Overlooked(182)

Staring blankly at my computer screen I know there's no way I will get any work done at the moment.

I reach up to touch my flushed cheeks and wonder how frazzled I must appear to others. Luckily, no one is in the vicinity of my office at the moment.

Retrieving my compact mirror, I flip it open and examine my face. My full, round cheeks are rosy just as I imagined. Focusing on my eyes, I notice even my pupils are dilated.

The effect this man has on me is unacceptable.

Trying to regain my composure, I run my manicured fingers through my auburn tresses, situating them on one side to flow over my right shoulder.

I've decided to get back to work when I receive a call from reception, telling me that I have a delivery waiting for me in the lobby.

Confused, I walk to the front of the credit union    and see a guy outfitted in a uniform from the deli across the street.

"This is for you, Ms. Chambers," the lanky teenager says extending a paper bag in my direction.

"Wait, let me get you some cash for a tip-"

"Don't worry about it, miss. It's already been taken care of." He turns and leaves the building.

Back in my office, I retrieve my phone from my desk's surface and type out a speedy message to Jameson.

Again, you didn't have to do this.

Thanks for lunch.

He doesn't keep me waiting long for a reply.

It's my pleasure, Grace.

Then a thought crosses my mind.

I wasn't aware that the deli delivered.

In fact, I know they don't. In the year that I've worked here, I've always had to go pick up my orders.

Some would say I'm very convincing.

Entertained by his cheeky response, I type out another message.

I'm impressed, Mr. Wilcox.

I dig into the bag and start assessing the goods. My phone vibrates again and this time warmth flashes through me as I read it.

You said yourself I was thorough, Ms. Chambers.

I want to make sure I surpass all your expectations.

I turn my phone over and, in the name of productivity, I vow to ignore his texts for the remainder of the day.





Chapter five




JAMESON WILCOX





Sitting outside of the shabby bar, I scan the crowd of people. I'm searching for Eric Mendoza.

I need to talk to him about a favor and although we don't live in close proximity of one another, I know this isn't a conversation I should be having over the phone.

This place is somewhat of a middle ground.

As I continue to wait for him, I run over the reasons for this meeting.

My current case is starting to rub me the wrong way and I need to know the facts before I royally fuck this up. I need the real info on this Brick guy as soon as possible and I know Eric is the guy to do that for me while I'm otherwise occupied.

Something about Grace pulls on a protective instinct I'm unfamiliar with and I need to know why. On the exterior, she appears to be a typical, sweet non-threatening woman. Had she really done something to end up on Brick's black list?

My time in the navy had taught me how to compartmentalize, which is how thrived separating morality from my end goal: money. But I'd also learned a lot about how to read people and something just isn't adding up.







"You sure know how to pick a bar," Eric jokes, taking in our surroundings. The bar is rowdy and teeming with people who just escaped a long day's work.

With a grin, I flag down the scantily clad bartender and order two whiskeys, neat.

"I knew you would fit in here," I tease. "Underdressed women, cheap beer and plenty of lowlifes. Right up your alley."

Then I clap Eric on the back before we dive into a bit of small talk, catching up.

Eric Mendoza and I were bunkmates during basic training over a decade ago and our sense of kinship had led us to become great friends. The sense of loyalty that grew from friendship had been fostered by our time as SEALs. No matter our differences, we always presented a united front.

"So, tell me why I'm here again," Eric cuts to the chase.

"I need you to look into a guy for me. Real name is Brian Masner but most people call him Brick. All I know is that he sells life insurance in Ravenwood."

Eric takes another sip of his beer and eyes me suspiciously.

"Why do you need me? Can't you do this on your own?" he asks, knowing we have similar backgrounds in investigative work.

"Because he hired me a couple weeks ago."

"Why are you investigating your client?" he wants to know.

"I need to know if he's shady."

Eric laughs, obnoxious and loud.

"Since when has that ever mattered to you? You're the fucking king of shady."

I'm irritated by his words, but only because I know he's right.

Before Grace, I would have completed this assignment three weeks ahead of schedule. I should be kissing a fat bonus check right now for my swift turnaround, but instead I'm here.

