Page 4 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

My finger presses record again without my brain's involvement and I take my sweet time to conjure a clever response. It's not until ten seconds pass that I realize he's about to hear that silence. Panic sets in. "I…have abs."

Okay, I should be studied. Or better yet, I should write a book. How To Make an Ass of Yourself in Twelve Seconds or Less for Dummies . Instant bestseller.

The best option would be to close the app and not look at my phone for the rest of the day, so naturally I don't do that. Instead, I stare at the screen like it's about to reveal the secret to the universe until a new voice memo pops up.

"If I wanted to see abs, I'd look in the mirror. It takes way more to impress me."

I take a sharp inhale like I'm about to argue with empty air. Am I trying to impress him?

No, that's ridiculous. It's more of a competition at this point. A lawyer thing if you will, always trying to one-up the opposition.

This time I'm fully aware I'm recording silence, technology being out to get me and all, but you know what? If he's interested in my reply he can endure some silence. And with that newfound confidence, I settle on, "What's your type, anyway?"

I'm not even sure why I'm asking. Research, I guess. Data collection. Whoever holds more data, holds better arguments.

Yeah, let's go with that.

Christian's response comes almost immediately this time. All two seconds of it.

"Not straight."

I shoot up to my feet, my cheeks momentarily heating up. I press record, and this time, I immediately start rambling. "I wasn't suggesting— I mean, I wasn't implying—" I close my mouth shut and huff. With my finger still on the record button, I give myself a moment.

This is…this is practice. If I'm going to argue for a living, I can't let myself get rattled the second something unexpected comes up. Besides…

"You know what? Scratch that." I finally say, then pause again.

He can wait.

I saunter to my bathroom, switch on the light and look my reflection in the eye. "There's no reason I can't be your type. You can, of course, not be fond of my particular characteristics, straight and all, but on face value?" I look myself up and down. "I'm kind of hot."

I've never said these words out loud before. I'm not sure it was ever really a thought, but somehow now it is. Maybe it's him who brings it out of me.

"I might not have the best sense of style," I continue, because self-deprecation isn't something I can fully eradicate in the span of five minutes, and the baggy PJs I'm sporting aren't really helping my case here, "but I have good hair. My face card opened some doors for me. And I do have a decent body, objectively—biceps, triceps and all.” My gaze drops to where my junk is hidden under layers of baggy cotton.

"Among other things I'll leave to your imagination, because wouldn't you like to know. "

I lift the front of my oversized gray t-shirt and flex.

"And while you might take your abs for granted, I'm sure proud of mine.

" And if that manic ramble slash peacocking slash therapy session isn't enough to qualify as the most unhinged, most embarrassing thing I've ever uttered, I add, "But I guess that's something you'll have to take my word for, because I'm very selective about who gets to see all that. I'm that exclusive."

I manage to release the record button before I put the final nail in this conversation's coffin by saying ' I'm the prize ' or some equally dumb shit, drop my phone on the vanity, lean down and pant, forcing myself to hold my own stare.

Okay, that was…bizarre? Overcompensating? Something my therapist will hear about first thing during our next session?

All of the above, and then some, and even though I can't quite unpack it right now one thing's for sure—it has something to do with the stranger from the bar who's probably laughing his ass off right about now and forwarding my ramble to all of his friends with a caption that reads ' CODE RED: A previously undiscovered flavor of crazy on the loose '.

And I will definitely send him an apology message, even though he's probably blocked me by now. As soon as my hands stop shaking.

The buzzing that echoes off the tiles a few seconds later takes me by surprise as if I suddenly forgot phones were a thing, let alone that I have one with me, because at this point I don't expect him to message me back. And he doesn't. Instead…

Christian is calling…

I wince at the screen, scared to touch it. Shit. Almost as if actions have consequences.

I give him a few seconds to give up. When he doesn't, I reluctantly answer, without a word.

"That's quite the case you've put together, counselor." There's a teasing edge to his tone, and I can't quite decipher if it's mocking or friendly. Maybe both. "Except I don't remember arguing against it. Still, I'd say it's impressive."

