Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(47)

Mars. The God of war.

I feel his breath in my hair; it’s the wind, and I feel his arms wrap around me.

In those moments all my senses are heightened. The scent of the grass is his cologne; the drops of dew are his sweat as he labors on top of me, taking me, right here in my backyard.

I slide down in my chair and when I press my fingers inside, the moon seems to shine a little brighter—its gravitational pull just as strong and overwhelming as it ever was. The waters rise as my hips move to this imagined rhythm. I can’t say either of us is controlling it. This rhythm—passionate, at times frenzied, unpredictable in its periodic change of tempo—this is just who we are. We’re lost in it. When I kiss him, the wind moves through the trees; when I arch my back, they bend.

“That’s how strong our passion is,” he says and I cry out in the kind of agony that can only be brought on by love.

His hands are everywhere now. On my breasts, my waist, my ass; I run my thumb to touch myself in just the right spot as I continue to plunge my fingers inside . . . but it’s his thumb I feel, his erection thrusting inside my walls.

The ecstasy is almost unbearable. It shakes me, heats me from within, and I’m reminded that the ocean has volcanoes, too.

“Explode inside of me,” I whisper. “Make us complete.”

And he does, and the waters crash over the shores. Power, beauty, destruction . . . life. It’s all there as we cling to each other. I can still feel him throbbing inside of me, each twitch adding ripples to my calming tide.

It’s only then that finally the orgasm is complete.

On those nights it takes me a few seconds to catch my breath, a few moments before the fantasy fades, only minutes before the melancholy sets in.

When I walk back to my bedroom, there is no one there to kiss away the tears.

But the sadness doesn’t last, either. It weakens as the sun rises and continues to dissipate as I get on with my day, my work, my life. And it’s in this process that I find myself. It’s while signing another client to another contract, it’s when I’m able to hire my first employee, when my file cabinets are filled with documents covered in beautiful, soothing numbers, that I realize, I’m never again going to be lost. I may have some steep climbs ahead of me, some jagged rocks I need to navigate, but I’ve got my compass.

There are days when I barely think about my past; I’m too wrapped up in my present, my future, my life.

And then there are days like this.

It started off fine. I take a call from a potential client, typing notes into my computer. The woman on the other end of the line is the owner of three successful restaurants, all located in LA County. She’s looking to expand outside the area but could use a little guidance in regard to executing her plan. It’s the kind of project I was put on in my early days at the firm, back when I was getting my feet wet, the kind of project that’s so small no one at the firm really cared if it got messed up or not. But now that it’s my business, these types of accounts have become the fuel that keeps the acceleration steady and consistent. So I get her details, set up a time for us to meet face to face in the coming days, and ask her how she heard about me.

“I was referred,” she says mildly. “By my tax attorney actually. Dave Beasley.”

My fingers hover over my keyboard. “Dave,” I repeat.

“Yes, that’s right.”

I type the name into the appropriate line. Referred by Dave Beasley. Even when I stare at the words on the screen, I still can’t quite comprehend them.

“When was this?” I ask.

“Oh just a few days ago . . . actually it might have been a week. Time’s been getting away from me.”

Which is what I thought Dave wanted to do, get away from me. But he had to know this woman would mention his name. He had to know I would seek him out. “Can you give me the name of the firm he works for?” I ask, casually, as if this is another question for my form.

She gives me the name of a firm I know well. A direct competitor to the firm he was apparently fired from. It’s a lateral move, but considering the state he was in when I last saw him . . .

I wrap up my conversation with the woman on the phone, lock up my office, and go to see Dave.





CHAPTER 18





IT TAKES ME just over a half hour to get to the nondescript building housing this law firm in Culver City. Not knowing if he would have agreed to speak to me, I didn’t call first. But unless he’s had a complete personality transplant, he’ll see me if I show up in person, if only to prevent a scene at his work.

I announce myself to the receptionist out front; I want to keep my voice light and professional but a layer of nervousness colors my tone. Not that it matters. Most people sound nervous when they go to see a tax attorney.