Five Ways to Fall Page 4

  If only this spinning would stop.

  And this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach . . .

  Oh . . . no.

  Call it gut instinct, an ounce of good luck buried within a pit of bad, I don’t know . . . but I intuitively peel myself away from Ben’s lips a second before a night’s worth of margaritas rushes up my throat and shoots out of my mouth.

  All over the front of Ben’s red shirt.

  Oh my God.

  Did that just happen?

  I’m temporarily frozen, staring at the streaks of green-tinged sludge all over his body.

  “Oh, man . . .” Ben groans, the disgust plain in his tone.

  Yes, that just happened.

  I don’t even have to look at Ben’s face to know that all thoughts of getting laid have vanished from his mind. They’ve certainly abandoned mine, leaving me doused in an icky coat of mortification. That alone has my stomach churning more. I sense an encore performance coming. The hell if I’m puking anywhere in front of or on him again! Clamping two hands over my mouth, I turn and make a run for the bathroom. Unfortunately, something jumps out and trips me and a second later I find myself sprawled across the floor, the cool tile chilling my completely naked body, a dull pain beginning to ache in my toe.

  “Shit, are you okay?” I hear from behind me.

  I’m going to puke. I’m going to puke doing a facedown starfish if I don’t get up right now. The bathroom is no more than six feet away and I know I’m not going to make it all the way back to my feet. So I do the next best thing.

  Scrambling to my hands and knees, I crawl toward the bathroom.

  The bellow of laughter from behind me—oh God, the view he must have of me right now! I didn’t think this through!—only makes me pick up speed, until I’m crossing the threshold, slamming the door, and flipping the lock. I lunge for the toilet just as another wave of green shoots out, filling the bowl.

  When I’ve purged my stomach of its toxic contents, all I can do is lean my forehead against the toilet seat and relish the cool porcelain as my rib cage throbs and my body breaks out in a sweat.

  A soft knock sounds on the door. “You okay in there?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

  Why! Why did this happen to me? I’m not a puker! Lina is the puker!

  “You know, if you hated the shirt that much, you could have just asked me to take it off. I was about to anyway.” I don’t know how he could possibly be making jokes about this. He’s the one covered in vomit. Just the thought has me shuddering. “Look . . . Some chick just puked on me and I really could use a shower. Can I come in?” The door handle jiggles and I thank baby Jesus for having given me the good sense to lock it. The last thing I want is to have him come in here and see my naked body hunched over his toilet. I need to get my clothes and get out of here without facing him. Ever again.

  “You’re alive, right?” There’s finally a hint of worry in his tone. “I don’t have to bust down this door?”

  That’s the last thing you have to do. “I’m good.” I pull myself up to the sink to splash my face with some cool, fresh water. Reaching for his mouthwash, I dump a mouthful in and begin gargling.

  “Come on, Jill. We’ve all been there. I’m sorry I laughed.”

  I’ve never been so happy that I used a fake name. The story will go down in history as a puking purple-haired girl named Jill who crawled to his bathroom, her naked fat ass wiggling the entire way. I’m fine with that.

  There’s a long pause and then I hear his heavy sigh. “I’m leaving some bottled water next to the door for you. Don’t drink the tap water or you’ll be spending the rest of your vacation in the bathroom.” His footsteps move away just as another wave of nausea hits me, courtesy of my minty-fresh breath.

  I dive for the toilet again.

  Chapter 4

  BEN

  Two months later

  “Not an ocean view, but it’s all yours,” Jack Warner offers, leading me into a tiny, empty office the size of a closet, with a window overlooking the small parking lot.

  “Ocean views are overrated,” I throw back with a grin.

  That earns a chuckle as my new boss slaps a strong hand over my shoulder. “Glad to have you joining us, Ben. My son credits you as the reason he graduated law school with such high grades.”

  “Your son’s a smart guy, Mr. Warner.”

  “He says you’re smarter. That’s why I hired you. And call me Jack.”

  I’m liking my law school buddy’s dad more and more. After a rather intense interview, I was convinced he was an uptight prick and I had no hope in hell of getting hired. I was surprised when he personally called with the job offer a few weeks ago. What a fucking relief that call was! Given that I’ve been too busy making solid money as a bouncer at a strip club to try for an intern position somewhere, I have zero experience. So many firms won’t even look at you without experience, even if you graduated near the top of your class, which I did.

  I’ve obviously pegged Jack all wrong. I mean, here he is on a Monday morning, the sole equity partner of a Miami law firm employing about forty people, taking time out of his jam-packed schedule to show me around.

  “Speaking of sons . . .” Jack smiles at someone behind me. I turn to find a tall, lanky guy in nerdy, thick black-rimmed glasses edge into my office. I offer him a smile of my own as our hands find each other in a strong clasp.

  “How was your summer?” Mason asks, adding, “Kent said Mexico was good?” Aside from some texts and emails, Mason and I haven’t talked since the day we took the bar exam in July.

  “Mexico was great.”

