Lauren Blakely - After This Night

“Indeed it is,” Charlie said, a smile spreading across his face. “I like you. You have balls. You should work for me. I can always use a good lawyer.”

“Thank you. But I’m going to have to pass on that. I have a pretty full client list at the moment.”

They spent the rest of the hour talking about sports and eating chicken, and discussing whether San Francisco or New York had better restaurants. Though he didn’t enjoy the time, and in fact, he spent the vast majority of it in a coiled state of restraint so he wouldn’t strangle the man with his bare fists, at least he left understanding the enemy.

And that always counted for something.

“How much do I bring to the game?”

Clay glanced up from the check, shooting Michele a quizzical look. “The game?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically, holding her hands out wide. They’d just finished lunch at McCoy’s on Madison, in between their respective offices. He tossed his credit card on the table.

“Saturday night. Your game,” she added.

“You don’t usually come to poker,” he said as the waiter scurried by with plates for another table.

“Am I not invited?” She crossed her arms.

“Of course you’re invited, Michele,” he said, trying to settle her. He didn’t want her to be irritated, but she seemed in a seesawing mood. “I was just surprised.”

“Liam invited me,” she said, drumming her fingernails against the table as if she were trying to get his attention. But he was paying attention already.

“Oh yeah? You guys are a thing now?” he said, though he knew the answer because Liam had called him a couple of weeks ago to make sure it was all right to ask Michele on a date. Clay had said yes in a heartbeat, and then had barely thought about it afterwards. He had a two-track mind these days—work and Julia.

“Sort of,” she said with a shrug, as the waiter rushed over to the table.

“He’s a good guy. He’ll treat you right,” Clay said, handing the waiter the check and the credit card. “Thank you,” he said to the waiter.

“He is a good guy, so when he asked me to the game I said yes,” Michele said, tapping the table once more. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. “And your lady friend is going to be there, right?”

“Yes, she’ll be there. My lady friend,” he said, sketching air quotes. “Her name’s Julia.”

Michele only knew that Julia was coming to the game. She didn’t know about Julia’s financial troubles. None of his friends did, because it was no one’s business.

“Julia,” Michele repeated, saying the name as if it had ten syllables and they all tasted bitter on her tongue. “So I can approve of her then,” she said, changing her tone, seeming suddenly light.

“Sure,” he said, going with it. Because, women? Who knew how to read them sometimes? And every now and then, Michele was impossible to figure out. “I’m sure you’ll approve.”

“I need to make sure the men I care about choose the right women for them. I worried about Davis. I worry about you,” she said, reaching across the table to rest her hand on top of his.

Ah, he got it now. He understood what was going on with her. “You don’t have to worry about me, Michele.”

“But I do,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“I know,” he said, softly. She worried about a lot of things. It was her nature. She hated to see the people she loved get hurt. She’d been like that since her parents died, and Clay had wondered from time to time if she was trying to somehow prevent more hurt in the world. Odd for a shrink, but then he wasn’t one to try to psychoanalyze anyone. “I know you worry. But I’m okay. You’ll like Julia. I know you will.”

“You think so?”

He nodded. “I do.”

Something sad flashed in her eyes. “Do you ever think what would have happened if . . .?”

“If what?”

“If we’d . . .” she said, her voice trailing off as she gestured from him to her.

He raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t possibly be referring to that kiss in college, could she? Nah. She must just be in one of those melancholy moods.

“If we’d have become something,” she added.

“But we are something. We’re friends,” he said, reminding her of what she meant to him. “I can’t imagine us not being friends.”

“Right,” she said, with a sharp nod as the waiter returned with Clay’s credit card. “I can’t either,” she added, and she sounded resolute.

Or, as if she were trying to seem resolute.

After he said goodbye to her and walked up Madison, he mulled over her question. Why would she possibly want to know what could have been between them? The two of them being more than friends was the strangest notion to him. It was as if she’d suggested he start walking on his hands. It simply didn’t make any sense.

But he had no more time to contemplate because when he returned to the office, Flynn was there with the Pinkertons to review the details of their next film. He rolled up his sleeves and settled in for the afternoon, his focus only on his clients, giving them his absolute best because in another few hours, Julia would be in his house.

* * *

As the plane began its descent, Julia flashed back on the last five days.They’d consisted of otters, poker prep, and packing for New York.

Kim had waltzed into work on Wednesday announcing she’d gone with otters for the baby’s nursery, and minutes later she’d left early when she thought she was having contractions.

Turned out she’d just had heartburn, but Julia didn’t mind shouldering the extra load at Cubic Z because the week had been blissfully uneventful. After Clay’s talk with Charlie that past Sunday, Julia had operated in a sort of protective cocoon. No one, neither Charlie, nor Skunk, nor that asshole Max had bothered her, and they hadn’t gone near Gayle or Kim either.

She’d played online poker in her free time, fiddling around too with some poker apps on her phone just to keep her skills sharp for Saturday’s big game. She knew a few extra hours on a screen weren’t going to make the difference. Luck would be a deciding factor, but she also had to be sharper than the rest of the players at Clay’s game—the actor Liam Connor, who was about to open a new restaurant; the cable TV show producer Jay Klausman, whose show on drug dealers, Powder, was a huge hit; and Clay’s friend, Cam. She’d researched Klausman and Connor and found bits and pieces of intel on their card-playing skills. The actor was a Leonardo diCaprio style player, someone who bet big and played for fun, but Jay, a shrewd producer, was the bigger threat. The wild card, though, was Cam. Julia had a hunch he’d be the one to beat. A man like that, used to taking chances, and possessing some kind of magical touch—he was going to be trouble for her.

