The Devil Series Books 1-4 (Devil #1-4), page 57
He laughs. “Ah, rigorously ethical like you?”
“I’m ethical enough.” Yes, I’m aware that by qualifying how ethical I am, I may have proven his point.
He sighs, helping me pull the jacket off before handing it to me. “So what does this guy do? Your date tonight?”
I glance over at him. I imagine he’s hoping to ridicule Thomas somehow. In this one instance, I’m glad the guy does not own a Christmas tree farm. “He’s a chef.”
“Guess you’ll be paying for dinner. Good thing you’re so liberated.”
Heat, fatigue, frustration…they’re rapidly eroding my ability to put up with this situation, and even more rapidly eroding my ability to be around Ben. “Lots of chefs do really well, and I don’t care how much he earns anyway.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never had a broke day in her life.”
“Right,” I reply. “I forgot you’re from the mean streets of Newport.”
He raises a brow, and his mouth curves upward, as if to say, Gemma, how do you know so much about me? It’s a question I should probably be asking of myself.
“So tell me about this guy,” he continues, turning his head my way. “I mean, aside from the things I can already deduce: that he shares a two-bedroom with four other men, and still drives his mom’s 2005 Honda.”
“You’ve clearly never watched a Hallmark movie. Chefs live in cute cottages, either on the beach or in the mountains, with a small herb garden in front. Everyone knows this.”
He rises from his seat and moves into the aisle. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you don’t know a lot of real-life chefs.” He reaches up, pulls off his tie, and then begins unbuttoning his shirt.
That’s when any shred of restraint inside me…evaporates.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. “This isn’t your weekend Chippendales’ show.”
“Gemma, it’s three hundred degrees in here. I’ve got a t-shirt on under this. You’ll live.”
He peels off the shirt, and I divert my eyes away from his very, very nice biceps, his smooth and surprisingly tan forearms…and they fall to his belt.
Then they fall lower, which is when I think about the elevator.
I felt it. He’s large. Too large. It would be irritating, having to deal with that thing nestled up against me every morning and night.
“If our positions were reversed, I’d be complaining to HR right now,” he says.
Shit.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, quickly looking away.
He closes the overhead bin and takes the seat beside me again. “I practically watched your thoughts scroll across your face and they were surprisingly filthy. I’m not sure I could even say them aloud.”
I press my thighs together, feeling breathless. It’s probably the heat. “Considering most of the women you date don’t read yet, I figured you’d be better at talking.”
“Really?” he asks, his mouth twitching. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples like he’s a psychic. “So, I see you in a room, and…wow, you really want me to put my tongue there? I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
I roll my eyes. “You do seem like the type who wouldn’t have done much with his tongue.”
“I’ve done plenty, Gemma,” he says, his gaze on my mouth, his voice so gravelly that I have to swallow to get the air moving through my throat. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes again. “Anyway, I didn’t say no to that really surprising—and some might say unsanitary—thing you want me to do. I’m just saying it’s a big step this early on. I normally start with the regular stuff first.”
“Do you even get to the regular stuff, or can you not wait that long before you dismember the body?”
His mouth twitches. “Now you’re trying to get me worked up.”
I laugh, hating myself for it. On the intercom, the airline attendant announces we’ve been cleared for takeoff, and that’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more time spent considering whether I could be friends—or more—with Ben Tate. I shut the window shade and close my eyes, quietly praying that Thomas the chef sweeps me off my feet so I never have to consider this question again.
I meet Thomas—who apparently goes by Tad—at a bar in North Hollywood.
His hair was short in the photo but is longer in real life, pulled back in a small ponytail. I’m fine with this, but he does not exude the calm authority I’d hoped for. He’s one of those twitchy guys whose free hand drums on the table constantly, as if he’s nervous or bored or fresh out of cocaine.