  By Mason’s little smirk, I know Kent gave him some highlights that shouldn’t be elaborated on. Especially not right now, in front of my new boss. Mason was supposed to come down with us, but he decided to start at his dad’s firm right away. I told him he was a fucking idiot for doing that. I mean, we’re not even “associate lawyers” until we get our exam results, which are coming in a few weeks. And then what? A lot of fielding client case update phone calls and proofreading briefs and motions for who knows how long before we’re actually trusted to take on our own clients. Why not enjoy the summer?

  “Mason, I’ll let you help Ben get familiar with the firm. I’ve got a nine a.m. and court this afternoon. How about the two of you meet me in my office at noon and we’ll go out for lunch,” Jack says, tapping a thick folder. “Some paperwork for you to fill out and hand in to the HR department today, Ben.” With that, the man swiftly exits.

  I stroll around my desk and ease myself back into the burgundy leather chair with a big grin. “This place is pretty sweet.”

  Mason nods slowly, running a hand through his curly dark hair and then, as if realizing that he’s just made it even messier, he quickly tries to smooth it back down. “I’ve got a call I need to make and then I’ll come back, okay?”

  “Yup.” In the three years that I’ve known him, the guy still hasn’t learned how to carry on a casual conversation.

  “You’ll be shadowing Natasha in family law for the foreseeable future. I’ll introduce you two when I come back.”

  “Natasha?” I raise a suggestive brow.

  “She’s engaged,” he quickly throws out.

  “But the more important question is, is she hot?”

  Mason rolls his eyes. “I already told you about the policy against office romances here, Ben.”

  “Who said anything about a romance?” What is it about these fucking cock-blocking employers? First Cain, now Jack? Dropping my hands onto the oversized mahogany desk in front of me, I give it a good pat. “Always wanted to see what a hot lawyer looks like spread out on one of these.” I’m not serious, but I like watching Mason go through his various stages of awkwardness, where he gets all agitated and starts fiddling with his glasses.

  And . . . man is he ever fiddling with them right now. I smile. The two of us couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. Standing there in his plaid short
-sleeved shirt and black tie, the guy looks like he’s heading for a seventh-grade chess tournament. I didn’t wear a tie today. Dress code states business casual is fine unless you’re going to court or meeting a client and I’m doing neither, so why would I dress like an office monkey?

  I let him twitch for another few seconds before relenting. “I’m kidding, Mace! I promise. I’m turning over a new leaf.”

  “As of when?” His tone screams doubt. He’s known me for long enough and has seen me in action with our friends more than once, so his skepticism is fair.

  “As of my going-away party at Penny’s this past weekend. Nothing’s going to top that. I think my dick could use a break anyway.” I shake my head as I laugh to myself. Mercy and Hannah sure know how to send a guy off.

  “Oh.” A small, knowing smile curves his lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. “Well, good. Just don’t forget that. Especially around my stepsister.”

  Whoa. “Hold up. You have a stepsister? Working here?” This is new information. He’s never mentioned her before. Then again, he’s a private guy. “Is she a super geek like you?”

  “She’s nothing like me. There’s probably a pot of fresh coffee in the break room down the hall and to your left.” He starts shifting on his feet. The guy can’t handle being late for anything.

  “Go on, Mason. And thanks for the hookup.”

  “Sure, Ben. I’ll be back in . . .” he checks his phone, “. . . eighteen minutes.” And he will. On the nose. I watch him take off at a brisk walk and I shake my head. The guy still lives with his father. Most days he’s wearing mismatched socks on account of being completely color-blind. If I hadn’t sicced Kyla from our first-year contracts class on him and witnessed her drag him into a bedroom at a frat party, I’d bet money that no woman besides his mama has ever seen his dick. Knowing Kyla as I do, though, she not only saw it, she made good use of it.

  A yawn escapes me and I taper it off with a loud groan and a mutter of, “Yes to coffee.” It’s going to take time to adjust to early morning starts. After years of crashing with the sunrise and taking only afternoon classes, my body is suffering right now. First things first, though . . . I pick up the phone and punch the keys without thought. I memorized this number when I was four years old and I’ve been dialing it every day for years. Normally around dinnertime, though.

  I’m hoping she’s on the back porch, drinking her cup of Earl Grey tea and checking her email on her iPad. I smile at the memory of teaching my fifty-one-year-old mom how to use that thing.

  Unfortunately, it’s not she who answers.

  Knots instantly spring into my neck. “Hey.”

  A grunt responds.

  “Is mom around?”

  “Out in the grove.”

  She should be back by now. She’s always up at the ass-crack of dawn to do her rounds, checking the trees. “Have you gone out to make sure she’s okay?” Ever since that mild heart attack seven months ago, I’ve been worried about her being alone out there for too long.

  “She’s fine.”

  “All right. Let her know I called.” He won’t. I guess I’ll have to call back later anyway.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  I wonder what the caller display says. Hell, that’s probably why he answered in the first place. Because he didn’t know he’d be talking to his son. “Warner—the law firm I’m working at now.” Mama probably didn’t bother to tell him that I finished law school.

  “Never heard of it.”

