After This Night Page 9

  “So fucking gorgeous,” he said, outlining her lips with a finger, tracing the edge of her mouth as she held him tight and deep, swirling her tongue along his shaft the way he loved.

  She was sure he groaned louder than he ever had as she worked him over with her hands and her mouth, touching him in all the ways that drove him crazy. His body was a playground for her fingers, and she ran them along his thighs, over his ass, and in that spot just under his balls that drove a man wild. He gave himself over to her, rocking his hips into her mouth as she traveled to his favorite places. A pinch there, a touch here, a squeeze of those sexy cheeks: she was showing him that she knew how to control all his pleasure too. Then, as she gripped his firm ass in her hands, she fucked his cock with her mouth until she felt the shudders roll through his body.

  He grappled at her hair, his breathing turning wildly erratic as he gripped her head, thrusting and calling out her name as the taste of his release slid down her throat.

  Minutes later, she nestled herself in next to him. With his arm wrapped around her, she kissed his neck, his stubbled jaw, his tender cheek. “You like it when I let you control me, and I like it when you lose control for me,” she whispered.

  “Mmmm,” he murmured. “We are a good combo.”

  “The best,” she said as she closed her eyes, feeling like they were partners in everything at last.

  * * *

  Another pair of Advil did wonders to mute the throbbing in his skull, but the dull ache was a useful reminder of what he was up against as he pushed open the door to Mr. Pong’s shortly after noon the next day. The smell of fried pork and noodles filled his nostrils. Waiters bustled around delivering plates of pepper steak and lo mein to the lunch crowd.

  It was your standard order Chinese restaurant with thick menus and illustrated pictures of the twelve signs of the Chinese New Year— such as horses, snakes and rats, along with an illustrated dragon image presiding over them all.

  Fitting, he reasoned, as a hurried waiter rushed over to him.

  “One for lunch?”

  “No. I’m joining someone. You can tell Mr. Stravinski that I’m here.”

  The waiter looked confused. “Sorry. Who should I tell him is here?”

  “Tell him the guy he’s expecting to see.”

  “Okay,” the waiter said, narrowing his eyebrows briefly at the request before turning on his heels to find the man in charge.

  Moments later, a tall man in a sharp suit strode over to him. He had thick, dark hair and muddy-brown eyes and some of the worst teeth Clay had ever seen. He wasn’t thin, he wasn’t fat; he was simply the sturdy type.

  He extended a hand to shake.

  “Clay Nichols,” he said.

  “Charlie Stravinksi. I had a feeling I’d be seeing you. Come,” he said, gesturing grandly to the restaurant as if he were quite proud of the joint he’d taken over on a debt that went belly-up. “There is a table for us near the kitchen.”

  “Fantastic,” Clay said coolly, as if this were just another lunchtime business meeting.

  After they sat, a waiter handed Clay a menu. “Thank you.”

  Charlie tapped the menu. “Everything here is delicious. But may I personally recommend the kung pao chicken,” he said, bringing his fingertips to his mouth and kissing them as a chef does.

  “Consider it done,” Clay said, pushing the menu to the side. He had every intention of not only talking to Charlie, but breaking bread with the man. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years as a lawyer, it was that the more you knew about the opposing side, the better off you were. And the less fear you showed, the more likely you’d win the points you wanted. Besides, he had a hunch Charlie was the type of man who would act supremely gentlemanly to a worthy adversary.

  Clay planned to be just that.

  “So, you messed up the nose of my new guy,” Charlie began, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

  “It got in the way of my fist.”

  Charlie scratched his neck, as if he were a dog itching fleas. “He shouldn’t have been there. He’s too hot-headed to be on the street.”

  “Yeah?”

  Charlie shook his head, and blew out a long stream of air. A man frustrated, he placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Stevie was supposed to give her the message, but he came down with the flu, he claimed,” Charlie said with a scoff.

  “I’m guessing that’s the last time he’ll duck out of work for a sick day,” Clay said dryly.

  Charlie laughed, throwing back his head and letting loose several deep chuckles. Then he took a deep breath, and the laughing silenced. “What are you here for?”

  “Seems we have something in common, don’t we?” Clay said, establishing first their mutual interests.

  “Red.”

  “That’s what you call Julia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s the thing, Charlie,” Clay began, keeping his voice completely even and controlled as he knew how to do. “Can I call you Charlie? Or do you prefer Mr. Stravinski?”

  “Charlie is fine.”

  “So here’s the thing,” he repeated, leaning back in his chair, mirroring Charlie’s moves. “You’re going to need to go through me now.”

  Charlie arched an eyebrow. “I am?”

  “You are.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “I’m her lawyer and I’m handling you. And that’s how it’s going to work. You want your money, I presume?”

  “I would like it,” Charlie said. “I am fond of money.”

  “I had a feeling you were, so I brought some extra to settle some matters,” Clay said, then dipped into his pocket for his wallet. Taking his time he opened it up, wet a finger, and counted some crisp bills. He laid $500 on the table. “This is for your guy. It’s a way of saying I’m not sorry his nose ran into my fist, but I do aim to take responsibility for my actions.”

  Charlie eyed the money approvingly. “Go on.”

  He peeled off another five $100 bills, adding them to the stack. “This is for you to leave her alone this week.”

  A laugh fell from Charlie’s lips. “It’s going to cost more than that.”

  Clay added $500 to the pile, then raised an eyebrow in question. Charlie nodded. “That’ll do.”

  “And this,” he continued, adding five more to the pile, “Is a promise that we will have the $10,000 remaining on the debt to you by next weekend.”

  “Or?”

  “There’s no or,” Clay said firmly, never wavering as his eyes remained locked on the man across from him. “It will be paid. And you will be done with her. Is that clear?”

  “Why should it be clear?”

  “Because that’s how deals are done, Charlie. When the final $10,000 is paid, she’s free and clear and I never want you to talk to her, be in touch with her, or send your men after her again,” he said, his eyes locked on the man he despised, never wavering.

  “Are you going to ask me to sign something? A legal contract, perhaps?” Charlie said in a mocking tone.

  He shook his head. “They don’t make contracts for this kind of deal. That’s why I paid you the extra just now in good faith. Those are the terms of our contract. Good faith.”

  Charlie paused, and cocked his head to the side. Looked Clay up and down. Then his lips curled up. “I can live with those terms.”

  “And you can live with the other ones? When this is done, it’s over and out?”

  “If she has the money for me, I will not ever need to see her again,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I told you. We will have the money. But she’s not playing in your games anymore.”

  “Really?” Charlie said, doubt dripping from his mouth. “What is she going to do? Play the slot machines in Vegas to get my ten grand?”

  Clay laughed and shook his head. “No. But does it matter? Do you care where your money comes from, or just that it arrives in a neat, green package?”

  “Gr
een is good. But I will be in New York next weekend. I’m moving a game there.”

  “What a coincidence. I happen to live in New York,” he said.

  “You will pay me there. By Sunday morning I want it. One week,” he said, holding up his index finger in emphasis. “We will meet at eleven at my favorite restaurant in the Village. I will get you the name.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “And we will do business like men. We will shake on it when the deal is done.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The waiter arrived then with two orders of chicken and two sets of chopsticks.

  “Dig in,” Charlie said.

  Clay took a bite and nodded in approval. “That’s some damn fine kung pao chicken.”

  “As you can see, it would have broken my heart to drive this place to the ground like I could have. I kept it open for the chicken. It’s rated best kung pao chicken in San Francisco. Nothing makes me prouder.”

  “It’s the little things in life, isn’t it?” Clay said, holding up a piece of chicken between his chopsticks as if in a toast to the dish.

  “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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “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.