This Much is True - Tia Louise Page 0,94
free-ride, headed straight into a Top Five firm when I graduated, and now I’m one of the highest-paid litigators handling mostly corporate corruption with the occasional car crash thrown in for variety.
My face is in every “Top Thirty under Thirty” feature in the city and online. My phone never stops ringing.
My fucking dad is so fucking proud.
I’ve done it all.
And I’m all alone.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” Dropping my chin, I rub my eyes.
The shush of feet running through the leaves is punctuated with high giggles breaking the silence. My eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness, and I see Tiffany coming back, completely naked, blonde hair glistening with water, tits bouncing with every step.
“What are you doing back here?” Her voice is thick, and she curves into my chest, holding my neck and trying to kiss me.
She’s slippery and loose. Her kiss is easy to dodge, but not her wet body pressing against my dress shirt.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” My jaw tightens, and I lift my chin away from her face.
“God, you’re so hard,” she giggles. My brow furrows. I’m not the least bit aroused. “Like a wall of granite.”
“Look, Tiff, I’m calling you a Lyft.” I’m back to tapping my phone. “What’s your address?”
“What?” she whisper-shrieks. “Wait a second—”
“Never mind.” I bring up the firm directory, and she’s gone from my chest. It takes me a second to realize she’s dropped to her knees in front of me and her hands are on my belt.
“Stop…” I tap the buttons on the app faster, using my free hand to sweep her away from my fly.
“Stop, stop…” She laughs, her voice high and teasing. “What guy doesn’t want a blow job?”
“Stop!” I’ve managed to book her a ride, but she’s got my pants open and is handling my dick.
“Fuck me,” she moans. I look down, and she looks up. The whites of her eyes are visible, and her mouth is a delighted O. “The rumors are true!”
“Get up.” Shoving my phone in my pocket, I grasp under her arms, pulling her to her feet.
“Oh, Jackson!” She pokes her lips out, face pouty. “Let me ride your big… huge… cock!”
“Where’s your dress?”
Moving fast, I refasten my pants with one hand. I’m still holding her by the upper arm, keeping her with me as I circle, looking for where I saw red silk fly over her head.
“There it is.” I take her to where the dress is laying discarded on the path.
“You’re always alone,” she sulks, stomping beside me as I lead her to the car and hold her against it. I brace her with one leg so she can’t wiggle away, while I fumble with the fabric, searching for the neck hole.
“Are you gay?” Her voice sounds like every drunk college girl I ever turned away.
“No,” I answer flatly.
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
Her blonde hair catches in the fabric, and I untwist it, pulling the material down her sticky body as best as I can.
“I get laid,” I growl, considering it has been a while.
I’ve been so focused on my work, this case… Now the last thing on my mind is fucking some drunk girl. First, her consent is dubious. Second, she’s our receptionist and could yell sexual harassment or worse.
“I’m not dipping my pen in the company ink.”
“I’ll quit my job!” she cries, still holding onto me. “Just kiss me once.”
“Where is that fucking Lyft?” I reach into my jacket again. “He’s here!”
Sure enough, high beams cut through the woods, curving around the black trees. I start up the lane in the direction of the road.
“My shoes!” she shrieks, trying to run back the way she came. “They’re Louboutins!”
My grip tightens on her arm, until I’m practically carrying her to the waiting car. “I’ll ship them to you at the office.”
“You’re not coming back to work? What are you going to do?”
Hesitating a moment, I realize it’s a good question. I know what I want to do—what’s nudging at my brain. What I’ve wanted to do for so long…
I’m tired and my thoughts are twisted and cloudy, but I know what I want more than anything. “I have a meeting to attend.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
The Lyft pulls away, taking Tiffany back home. I head straight to my car, pulling out my phone as I walk. My disbelief is gone, my head is clear, and I have to face this.
“Jackson.” Brice Wagner’s low voice is laced with condescension as he ushers me into his enormous wood-paneled study.