This was the kind of trouble she thrived on though, and she was ready, reviewing her strategy once more as she walked through the terminal.

Clay had a last-minute meeting with a client, so she hailed a cab into Manhattan. He’d left keys for her with the guy who owned the coffee shop next door to his building, and she was secretly grateful that she wouldn’t have to see him the second she arrived. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to, but sometimes, a woman wanted to be fresh and clean when she saw her man, and there was nothing quite like washing off a six-hour plane ride. When she reached his apartment, she opened the door, locked it behind her, and soaked in the silence and the oddly welcoming feel of his place. The last time she’d been here she bolted. Now, she felt like she belonged. He hadn’t left a welcome basket on the dining room table, but the simple fact that he’d left the key said all she needed to know about him—trust. It was given, and it was shared, and there were no questions asked.

He trusted her. She trusted him.

She dropped her suitcase on the bedroom floor, and patted the side, touching the outline of the gift she’d picked out for him that was safely tucked inside. She shed her clothes and stepped under a hot shower.

As she wrapped a towel around herself ten minutes later, she didn’t feel any pull to sift through his drawers or paw through the medicine cabinet. She wasn’t a snooper, and there was nothing she needed to hunt out in his place. Besides, he was the definition of an open book, and there was something so reassuring about knowing that intrinsically. With Dillon, there were moments when he’d seemed a little shifty, from a joke here about not needing to report all the income he made from Charlie, to a little moment there when he’d told a story about stealing a milkshake glass from a diner in college. Fine, those were college hijinks, but as she looked back with 20/20 vision she could see hints of who he was.

Clay was the opposite—he didn’t hide. He put himself out there for her from the start. No bullshit, and hell, she could use that in her life.

She hung up the towel, rubbed lotion on her legs, and went straight for his closet. Not to snoop, but to choose an outfit. She didn’t need to rifle through her suitcase for jeans and a camisole when she knew what he wanted her in.

One of his shirts. She slipped one on, buttoned it to her breasts, and considered herself fully dressed.

She heard the door open, and her heart tripped over itself. Excitement tore through her body because he was here, and she damn near wanted to race down the two flights of stairs. But she knew this man, and knew what he wanted. He didn’t need her running into his arms. He’d want to discover her. She padded down the steps quietly, turning the corner at the second floor just as he was leaving his phone and keys on the kitchen table.

She leaned against the top of the railing, her hip resting against the iron, her fingers toying with the top button. Waiting. Waiting for him.

When he looked up, his eyes locked on her face. He stroked his chin, and shook his head in appreciation.

“I could get used to this,” he said, his deep, gravelly voice turning her to liquid as he stalked over to her, up the six steps, then cupped her cheeks in his big strong hands. “You. In my house. In my clothes. Here for me.”

She melted as sparks raced over her skin. “All for you.”

Neither one of them said another word as he looked at her as if he were inhaling her, as if the very sight of her was oxygen in his lungs. Electricity charged through her under his gaze. She wanted him to eat her up, to taste her, to touch her all over. Everywhere—this man needed to be everywhere on her body, in her body, in her heart, in her mind.

She reached for the collar on his shirt, gripping it hard. At some point they were going to kiss, they were going to crash into each other, but now the moment was heady with silence, drenched in anticipation of them coming together.

She stepped backwards, clutching his shirt. He followed, matching her until the back of her knees hit his couch.

Then it happened. Like fireworks, an explosion at the end of the Fourth of July, loud and powerful, that rang in your ears and lit up the sky. Everything became a frenzy of heat and vibrant color as he touched her. Before she knew it, the buttons on her shirt—his shirt—had scattered to the hardwood floor as he tore it off her. His shirt was gone next, pants unbuttoned, yanked down to his knees, then off. Like a leopard, he sprang fast, heated and fevered too, and before she knew it she was naked on her back on his couch, her legs up on his shoulders as he held her down hard with his big body. His arms, like steel, held her thighs in place as he entered her in one mind-blowing thrust. She was pinned, deliciously pinned, by this position. She couldn’t move her legs, but her hands were free to touch his beautiful face, and she reveled in the chance to stroke his five o’clock shadow, to map his features with her fingers, to draw her thumbprint over his jaw that she loved.

Loved.

He moved in her, fucking her the way he kissed her, deep and consuming, in a claiming of her body. He was owning her, marking her, his fingers digging hard into her shoulders, clutching her tightly, as if he couldn’t bear to let go. He took her hard and he took her slow at the same time. She felt him in her bones, on her skin, down to her very cells. He was inside her, he was outside her, he surrounded her. A symphony of sensations flooded every vein, and soon it became impossible to tell where one note ended and the next began. She could no longer distinguish between her body and her heart; they were one and the same, swallowed whole with longing for him. She and Clay had smashed into each other, atoms and particles colliding, combusting into this never-ending bliss.