Wait for Him (The Sullivan Empire #2)

2018

Rose

Eight Years Ago

“What an absolute dick.”

“Cheers to that.”

Jade and Tyler clink their beer bottles together like they’ve earned it.

My hype squad. My co-counsel. The only two people on the planet I would willingly sit in a hotel bar with at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night when my feet are screaming, and my pride is somewhere on the floor of Judge Peterson’s courtroom.

Today was the biggest loss of my career.

Two point nine billion dollars gone. My client's claim, my argument, six months of case prep — all of it dismantled in under four hours because Judge Peterson is a sexist asshole who spent the entirety of my closing remarks looking at opposing counsel, and opposing counsel has a swinging dick and the audacity to use it as a professional credential.

The only silver lining: no more weekly four-hour treks to Fresno.

I take a long pull of my whiskey because it’s a whiskey kind of day.

“I want it on the record,” I say, setting the glass down, “that I…was right.”

“You were right,” Jade confirms, raising her bottle.

“The precedent was there.”

“It was absolutely there,” Tyler says.

“Peterson would never rule in our favor.”

“Not even a little.”

“So, this wasn’t a loss.” I gesture loosely with my glass. “This was a predetermined outcome executed by a man who peaked in 1987 and has been punishing women for it ever since.”

Tyler raises his bottle. “To predetermined outcomes.”

We down our drinks.

I’ve been practicing law for a few years now.

Since I joined Lineberg the two of them eye-fucking each other like they’ve already decided on how tonight will end.

"He said, and I quote, 'Tough loss, Bennett, but at least that skirt makes your ass look phenomenal. I even caught Peterson looking a few times.'" I reach for my glass. “I told him to go suck Peterson’s flaccid dick and walked off.”

“My fucking queen.” Tyler’s hand connects with mine in a high five of genuine respect. “I love you so much. If I weren’t gay and severely emotionally stunted, I’d ravish you.”

“You’d have to start by not saying ravish, Ty.” I chuckle. “No one says ravish.”

“Don’t listen to her, Tyler. She hasn’t had sex in over a year. People in her condition will say anything.”

I roll my eyes. “It has not been more than a year.”

Wait. Has it?

God. It has. They both watch me do the math in real time, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral.

Jade flags down the bartender she’s still eyeing hard.

“She’ll take another whiskey, hot barkeep,” she practically moans, batting her lashes.

When he walks away, she bites her bottom lip, then redirects her attention to me.

“After a day like today, you need a good fuck.

And that's exactly what I plan to do with Bradley over there as soon as his shift is over," she says, motioning to the bartender with wiggling fingers. “His name is Brandon.”

“I won’t need to know his name as long as he makes me call out for God.” She shrugs.

“Holy hell, I’m questioning my life choices.” I exhale as Brandon winks at Jade and slides my drink across the bar to me. “All of my life choices.”

It's been two years since my brother, Michael, and I moved to Los Angeles.

It was an abrupt decision right at the end of his senior year — because some jock, his girlfriend, and their harem of sycophants decided the funniest thing they could do was use his crush against him in the worst possible way.

They pranked him, humiliated him, then pointed and laughed when they got the reaction they wanted.

Our parents passed away in a plane crash when Michael was only fourteen.

I was twenty-four and in my last year of law school at Westbridge College of Law in LA.

I moved back to Houston and into our childhood home immediately, finished the last of my classes online.

I had to become whatever he needed without really stopping to ask whether I knew how.

You don’t, not at twenty-four.

You just do it.

Michael broke harder the night of that prank than he did at our parents’ funeral. So, when he said he needed to leave Houston, change his name, and start fresh — I did everything in my power to make it happen. He left Michael Bennett behind, became Bennet Sullivan, and hasn’t looked back since.

Coming back to Los Angeles after everything that happened wasn’t an easy choice for me, but now Michael’s thriving.

He’s in school, building something from the ground up, pouring every ounce of himself and his inheritance into it with the kind of focus that only comes from a person who has decided exactly who they’re going to be.

Me, on the other hand.

I’ve been circling the drain since the crash. Going through the motions — finishing school, passing the bar. I set aside my entire identity to be what Michael needed me to be, and I don’t think I’ve been quite able to pick that version of myself back up again.

Even if I could, Michael still needs me, and he comes first. Plus, I’m not even sure the other version of me is still waiting around to be reclaimed.

I don’t fully register that I’ve opened social media until the feed is already in front of me, and I’ve landed where I always land.

I’ve been quietly following this family for five years now.

They are a small piece of the old life — the Houston one, the one with my parents still in it — and I can’t seem to stop checking in on them.

They’re happy. It comes off the screen in waves.

Today they took their family to Disneyland out in Anaheim, and knowing they are so close, even for a day, makes my heart ache in ways I can’t express.

They have a big, warm, and crowded family. Samson Monroe is at the center of it. He was Michael’s AP Computer Science teacher and the neighbor two doors down. He’s the one who saw what Michael was before any of us did and pushed him to apply for Mensa. A good man. The best kind.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring into my phone, but when I look up, Jade has Brandon plastered against the wall near the bar and Tyler is chatting up a much older man in the corner.

“Figures.” I laugh to no one and pull out my phone, opening the RAG app for the first time in what feels like forever.

Turns out, it has been forever.

I check my last login and nearly choke on my drink.

Fourteen months.

Jesus Christ. No wonder I’m so goddamn aggravated lately.

RAG has always been my app of choice when I want something uncomplicated and very specifically suited to my tastes.

I tried Tinder once, but after the last guy ended up wide-eyed and scrambling away from me, crying, “Red. Oh God, red. What’s wrong with you?

” I figured it was probably time to stop fishing in the general population.

RAG is different. The users are heavily vetted; the interface is clean, and nobody is there pretending they’re looking for Sunday brunch and long walks on the beach.

Profiles are detailed about interests, boundaries, and expectations, which means there's considerably less chance of discovering halfway through the evening that someone's definition of adventurous begins and ends with leaving the lights on.

It gives me exactly what I need. No performance. No pretense. No awkward morning-after conversation where somebody suddenly wants to know what my five-year plan looks like.

We establish the rules; we have fun, and I move on.

At least, that's how it used to work before I somehow became a fucking nun.

Fourteen months.

I shake my head and take another sip of my drink as I update my status to active. Almost immediately, a small green pulse appears at the top of the screen.

My eyebrow lifts.

Well, hello.

One of RAG's more useful features is proximity.

If both users have the setting enabled, the app shows active matches within the immediate area.

It doesn't give an exact location because I'm kinky, not stupid, but close enough to know when someone interesting might be sharing the same restaurant, hotel, or bar.

And according to the little green pulse on my screen, someone compatible is online right now.

Very close.

Possibly in this bar.

I tap the notification and wait for the profile to load, expecting to swipe through another shirtless bathroom selfie or a man holding a fish for reasons I will never understand.

The picture appears.

My glass stops halfway to my mouth.

Well.

Fuck me.

I swipe to the next photo.

Then the next.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Golden-blond hair. A face that should probably require some kind of permit. His profile is sparse enough that I don't immediately hate him, and what he has filled out checks several boxes I haven't had checked in a very long time.

I lean back against the booth and take my time looking through the rest.