoothly. In exchange for your service and discretion, I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars.”
My face was on fire, and my fingertips felt strange. “Um. What?” I asked stupidly.
He stood and turned away from me, moving toward a small wet bar in the corner to grab a bottle of water from a hidden mini fridge. When he returned and handed it to me, his face was all business.
“We leave Sunday. If you need a passport, my people can help facilitate an expedited process.”
My brain was like a sandwich with no filling. Open and empty. “I, uh… I have a passport. Amsterdam, remember?”
Not that it was relevant. Because you know what else I had? A fucking job. As a global intelligence agent. I was not a high-priced—very, very high-priced—escort.
“Good. Then you’ll simply need to spend the next few days letting my people outfit you with the proper clothing.”