I tell him I’m a lawyer, hoping he will then ask if I’m fulfilled. Maybe he’ll get me talking about some secret interest of mine and suggest a change in careers. If I was someone who liked to bake, for instance, he’d encourage me to open a cupcake shop in his quaint little home town. If I was an artist, he’d convince me to start selling my work and he’d have a studio on his property that I was free to use. But I can’t paint, and baking seems like a waste of time, so I’m counting on Tad to come up with something better.
“I bet you make bank,” he says instead. Not quite what I was hoping for.
We talk about our interests. Mine include long walks at sunset, which is something I plan to like in the future, and work. His include fantasy football, “dank memes” and Xbox.
Our love was written in the stars.
I offer to pay the bill and he enthusiastically accepts. This also does not happen in Hallmark movies, where the men are old-fashioned and insist on holding doors and paying tabs, ignoring the heroine’s weak feminist protest.
As we leave, he asks if I want to hang out, which I assume is a euphemism for something more naked. “Your place is probably better,” he adds. “All my roommates are home.”
For a moment, despite how consistently disappointing Tad is, I consider it. My libido has been like a furnace at peak temperature for a full day now at least. But I can only picture overeager fumbling and awkwardness, a sweaty pale torso covered in idiotic tattoos—a Tasmanian Devil waving a rebel flag or a cartoon character peeing on a car—so I tell him I’ve got to get to bed.
I arrive home and discover the one plant I own is extremely dead. Keeley bought it when I was discussing getting a cat to prove I could not take care of a cat—I guess it’s a good thing we ran this experiment first. I sigh, “Sorry, my little plant friend, it wasn’t meant to be.” I throw it in the trash and the apartment seems emptier than before, which is an accomplishment because it’s been empty since I moved in.
I bet Ben’s house is gross. I picture a leather sofa covered in bodily fluids, a dartboard and artwork of the “Dogs Playing Poker” or “James Dean sitting in a 50s cafe” variety.
And I would definitely look down on him for all of this, but when he stepped into me, when his hands ran from my back to my ass and he started moving me toward the bedroom…it would not matter all that much. The next morning, I would, indeed, be appalled I just slept with someone who owns “Dogs Playing Poker” but for the hours preceding it—Ben’s weight pushing me into the bed—I bet I’d be able to look past it.
13
You can make anyone seem like a monster if you know enough about him: if you put him on the stand and ask about the time he drank too much at a party, told an off-color joke, got into an ugly argument in public, was late for school pick-up. The trick is to know about all these things.
Dennis Roberts, a college basketball coach in the process of divorcing my client, has practically done my job for me.
“Oh, Dennis,” I say aloud, going through his social media accounts, “I deeply appreciate your lack of discretion.”
I hear a laugh and look up at Ben standing just inside my door. He’s smiling…and he has dimples. I don’t know why that makes my heart give one overly loud thump. “What did he do?” he asks.
I’ve learned, after what happened at Stadler, that no one you work with is truly your friend, but I’ve missed being able to share a victory with the few people who will truly understand it. “Sent a picture of his dick to a temp,” I reply, unable to hold in a grin. “And then tried to pay her off.”
His smile, for a moment, is almost affectionate. “Only you would be so excited about potential harassment of an employee.”
“You’d find it exciting, too, if you weren’t hoping to get away with it yourself. Did you need something?”
He blinks, as if I’ve caught him at something. “Did you finish the records request?”
I sigh. “I did it this morning. If you’d checked your inbox, you’d know that already. Also, I’m not an idiot, so don’t treat me like a first year.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets as he comes a step closer. “I don’t need to check my inbox when I can just ask. And you’re not partner yet, so it’s not like I’m going to assume you’re competent.”
That devil on my shoulder starts whispering suggestions again. She’s full of bad ideas, and I lack the restraint to ignore her today. “Someone’s in a bad mood. Did your girlfriend not ask you to the winter formal?”
“I’m sure she will, once she’s in high school.”
My traitorous mouth twitches. “You’re disgusting.”
