13. Phoenix
Phoenix
I ’m seated at the bar at Luogo Sapori, a Santa Monica five-star family-owned restaurant, awaiting Michaela with a full view of the door. My upbringing demands I wait for her before I drink, but given the day I had, I need this.
“There’s something about the way you drink a martini that’s so fucking sexy and so undoubtedly manly,” a warm female voice says from my right.
It’s not Michaela.
The overpowering perfume lingering in the air doesn’t match the lovely flower scent of the little dragon with the piercing green eyes. The voice of the woman speaking, isn’t hers.
“You’re keeping well.” A woman I was hoping to never see—or hear from—again lifts her wine glass in salute.
Evelyn Pussett. Great.
I selected this restaurant in the hopes I wouldn’t bump into anyone I know.
That worked out well.
“Evelyn,” I say with a small nod.
“Phoenix Konig. It’s been a while. I was hoping for a second round.” Her voice is a syrupy seductive purr that’s been perfected over many years and at the expense of many of her victims—men. “I’m sad it never happened.” She pulls her lips down in a frown.
“You’re more delusional than I remember,” I say before taking another sip of my drink.
She ignores my jab. “I thought we shared something pretty hot.”
I drop my glass on the bar and turn my head to lock eyes with the tall, slim woman.
She’s wearing a striking short sleeveless dress with V-neck front in a screaming orange shade.
Her long blonde hair, draping over her shoulders, now reaches down to her waist. She’s not only a natural blonde, but she’s one of the rare women who wears her fake breasts well.
She doesn’t feel the need to flash her double D’s, nor does she walk around without a bra.
“It was a hookup. Plain and simple, Evelyn.”
“But it could’ve been so much more.” Her lips curve into a flirty smile.
“You mean, had I not walked back into the bedroom when I did, you would’ve had your way?”
She swats my arm.
I clench my teeth.
“You totally blew that out of proportion.” She rolls her hazel-brown eyes. “I told you a million times already.”
“Stepping out of the bathroom and catching you with a safety pin in one hand and a pack of condoms in the other is pretty self-explanatory.”
She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and stands a little straighter. “That’s not what happened.”
“You weren’t trying to get pregnant so I would become your ATM machine for the next eighteen years?” My tone is as sharp as a serrated blade.
“No.” The insincerity in that one word is nauseating.
Evelyn and I met last year at a late summer wedding in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She was a friend of the bride. A buddy of mine was getting hitched.
In a crowd of stunning women, Evelyn was hard to miss. She’s statuesque, gorgeous, smart, and charming. She’s also a great manipulator. As an assistant casting director, she didn’t come across as a woman who was waiting for a man to save her.
What was supposed to be a few hours of carnal sex, turned into a lot more.
We didn’t leave her hotel room until the next day.
I fucked that woman’s ass so hard, and so many times, I thought my cock was going to break.
She never asked for a respite. On the contrary, she kept begging for more.
She’s one dirty girl. I also fucked her pussy, but Evelyn needs a big cock pumping her ass to come undone. I was happy to oblige.
There was no hiding my identity, so she knew who I was, but she didn’t seem fazed, which is why I didn’t expect her to pull that sneaky move.
“Are the rumors true?” Evelyn changes the subject.
“Which rumors?”
“Did you get her pregnant? Is that why you’re forced to marry that Michelle… or is it Miley… Marielle, maybe?” Evelyn waves her glass in front of her face in a dismissive gesture. “What’s the name of the girl you’re marrying?”
“You mean, woman ?”
“Girl. Woman. Same thing.”
Right. “Her name is Michaela.”
“Is Michaela pregnant?”
None of your fucking business.
I face her to give her a piece of my mind, but I’m interrupted by a pair of lasers beaming at me. A man I recognize stares in our direction, annoyance and anger written all over his face.
I’m willing to bet everything to my name, Evelyn hooked up with the newly appointed Mayor of Los Angeles’s brother. I’ve met him at numerous charity functions. He’s an arrogant motherfucker. His ego is bigger than my brothers’, my father’s, and mine, combined.
I answer Evelyn’s question with one of my own. “Is that your date?” I jerk my chin.
She doesn’t even bother turning around. “We’re together,” she says with nonchalance. “He thinks I look good on his arm and therefore, it’s good for his public image. He has lofty political aspirations.”
“You’re aiming high,” I say.
“He’s okay, but”—she looks left to right before leaning in—“you’re a much better lover. And much bigger, too… and what you do with your tongue. Oh, fuck… no one’s ever done that to me before.”
I’m sure she meant it as a compliment, but she comes across like the two-timing bitch she is.
I come to the guy’s defense. “That’s a low blow to a man’s ego.”
“I make him think he’s a stallion, when he’s anything but. He’s happy, and he rewards me with a monthly allowance. Everyone wins.”
“Great relationship goal.” Sarcasm drips from my words.
“It works for me.” She lifts a defiant chin.
“Good for you.”
“So, you still haven’t answered my question. You made it pretty clear you weren’t the dating or marrying type. This is quite the turnabout.”
I laugh. A day of fucking and she thinks she knows me. How presumptuous of her. “You have no?—”
In my peripheral vision, I catch a flash of legs and a pair of heels that pull my eyes to the door. I do a double take.
Jesus.
“The cat got your tongue?”
I ignore Evelyn’s question. Everything––and everyone––in the room disappears as my gaze travels up and down the length of her body.
Wow.
Michaela stops traffic in a jaw-dropping hot pink sequined short-sleeved dress.
It’s short enough to reveal her shapely legs—a lot of leg, in fact—but it’s still elegant and chic.
The seductive neckline that shows a tasteful hint of cleavage draws my attention to her tempting breasts.
The close fitted design of the dress hugs her in all the right places.
And those strappy high heels in the same pink shade accentuate her calves so perfectly.
Her short dark hair is styled in an edgy, yet sophisticated way.
The glint in her ears indicates she’s wearing the same small diamond studs she was wearing earlier today.
She’s mouthwatering.
Scratch that.
She. Looks. Banging.
My cock strains against my pants as I take her in. It’s a struggle to remember this is a business arrangement and not a real date. Everything about her is an open invitation… one I’ll be forced to ignore.
Dammit.
“That’s one hell of a dress,” Evelyn says. “I guess Mindy isn’t pregnant.”
My annoyance flares. “Get it in your head, Evelyn. Her name is Michaela . Not Mindy . Not Michelle. Not Miley. And not Marielle.”
She shrugs. “I forgot.”
Idiot. “If you’ll excuse me.” I stand from the barstool. “My girl is here.” The moment I’m on my feet, Michaela spots me. Her eyes cut to Evelyn before meeting mine.
I read judgment in her gaze.
It’s like her eyes are shooting ice pellets at me.
I purse my lips and offer a subtle headshake, so she knows this isn’t what she thinks it is.
Her face is impassable, but there’s a storm brewing in those gorgeous green eyes.
Shit.
“I guess a leopard can change its spots.” Evelyn is still running her mouth. “Who knew?”
I stare her down. “It’s a question of finding the right one. It can happen like that.” I snap my fingers.
Evelyn makes a face.
“Michaela is the right one for me.” If I’m going to play a role, it should be an Oscar performance.
“Good for you.” Evelyn lifts her glass in a mock non-celebratory cheer, a tight, fake smile plastered on her face. “I wish it could’ve been me.”
I’m so glad it’s not. “Enjoy your new man and the allowance,” I say. “My fiancée is waiting.”
At the mention, my eyes drop to Michaela’s left hand.
We need to fix that.