CHAPTER FIFTEEN — THE FIRST DATE
Brent
Idon’t do waiting well. Especially not alone, and especially not tonight, when the world has reduced itself to the click of the ice in my glass and the muffled drone of traffic bleeding through twenty stories of glass.
My penthouse, my castle—designed to repel any intrusion of ordinary life—is now a prison of self-inflicted silence while I watch the clock crawl toward seven.
I still don’t know why I’ve invited Marnie over without also inviting my law partner.
After all, James and I have never seen a woman alone, at least not when the game started together.
Of course, we’ve dated women individually when we initially met her out in the wild because we’re not bosom buddies or any shit like that.
But we’ve never gone it alone when we were introduced to a curvy filly together, and especially not when we’ve already fucked her in a dirty double team.
Yet here I am, waiting for Marnie by myself, pacing the floors and checking the table setting for the fifth time. What the fuck? I must be losing it.
At least the apartment is immaculate. The dining room’s pale maple and brass, the table set with bone-white plates and black matte cutlery.
In the living room, the windows catch what’s left of the sunset and smear it across a hundred square feet of engineered perfection.
The art is original, mostly monochrome, a few with a splash of red just to keep things interesting.
The housekeeper left two hours ago, but Mrs. Jackson left a nice dinner: osso buco, my go-to for nights that require gravitas.
Milanese has always been a fave, and the mouth-watering aroma of braised veal makes my stomach growl.
At 6:57, I kill the lights in the foyer and stand by the windows, looking down at the city. My phone vibrates: “Running a few behind, be up soon.” No period. Of course she doesn’t punctuate. It’s something about Gen Z. Or is Marnie Gen Alpha? Holy shit, I don’t even want to think about our age gap.
At 7:16, the elevator pings. The private vestibule lights up, and I catch the young woman in the security cam before I even hear the knock.
She’s not in fuck-you stilettos this time.
Instead: a black sheath dress, hem just below the knee, golden hair loose over one shoulder.
No jewelry except a gold locket. She holds a jacket in front of her like a shield, and for a second she hesitates.
But why? A smirk decorates my lips. She’s just as nervous as I am, and for good reason.
The elevator doors slide open, and there the golden goddess stands. Marnie looks up, startled, blue eyes wide and wild for a split second before she resets to neutral. “Sorry I’m late,” she mewls, stepping inside. “The Uber took a detour through Gravesend, and I’m not sure why.”
“It’s fine,” I say, and for once, it actually is. “Drink?”
“Wine, please,” she says, “If you have it, that is.” I’m already pouring. The bottle is a syrah, deep and bruised; I hand her a glass and watch the tension go out of her shoulders as she takes the first sip. "Mmm, so good.”
“You like?” I ask.
Marnie smiles sweetly.
“Very much so, thank you.”
I have half a mind to throw her on the rug right now, but dinner’s already ready, so I gesture her through the living room. She runs a finger along the edge of a sculpture as we pass, leaving a perfect fingerprint. “You have an Alexander Calder?”
“I have two,” I say in a low rumble. “I have to admit I wasn’t into the colors at first because they can be freakin’ bright. But my interior decorator convinced me, and now everyone who comes over loves them.”
Marnie shoots me a sweet smile over one slim shoulder.
“I love this one, Brent,” she mewls. “It’s gorgeous.”
Again, the caveman instinct to toss her over one shoulder and ravish her curves is strong, but we’ve reached the dining room, so it’s a bit too late.
No matter. We’ll have time later. As Marnie sits, I pour her another splash of wine and gesture to the osso buco in front of her. “I hope you eat veal.”
She smiles sweetly again. “I’m a curvy girl, so I love all food, and this smells absolutely delicious. I bet I’ll have two portions.”
I nod with approval.
“Please do, sweetheart. There’s enough for thirds even, and you know I adore your curves. Hell, if you put on thirty pounds, you’d look even better.”
She blushes.
“Thirty pounds!”
“Hell yeah,” I rasp while eyeing her big breasts. “I love a woman with flesh, sweetheart, and making those tits grow, as well as your ass, would be ideal.”
Marnie giggles.
“Oh my god, you’re so bad, Brent. I can’t put on thirty pounds, not when the doctors are already offering me Ozempic! But this isn’t a topic for dinner, not when the food looks so amazing. So tell me everything. How did you come to practice law?”
I nod while cutting into my own osso buco, and we chat about the usual.
A bit about our backgrounds, schooling, work experience, etc.
Usually, I find this shit boring as hell, but with the vivacious girl, everything’s interesting.
At one point, Marnie tells a story about a TA who hit on her during section, except he was so inept that he ended up tripping over his own shoes.
I snort so hard with laughter I almost choke.