"I've met the target a few times and something feels off. I wouldn't feel comfortable turning her over to this guy unless I have solid proof to implicate her."

Mendoza's eyes triple in size as soon as I finish the word her. And I know what's coming before he even opens his mouth.

"Holy shit, you're trying to protect the target."

I don't think about denying it. He's not entirely wrong. I want to protect Grace until I know for sure. No matter my current field, my predatory instincts always took a backseat to protect those I believed were innocent.

And this case has brought out the protector within me that I often try to conceal.

It's just not making sense. Grace doesn't seem like the type to pack up her life and start over without good reason. She's not exactly living a glamorous life in Holly Hill.

If anything, I think she's here because it's safe and she can easily fly under the radar.

"Are you going to help me out on this?" I ask pointedly.

I'm none too thrilled to be asking for help on this, especially since it means admitting that Grace has successfully derailed my original plans. I'm not supposed to care about doing the right thing, that's Mendoza's role.

Between the two of us, I'm the bad guy in contrast to his good guy persona. He also has a P.I. firm but everything is on the up and up and it's a much larger operation than my one-man show. We know our respective lanes and we stay in them without it tainting our friendship or mutual respect.

Mendoza is the only person I trust to be discreet yet thorough about this. He won't leave any stone unturned and I need that.

"Sure," he shrugs. "But I'd like to meet this chick. She's done the impossible."

"What the fuck are you going on about?" I ask glaring in his direction.

He's unfazed by my anger and sporting a knowing smile.

"I want to meet the woman who was able to break you."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," I say flagging down the waitress for another round of drinks.

Mendoza leaves the bar an hour later to head home but we agree to meet up next week and discuss his findings.

I'm still at the bar, drinking and dealing with the realization of what I could be sacrificing for Grace.

If I abandon this assignment, I know without a doubt Brick will just hire someone else like me to finish the job and possibly come after me.

"Can I get you another drink, sweetheart?" the bartender's husky voice breaks up my thoughts and I look at her over the rim of my glass.

She's been annoyingly attentive all evening and it's only gotten worse since Mendoza left.

I admire her slim build and simple features. She's not unattractive. But she isn't Grace, either.

Ms. Bartender's tits are average sized, large enough to palm. And her lips are tinted with red lipstick, while her blonde hair is cut to frame her face.

But I find her lacking, through no fault of her own.

Grace isn't fair competition for any woman.

Her full tits, tiny waist and round hips are simply perfection.

Perfection that I shouldn't be fantasizing about in a bar when a perfectly acceptable woman is willing to fuck me.

It would be easy enough to take the bartender home and release the sexual frustration I've been harboring since I started this case but I won't do it.

I have to admit that although I've never had Grace, I know Ms. Bartender won't compare to the real thing.

"Can I get the check?" I ask after being buried in my thoughts.

"Sure, honey," she says, wiping down the bar.

Moments later when I look at the check I see she's scribbled her name and number near the bottom.

With a chuckle, I shake my head and toss cash on top of the piece of paper before walking out.







At home, I sit on the edge of my bed scrolling through my phone.

I contemplate calling Grace but note the time. It's 1:24 a.m.

She's probably sleeping and even I know it would be rude to wake her up for my selfish reasons.

We haven't spoken since our meeting on Monday and it's now Thursday night. Well, Friday morning.

Still, my dick is in misery after thinking about her all night. The longing is starting to get to me. I need to be buried in Grace soon or I will explode.

My cock twitches at the play on words.

I'm in nothing but my boxers since my shower and when I look down I see my penis tenting against the fabric for release.

Grudgingly, I lower the waistband of my shorts and reach down to fist my shaft.

Glistening pre-cum is leaking from the tip and I haven't done anything yet.

I give a slow, initial stroke and close my eyes as I imagine Grace on her knees in front of me doing the honors. I pictured her saliva slathered along the length, her mouth opened wide to accommodate the thickness.

My hand moves on its own accord, up and down, the pace quickening as I grow more aroused. With my feet planted firmly on the floor, I expertly jerk off as I settle into the fantasy of her sucking me off before climbing on top to ride me to orgasm.