Five Ways to Fall (23 page)

She pulls out a sheet of paper from the top folder, slapping it onto my desk. “The good doctor’s out. See?” Her long, slender finger jabs at the paper. “The wife’s company donated a hundred thousand dollars to his private clinic’s fundraiser six months ago.”

Pulling my attention back to the case, I scan the tax receipt. “Shit. You’re right.” It’s definitely enough to discredit the expert witness who’s trying to paint our client as a psychologically abusive father to gain his ex-wife sole custody of their three-year-old girl and all the child support that goes along with it. “Without this jerk’s testimony, this custody battle is dead.”

“Okay, Erin Brockovich, where the hell did you find this?”

She shrugs. “Wasn’t that hard.”

Natasha was stumped. I was stumped. We thought we’d be searching for something to win this case right up until we lost it. I look up at Reese’s smug smile again. I’m seriously thinking about taking her into that corner conference room across the hall to thank her the way I’d
really
like to. The one with blinds and a lock. Jack’s out of town at a conference. Other than Natasha, no one would be looking to interrupt us “working.”

Dammit, thinking like this is not helping the current predicament I’m trying to hide under my desk.

I throw my pen down and lean back in my chair. “You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

“I prefer spectacular.” She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, her face scrunching up with apology. “Look, I know I promised I’d stay late, but today’s been weird and I’m not feeling great. I’m going to grab a nap at home and work some more later.”

She
is
kind of pale, now that I think of it. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So, is there anything else you absolutely need me to do for you before I go?” Her eyes drift to my lap as she adds dryly, “Besides the problem that the Twinkie will be fixing later.” There’s a biting edge in her tone.

“Jealous?” Just the possibility has me smiling like an ass. I hook my hands together behind my head and admit, “Because I’d much rather have
your
help with that.” And I honestly would.

Reese’s lips twist in thought as she slowly appraises my body with that raptor gaze. She’s normally so much more covert when she’s ogling me, preferring to do it when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Her voice drops a few octaves as an “Okay” slides from those thin lips. “Conference room?”

“What?” My eyebrows shoot up.
Shit
. I wasn’t expecting that. My wide eyes scan the office for anyone who might be watching or listening in, seeing as the door isn’t even closed. Is she serious? I can’t tell! All I do know is that I’m sure going to be in a lot of fucking pain if she doesn’t follow through.

A wicked cackle erupts from her. “Mrs. Cooke!” she hollers as Jack’s assistant passes by my door, on her way somewhere.

Mrs. Cooke retraces her steps and pokes her head in, out of breath and wiping her sweaty forehead with a tissue. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“Ben was just telling me how he ate all of your muffins over the weekend and wonders how you make them so peachy.”

The kind woman’s eyes light up as they settle on me. “Oh, you sweet boy. I’ll give you the recipe, for your mama. Do you have a pen and paper handy?” Her hands flutter about as she starts giggling—a funny Betty Rubble sound. She strolls into my office and squeezes herself into my spare chair—and I mean squeezes—as I shoot a look Reese’s way.

“Was I helpful?” Reese asks sweetly.

I can’t help but smile. “Yes, you were.”
Like
a bucket of ice.

“Good. Maybe you won’t need any Twinkies after all.” She struts out.

I’m sinking into total oblivion when the knock sounds on my door.

“Yeah?” I call out groggily, cracking an eye to see the glowing red numbers on my digital clock staring back at me. One a.m. I’m fucking exhausted.

The door creaks open and a sliver of the hallway light behind shines down to reveal platinum-blond hair and a sparkly tight blue dress. “Hey,” Mercy offers, leaning back to close the door with her ass. “Travis let me in.”

I roll onto my back and murmur, “That was nice of him.” I’ve shared a house with five guys for almost six years. Someone’s always home and they’ve never
not
let Mercy in. I should probably set some new ground rules, given the situation.

Sauntering forward in that way she has—slow and graceful, like a cat—she reaches the side of the bed. I’ve started sleeping with the curtains open, finding the morning light helps me adjust to my new sleeping pattern. Now, it casts enough street light that I can just barely make her figure out. “You said you’d call.”

“I got caught up with work.” I actually forgot all about Mercy. After getting detailed instructions on Mrs. Cooke’s peach muffins—which I’m actually gonna give to my mama—I spent hours churning through all the files Reese gave me. Mercy’s gaze skates down along my exposed chest and stomach, her brow arching slightly as her attention drifts farther down to where I’m already pitching a tent under my sheets. I can’t help it. Reaching up, her fingertips do this little curling motion around the straps of her dress and then, giving them a slight tug, she pushes the material down until her dress hits my floor in a shimmering heap. Working six days a week at Penny’s, I’ve seen Mercy naked so many times that I could almost map out all her freckles in the dark.

“I thought maybe . . .” she says as she gingerly pulls my sheet down and climbs into my bed, sliding a leg over my body to straddle my thighs, “ . . . I could stay here for the night and,” she leans over, her arms resting on either side of my pillow, her fake double-Ds pressing against my chest, “get my fill of Ben. Is that okay?”