But the main event, the reason Marnie’s here, sits between us like an unacknowledged guest.
I wait until she’s halfway through her second glass to bring it up.
“About your father’s case,” I say, not quite a question.
Marnie sets her fork down. Her eyes go unreadable, as she bites her bottom lip. “Are you going to tell me I’m wasting my time?”
“Not at all,” I say in a smooth tone, choosing my words. “I want you to find what you’re looking for.”
She cocks her head curiously. “But why?”
I pour a splash for myself, then answer: “Because I was there.”
She inhales sharply, those big tits rising. “Yes, I know, but explain please.”
I set my glass down and stare at the city below, at the endless web of lights and moving cars. For the first time in years, I feel the old acid at the back of my throat.
“I was assigned second chair on your father’s defense,” I say.
“Hoffman was lead. He hated me, but the partners forced him to take me on because I was supposed to “learn” from him. Instead, he froze me out of every strategy session, every pretrial meeting. Gave me busywork and ignored every question I asked. I watched as they railroaded your dad, Marnie. Watched the evidence get torched. I tried to flag it, but they shut me down—said it wasn’t my place to question a senior partner. So I didn’t.”
She says nothing, just watches me, the muscles in her jaw twitching.
“I was young,” I say, hating the way it sounds, the excuse in it. “I wanted to keep my job. I wanted to make partner. So I shut my fucking mouth and let it happen.”
The words hang in the air, ugly and sharp.
“I’ve never forgiven myself for it,” I admit in a low voice as heat crawls up my neck. “Not once.”
Marnie sits very still. Then, “So you did nothing?”
I shake my head. “I tried, later. I compiled everything I had, sent it to the Innocence Project. Never heard back. Years passed. I told myself it was out of my hands. Then I made partner, and the first case I closed was a wrongful conviction. But it didn’t fix anything because I still see your dad’s file every time I walk into the records room. ”
Marnie lets out a breath. Her face is pale but controlled. “Okay, but why are you telling me this?”
I meet her gaze. “Because you deserve to know. And because I can’t stop thinking about you, and the fact that every time you walk into a room, I feel like I’m watching someone who could wreck me with a single word.”
For a second, the curvy girl says nothing. Then she stands, the chair skidding slightly on the floor. She crosses to the windows, presses her forehead to the glass. Her reflection merges with the city, and I can see her lips moving, counting or chanting or just reminding herself to breathe.
After a minute, she turns.
“You think this makes you a good person?” Marnie’s voice is ragged, but she holds my eyes.
“Hell no,” I say, crossing to her. “I would never think of myself as a good person, sweetheart. But this admission makes me honest for once in my life, and I want that with you. I crave it.”
She sighs a bit, looking downcast. “I don’t know what to say.”
I step closer, careful. “I’m not looking for forgiveness, Marnie. But if you want the rest of the file—if you want every scrap of evidence they hid—I can get it. I can give you more than James can. He doesn’t even know half of what I saw.”
She’s so close now I can smell her shampoo, the trace of wine on her breath. She looks at me, face open and incredibly beautiful with her tip-tilted nose and plush pout. “And if I say yes?”
“Then I help you. For real this time. No strings.”
She lifts her chin, and for a second, I think she’s going to slap me. Instead, she leans in and kisses me.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s raw, desperate, her lips rough on mine, her hands in my hair.
I kiss the curvy girl back, arms around her waist, lifting her up so her feet leave the floor.
She gasps, her nails biting my shoulders, and we stagger backward until her spine hits the glass.
For a minute, it’s like drowning, and I want nothing more than to lose myself in this sexy, vivacious young woman.
But then Marnie pulls back, breathless, and looks at me with eyes that are suddenly, impossibly sad.
“I can’t,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“You can,” I say, but she shakes her head, frantic.
“No. Not tonight. Not—” She bites her lip, hard enough to leave a mark. “I’m sorry.”
Marnie slips past me, grabs her jacket, and heads for the door. I follow, but she’s already in the elevator vestibule, hair askew and cheeks flushed.
She presses the button, then turns and stares at me.
“Thank you for dinner, Brent,” she says. “And for telling me of the truth.”
Before I can answer, the doors close and she’s gone.
I stand there for a long time, the city buzzing and winking on the other side of the glass, and wonder what the fuck just happened. I’ve never had a woman walk out on me. Not once in my fucking life, so what the hell?
Then again, Marnie’s special. Different. Proud, hungry, intelligent, and lush. She’s not just a woman with big tits and a round ass that she lets me fuck, but smart and sassy too, with a mouth that talks and sucks.
I love it. And I’m trying to steal her for myself, from another man. Holy shit, I’m so fucking fucked.