Jesus. I run my palm across my face, my cheeks burning.

"Sorry about that," I mumble through my fingers before gripping the edge of the vanity, hoping the physical action will provide mental support.

"I didn't mean to… I guess I'm just stressed about tomorrow or something," I lie. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

Christian hums, and a few painfully long seconds of silence follow before he speaks again. "So what's your deal?"

Damn. Can we get back to the silence please?

"What do you mean?" I feign confusion to buy myself some time, because yeah, I'd like to know too.

His chuckle lets me know he sees right through me. "What I mean is, what's with the advertisement? What is it that you need, Brooks? Validation?"

"Va—? No!" I sigh and force myself to meet my own gaze in the mirror. "No. I…I'm not sure. Actually, I have no idea if I'm being honest." I take a few moments to gather my scrambled thoughts. He lets me. When I come up empty, I ask, "What do you think?"

He lets out a prolonged exhale and I'm acutely aware I'm not only letting a stranger psychoanalyze me—I'm asking for it. "I think you're trying to dip your toe in waters you've no intention of swimming in."

I blink at my reflection, the man staring back at me familiar yet somehow strange all at once. Is that what I'm doing?

I shove my free hand into the pocket of my pyjama bottoms and go back to my bedroom, sauntering back and forth aimlessly.

"No, that can't be it," I finally say, my voice no longer defensive.

"That would be…" It takes me three trips from the door to the window and back again until I find the right word. “Ridiculous. It'd be ridiculous."

He responds immediately. "How so?"

I let out a semi-frustrated groan. "You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

Christian laughs. "Guilty, I guess. Still, will you answer?"

Sighing, I move to sit on the edge of my bed, the setting sun warming one side of my face. "Because I shouldn't care whether you find me attractive or not."

"But you do?"

I'm not sure why that makes me smile, but it does. "Of course not. That would be ridiculous.” I sigh. "It's like you broke me, or something."

" I broke you?" He asks, chuckling. "You came up to me , remember?"

Another smile ghosts my lips, the memory so fresh yet somehow already ingrained somewhere deep in my brain as I observe it in my imagination, remembering details I'm not even sure I noticed last night.

"Brooks?"

"Mmhmm. I'm shrugging."

"Oh, you're shrugging. This line of communication is more verbal, you know."

"And now I'm rolling my eyes." That's a lie. I'm actually grinning.

But then, Christian speaks again and my smile fades in a way I'm not ready to examine. "I think I should go now."

"Yeah," I say, although what I really want to say is ' don't ', then wait.

And wait.

And then wait some more until my smile finds its way back when, as if following an unspoken contract, both of us play our characters perfectly—idiots who suddenly forgot how to end a call. "Can I ask you something?"

He stifles a chuckle and in my mind's eye I can see a small dimple appearing on his left cheek. "Will you drop it if I say no?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Go ahead, then."

The second I open my mouth my bravado evaporates with my silent exhale. As it should—it's a bad idea. A terrible idea. Probably the worst idea I've had since…at least last Tuesday. I catch my reflection in the mirror mounted on my closet's door and negotiate with myself.

Sure, it'd be wiser to just shut up, but I'll never see him again. Hell, we'll never even talk again, most likely. It's not like there'll be consequences.

And with that oh-so-compelling argument, I finally say, "What are you wearing?"

On the plus side, he doesn't make me wait long. Everything else, is a shitshow—from the unmistakable shift in his tone, to the prolonged sigh he lets out as he says, "Why are you asking?"

Fuck. Think fast. Backpedal. Do something . "I am, umm…" I dart my eyes across my bedroom like the rest of the sentence is written on a wall somewhere. Unfortunately, it isn't, and what I end up with is, "interested in fashion?"

Which would have worked if it wasn't for the fact he's already, you know, seen me.

As if agreeing with my sentiment, Christian laughs. "Oh, I see." At least he doesn't sound so stern anymore. "Clothes. I'm wearing clothes."

"Ohh, clothes ," I mutter, my cheeks changing colors so rapidly I have to turn away from the mirror to spare myself. "Here I thought you were an armor type of guy."