I can’t help but chuckle. Mercy has a way with words. She never comes right out and says anything dirty, but the implication is thick. My brain conveniently skips over the “stay for the night” part and goes straight to the part where she’s shimmying down my body, until her long hair grazes my stomach and the heat of her mouth wraps around me.

And then, with a deep groan, my brain just shuts down altogether.

“Are you okay?” I hear Mason ask from the doorway.

“I’m going to get my ass kicked and I probably deserve it,” I mutter, staring at my phone.

Do you want to go to Storm and Dan’s together this weekend?

I knew I shouldn’t have let that happen. But what do you do when a gorgeous stripper shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night? No guy would say no to that. I don’t care you who are. And if you tell me you’d say no? You’re fucking lying or you’re gay.

She had never slept over before, though. I was up and out before she woke this morning, so at least there wasn’t an awkward goodbye. And now she’s texting me about going to a
wedding
together? Yeah, it’s Storm and Dan, but . . . still. I don’t like the way my gut feels about this. It’s telling me that Mercy is
definitely
wanting more. Telling her I just want to be friends isn’t going to work. She’ll bob her pretty head and say, “I know, Ben,” and then she’ll grab my cock. Short of me bringing someone else as a date, I’ll end up with my pants around my ankles in a bathroom by cocktails.

Shit
. That means I need to bring a date! But who? Who is there to bring? I can’t bring anyone that I’ve screwed around with in the past—that’ll just get me into the same boat as the one I’m in with Mercy. I mean, it’s a wedding. Chicks get weird at weddings. They trample each other to catch flying flowers. I need someone who’s not looking for
anything
from me. I need . . . “Where’s your sister today?” I ask Mason suddenly. I’ve been eyeing Reese’s office all morning and there’s been no sign of life. She promised she’d be here to help me. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, not getting my morning dose of Reese is noticeable. It’s like I’m in withdrawal.

“Stepsister,” he corrects. “And she’s at home, sick.”

“Seriously?”
Shit
. She did say she was leaving early yesterday to catch some sleep.

He nods. “And she took a bunch of files with her, including one of mine accidently. I’m heading over there now to go pick it up.” Adding under his breath, “Into that infested house.”

That’s right. Mason tends to avoid sick people like they’re all potential carriers of the bubonic plague. “I’ll go. I’m not a sissy,” I quickly throw out.

“Ben. Trust me, you don’t want—”

“It’s fine. Besides, she likes me more.”

Some thought passes through those green eyes of his and then I think I catch a flicker of a smile. It’s too fast to confirm, though. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he tosses them onto my desk. “Here—she probably won’t answer the door.” He scribbles down the address. “I need the files back by noon today. Can you pick her up some cold medication? I promised Jack I would.”

“What does she want?”

He shrugs. “Tylenol? Nyquil? Valium?”

“All right.” I collect the keys and the address. And wait for it.

And wait for it.

Finally, I give up. “Dude, aren’t you going to warn me not to try anything on your sister?”

“Stepsister!” he corrects sharply, but then that little hint of a smile is back. “And no. I’m not too worried about that.” Mason takes off, throwing over his shoulder, “By twelve. I need the file by twelve.”

Well, that gives me almost two hours to figure out how I’m going to convince Reese to come to a wedding with me.

Chapter 17

REESE

“How are there no drugs in this damn house!”

“You know all that stuff does is suppress your immune system,” Lina’s voice blasts over speakerphone in my room. “This is why I tell you to take ginseng every day.”

“You and Jiminy Cricket both,” I mutter, staring at the wall across from me, my head propped by three pillows until I’m almost sitting. Because I can’t breathe otherwise. I’ve already raided Mason’s bathroom vanity. It’s brimming with vitamins and supplements, but there’s nothing of any real value. Jack’s not much help to me either right now, given that he believes a shot of vodka a day keeps all illnesses at bay. The only thing I found of any use was a small tub of Vicks, with which I’ve already coated my chest, my back, even my upper lip.

“And does Jiminy Cricket get sick? Because
I
don’t get sick.”

“I’m convinced that neither of you are quite human. That’s probably why you’ve found each other,” I mutter, my ratty but comforting gray robe wrapped around me in a cocoon not warding off the chill running through my body. I thought it was simply lack of sleep with all the Jared stuff on my mind. I left work, planning to take a nap and catch up in the evening. I may as well have just left all those file folders at work, because I passed out the second my head hit my pillow and didn’t wake up for thirteen hours. Now I can’t stop shivering and my head is about to explode from the sinus pressure. All I want to do is self-medicate but, short of some pills that expired ten years ago—which I’m seriously considering taking—the house is empty of all worthy narcotics.

“I saw some ginger in Mason’s drawer. Should I take that?” Yes, Mason has his own drawer in the refrigerator. And yes, he’ll have a mild coronary when he discovers I’ve rifled through it.