“Speaking of things that don’t impress you,” he says, a flicker of unease in his gaze, “how did it go with the chef?”
“Great,” I reply briskly. “Really fun.” Though I’m not sure listening to Tad talk about how “turnt” he got the night before and then paying for the opportunity was as superb as I’m making it sound.
“And how was his cottage?” His face says I know for a fact that asshole did not have a cottage.
“Amazing. Six-burner Wolff range. Subzero refrigerator. He made me popovers this morning and served them to me in bed.”
He freezes, and for a moment he looks sort of…pissed off. “Are you serious?”
I roll my eyes. “No, because it was a first date. Visiting his cottage and having him make me a gourmet breakfast is more of a third-date scenario.”
His eyes are still narrowed. “Your expectations might be a bit high.”
I pull out a pen. “Lower expectations…” I repeat, scribbling the words on my desk calendar. “That’s great life advice, Ben. Anything else?” I hold eye contact with him and bite the tip of my pen, as if waiting breathlessly for more.
“Yeah,” he says, heading for the door, nostrils flaring. “No chef is ever going to make you happy. And you’d fucking hate breakfast in bed.”
What’s strange is that he seems angry about it.
What’s even stranger is that I suspect he may be right.
I knock on Victoria Jones’ door Saturday morning, and Lola, twelve, opens it and ushers me inside. The place is a mess, but if I was a single mom with rheumatoid arthritis and three kids, I’d probably be cutting some corners too.
I hand Lola A Wrinkle in Time because it was a book I loved at her age. She hugs me and I endure it, but in truth I want to walk away and not know this world here exists. Not caring is so much easier than caring.
There’s a fallacy you tell yourself, sitting in an upholstered chair in a high-rise, looking at shoes online, and it’s that people like Victoria are different from you in a fundamental way. That she and her children are okay with living on a disability payment and little more, and probably wouldn’t actually want your life any more than you’d want theirs.
And then you meet a shy eight-year-old who only wants to sit in the corner and read, just the way you did at her age. You meet her little brother, Phillip, who wants to show you his diagram of the Earth’s orbit around the sun and tells you he really wants sheets for his birthday. Fucking sheets, as if they’re a luxury. And then you realize what bullshit it is, those distinctions you’ve made, and that the only person they were convenient for was you.
“This isn’t getting you into trouble, right?” Victoria asks.
Yes. If not this time, then soon. Fields told me to stop taking pro bono cases two years ago, and it’s a wonder I haven’t been caught.
“No,” I reply. “It’s fine.” And technically, I haven’t taken on any new pro bono cases because I was already working with Victoria when Fields issued his edict. I doubt he’d agree though.
Travis, boisterous and cuddly, has spent my few minutes here running repeatedly into my legs, but now he scrambles onto the couch and climbs into my lap, pressing sticky hands to my dry-clean only suit.
A few minutes later, Victoria’s friend, Rae, arrives with a battered face. I help her fill out the request for a restraining order and coach her on what kind of documentation she will need to bring. When we finish, Lola is looking at me with bright eyes, as if I’m a hero.
I want to tell her not to. Because Fields must be a monster to tell me not to help a woman like Rae, and the only way to defeat a monster is to become one yourself.
I sometimes wonder if I’m not already there.
After the happy chaos of Victoria’s apartment, the office feels unusually quiet. There are never a ton of people working on weekends, but I’ve grown accustomed to seeing Ben’s smug face here, and the irritating way he’ll raise a brow as he passes, as if to imply I’m doing something wrong.
If he isn’t here, it means he has a date. Maybe he’s taken her away for the weekend, probably to a place teenagers enjoy—Disney, perhaps, or Tijuana. He’ll buy her a few drinks and a sombrero with her name stitched in hot-pink cursive and she’ll think he’s a prince among men.