Still chuckling, he says, "What are you wearing?"

And even though I know he isn't really asking, I fully intend to jump right into the abyss of this particular conversation. That is, until I look down at what I'm actually wearing.

I whine, then mumble, "Clothes." And just as I'm about to call this exchange out for what it is—hopeless—the lawyer part of me takes over, determined to get its way at all costs, embarrassing the shit out of me in the process. "Seven inches."

I changed my mind. This is the worst idea I've had since last Tuesday.

Christian coughs, once, twice, three times, like he's choking on my words. "What?" he asks, no doubt to buy himself some time.

My palms are sweating and my heart is doing things that would be concerning under any other circumstances, yet internally, I'm calm and centered. Because for the first time, Christian has lost his upper hand, even if just for a moment.

And doesn't that feel exhilarating?

On the off-chance I've been too vague, I make sure to make myself crystal clear. "You asked about my best parts, so…yeah. I don't know if that's enough to impress you, but…"

I let the rest of the thought hang, basking in an irrational sense of control. It does feel a lot like winning—I'm just not yet sure what the prize is.

Christian clears his throat twice, and even that does nothing to soothe the rasp in his voice, his words coming breathy and clipped. "I'm not sure we should be talking about that."

"Why not?" I ask, mocking innocence just to be a little extra. "I didn't scare you, did I? Although now that I think about it…"

I leave the thought unfinished again, fishing for a reaction.

It takes him three breaths to take the bait and prompt, "Yeah?"

I bite hard on my lower lip, partly to kill my smile, partly to stop the avalanche of words dancing right on the tip of my tongue, because the last rational part of me that's still online registers I'm being reckless. Stupid. Unhinged.

But what power do I have to stop myself, when it all feels so…free? And fun. And strangely easy.

So I continue. "Maybe you should be scared. That thing's a machine gun." Very easy. Too easy. "And don't even get me started on my balls. When these things get full and heavy? You better pray you don't accidentally get slapped in the face. It'll bruise."

The ease lasts for about point three seconds.

Then, everything shifts as a clear, unmistakable moan comes from the other end of the line, with the power of a thousand thunderstorms reverberating through my entire body.

And all I can do is just sit there, unmoving, observing with twisted, terrified fascination as all that excess energy shoots straight to my cock.

It's scary, but not scary enough to stop me from speaking. "Do that again."

Christian's heavy breathing matches mine. I can almost feel his breath on my cheek. "Do what?" he asks. Yet another question he already knows an answer to.

I ignore it. "Does it get you going?" I hear myself say, even though I don't remember it being a thought. "Thinking about my junk?"

My next fix comes instantly as another half-moan, half-groan escapes him, even though I'm sure he tries to fight it.

Then, there's the breathing, his and mine, mingling and merging, deep, uneven, shaky.

For a few moments we simply exist in this foreign liminal space neither of us knows how to leave.

Christian's the first to find his way out. "I really should go now."

"Yeah." I don't really want him to go, but I'm too scared to ask him to stay.

"Look," he says, then pauses. His voice is steadier now, but not entirely back to neutral, the memory of whatever just happened still audible. "It was nice meeting you, and you're definitely a fun person and all, but…I think it's best if you delete my number."

Oh, no argument there. Clearly I can't be trusted with a hot guy's phone number. Because somewhere along the way I made peace with the fact that he's hot. Or rather, with the fact I've noticed.

"Brooks?" he prompts when I take too long to respond.

"I'm nodding."

He lets out a chuckle and my mind conjures a visual of that damn one-sided dimple again. "Well, then. Good luck tomorrow. Kick some ass, counselor."

Before I can respond, the call ends and I'm left with silence.

I spend the next thirty minutes in the same spot, on the edge of my bed, unmoving, hoping it will somehow help me process. It doesn't.

Finally, I grab my phone again and pull up my contacts.

It's for the best.

My thumb hovers above the screen for a few beats before I lock it again.

I'll do it tomorrow. It will still be for the best then.