  I bite back a sigh of exasperation. Despite its small size, Warner is one of the most reputable law firms in the state. Five generations of Warners have owned it, holding some prime real estate in the downtown Miami core. According to my research, Jack brought in a partner—his best friend—and for ten years, they worked together as Warner & Steele, exploding the client list by more than double. They parted ways some years back when he bought the other partner out.

  In any case, I wouldn’t expect my dad to know a law firm from a donut shop. He’s just trying to needle me. “Later.” I hang up and head out in search of that cup of coffee before he has a chance to put me in a bad mood. He’s the only person capable of doing that.

  The Warner office itself is a mix of new and old—modern light gray walls, mahogany wall-to-wall bookshelves and desks, open-concept desks in the center of the room, fishbowl offices lining the outskirts. It’s as if someone decided to redecorate but ran out of either money or creativity. Jack did mention something about renovating in the winter. The place seems fine to me, but I’m a twenty-five-year-old who lives with five other guys and would come to work in board shorts if he could.

  The office isn’t huge or complicated and it takes no time to find the break room, though I play the “first day” card and let an adorable law clerk lead me there, smiling and blushing at me the entire way as I watch her curvy ass sway. I have an appreciation for the many shapes and sizes of the female form. The old me—as in two days ago—would probably have her number by now. The new me is trying something different. Specifically, he’s trying not to hit on every female he finds attractive.

  Heading back to my office—a coffee mug in one hand and someone’s homemade muffin in the other—I survey the desks out in the open where the administrative staff sits. From the looks of the pictures and knickknacks, it’s mostly women. Mostly married with kids. Many in their forties or beyond. Man, what a different world this is from Penny’s, where I was taunted by bare tits and ass from every angle! At least that makes it easier to keep my pants on around here and try to act like a responsible adult.

  Because that’s what I am. Ben Morris, Esquire. Well, almost. Either way, I like the sound of that.

  Passing by a small office almost directly across from mine, a picture on the wall catches my attention. My feet falter as I smile fondly at the framed Pearl Jam album cover, thinking back to that crazy purple-haired fake marine biologist, Jill.

  Damn, that girl was something else.

  After stripping off my puke-covered clothes and tossing them over the balcony, I stretched out on the bed and waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, dying for a shower. I even considered going over to Kent’s room, but I didn’t want to leave her alone in there. I guess I passed out because the next thing I knew, the sun was beating down on my face through the window and Jill was gone.

  Not even a note.

  At least she didn’t rob me. Or kill me.

  I tried finding her, but after charming one of the front desk girls into searching the hotel guest list, no one by the name of Jill came up. It was obviously registered to one of her friends and I didn’t remember their names. The resort was too damn big to go searching, especially when I had to rush to repack everything she had scattered before catching my plane home.

  I’m not gonna lie—for a couple of weeks after, I searched for a purple-haired girl named Jill on Facebook. Partly because I wanted to say sorry for laughing. Mostly because she was a lot of fun and I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with her again. Minus the puke. I didn’t tell the guys what really happened. As far as they know, it was balls-deep as usual for me that night.

  The cotton-candy-pink sweater hanging over the back of the chair makes me think this is a female’s office, but everything else disputes that. Folders sit in piles on the desk, on the floor, on boxes, on the spare chair. Where there aren’t folders, there’s scattered mail and junk. Multiple Starbucks paper cups sit by the desk phone, next to an open box of Oreo cookies and a bag of beef jerky. A crumpled bag of chips and crushed cans of Red Bull surround the trash bin.

  A computer monitor—decorated in no less than a hundred multicolored Post-it notes—is on and displaying a screensaver of a rusty old blue truck in a field.

  I’m intrigued, to say the least. I can’t imagine what kind of female this sty could possibly belong to, and part of me is afraid to find out. It’s not dirty, per se. It’s just messy beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I step forward and begin scanning her desk, l
ooking for a nameplate or something to identify her.

  And that’s exactly what I’m doing when she walks in.

  “Is there a reason that you’re snooping through my things?” a crisp voice calls out.

  Pulling on a smile that usually takes the edge off even the moodiest of women, I turn around. A blond in a short green dress and cowboy boots stands in the doorway, a tall coffee cup in her hand and a deep scowl furrowing her forehead.

  I open my mouth to introduce myself but falter as panic flashes in those eyes.

  Those caramel-colored eyes.

  “Holy shit!” I don’t believe it. There’s really nothing I can think of to say except, “You owe me a new shirt!”

  Chapter 5

  REESE

  I’ve been eviscerated on a Monday morning. My guts are splayed all over the dark gray office carpet for all to see.

  And I can’t breathe.

  What the hell is this guy doing in my office?

  He’s as shocked as I am, obviously. That loud boom of “holy shit!” that probably carried through half the floor and has all the little old hens peering over their bifocals at us can attest to that.

  And now he’s staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Jill? Is that you?”

  “You don’t recognize your one true love?” That might have sounded witty had my voice not been shaky and my cheeks not been burning hot. For a pro player like this guy, the fact that he remembers my fake name says something. I was definitely memorable.

  “You look so . . .” His voice drifts off as those baby-blue eyes roll over my all-blond hair and land on my face. “No more piercings?”