I could have a date, too, if I wanted. Tad texted, but I’ve decided that perhaps chef is not the optimal career for a partner after all. I’m now thinking I’d like a very tall former Peace Corps volunteer, but only one who doesn’t look like he’d wear ponchos and smell like weed, or a very tall doctoral candidate, but one who isn’t going to bore the hell out of me discussing things that don’t matter to real people, like whatever he’s studying. Obviously, therefore, I’ve found no one.
Ben isn’t as picky, however.
I wonder who he’s with, and my hand slides toward my phone despite several oaths I’ve taken to stop stalking him online. Ben’s Instagram feed is a lost cause—the only thing he’s ever posted is a meme about the Lakers—but Drew Wilson, his most famous female friend, tags him constantly.
She’s changed her last name to Bailey, I’ve noticed, which must be her husband’s name. It’s a rookie mistake. When I write a book about marriage, it will focus on making the whole thing easier to dissolve when it’s done. I’ll hand it out to the newly engaged and stop getting invited to weddings and showers. Win-win.
Drew has a new picture up of her hot husband hoisting a massive pumpkin on his shoulder. I scan the photo’s background for Ben, but I don’t see him. I can’t really picture him at a pumpkin patch anyway, unless he’s there to shut it down.
I scroll through the old photos until I get to the one I like best. It’s from Drew’s wedding, and Ben is walking her down the aisle. He’s in a suit, just like he is every day, but there’s something sort of sweet in his face, something hopeful.
If I didn’t know better, I could be persuaded, when looking at this photo, that he isn’t evil at all.
14
Ben and I are in a car, in an area of town I can’t identify. The air is suffocating, and no matter how much I mess with the vent, nothing changes. I try to roll down the window but the button doesn’t work. “This is ridiculous,” I groan aloud. “Why is it so hot in here?”
Ben smiles. It’s his filthiest smile, the one that chafes against me like no other. “Maybe you should take something off.”
And suddenly, the heat is not my biggest problem. It’s that devil on my shoulder, whispering now, saying, “Do it, Gemma. Call his bluff.” His voice is cool and seductive…a flicker of glee in my stomach, a frosty breath over my skin. I can’t resist it today.
I smile back at Ben with my filthiest smile, like a witch about to unleash a curse. He’s amused as I pull off my jacket, but I see something in him, a quiet eagerness, and it flares to life when I reach for the top button of my blouse. He watches it opening, as if it’s a bomb being defused, as if nothing could induce him to look away.
I reach for the next button and notice the ungodly bulge in his pants, straining the zipper. I lick my lips and my smile widens. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m about to enjoy it more,” he replies, pushing me flat onto the seat, pinning me there, while his free hand slides inside my skirt. And just before his hand arrives where I want it most…I wake.
I’m in bed, panting, my t-shirt flung across the room. I can’t even pretend to be disgusted. Right now, I’m simply furious that I woke up before he could get the job done.
How completely like Ben Tate to be disappointing, even in dreams.
I wear a fuchsia skirt to the Monday morning staff meeting because Keeley says I wear too much black. It’s paired with the same heels Ben suggested a dominatrix would wear. I do not, even once, wonder if my outfit screams sexy librarian.
I stride into the conference room with the devil a delicious flame in my chest, ignoring Ben as I take my seat and chat with Terri about her weekend. I feel his gaze and can’t stop myself from meeting it.
“How was your weekend, Gemma?” he asks, his tone sickly-sweet, baiting, but for some reason the sight of my name falling off his lips makes that flame in my chest double in size.
“Just lovely, Ben. And yours?”
There’s a flicker of delight in his dark eyes. “Ecstatic,” he says. Ecstatic implies sex, some dumb InstaModel slavishly serving his every whim while posting grammatically incorrect captions on social media.
“Ecstatic for one of you, anyway,” I reply. I mean for the words to trill lightly, ambivalently, but they emerge sharp instead. That thing in my chest, that childish glee, has suddenly gone sour. It was champagne, freshly poured—now it’s a glass of milk set on a sunny stoop all day.
