I hang up and check my cell phone again. No messages from Evie, but I do have an email on my blog account asking whether I’m interested in modeling men’s underwear.
Suppressing a laugh, I go to email them no, and then I think about it. Maybe this is something I should discuss with my attorney—if I have one. Again, as if reading my thoughts, my cell phone lights up, and it’s her. I answer, and I can tell immediately by the tone of her voice that it’s not good news.
“Josh, I’m so sorry. I spoke with my boss, and he said the other partners didn’t want to risk the firm’s reputation on a blog with that kind of content. They didn’t want anyone to Google us and potentially find you. The firm has chosen to decline representation.”
“Well, fuck,” is my not-suitable-for-work response.
She takes a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want you to sign any contracts without legal representation. I can review whatever you’ve got, off-the-record, even though you’re not my client, until you find another attorney.”
“Could that get you into trouble?”
“I don’t know, but I’m starting to feel like we’re friends, and after all the help you gave me last weekend, I think I owe you.”
I stare hard into my phone as if willing her to come to me. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Evie. I’ll figure something out.” When I hang up the phone, I’m tempted to throw it.
Instead, I call Drew.
“Back to square one.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, chewing on something.
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“No?” Now I hear the sucking of the bottom of a straw and ice rattling in a cup. He really is a slob.
“No.”
Drew burps. They hear it on the other side of the river, in Vancouver, Washington, I’m sure. “So no Dicks-R-Us molds of your lap lizard.”
I groan. “Some days I’m not sure why you’re my best friend.”
“You’re stuck with me. Just like you’re stuck with your family. And your ex.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Can you make yourself useful then? Help me find another attorney? I’ve wasted enough time with this shit, and I don’t have time to keep looking.”
“Yeah, dude. I’ll call around. Tell them your baloney pony needs its own firm because you can’t go to the traditional Cartwright law firm, Sullivan Montgomery.”
“Don’t you dare, bastard.”
“Kidding, kidding. I’ll somehow figure out how to hire you an attorney when I can’t say who you are or what it’s for. I’m sure that will go over really well with all of the quality legal professionals in this town. You’re the secret pervert client they never knew they wanted.”
I shake my head at him—even though he can’t see me—and hang up to his howling laughter.
Setting my phone down, I glance at the invitation Meredith has left in my out basket for the Waller party.
Huh.
Since I’m not going to be a client of WGA, maybe I don’t need to go. But family is family, and I promised Henry.
My mind turns to Evie. If she’s there—and I’m not her client—then maybe I’ll have a chance to spend time with her. After all, there’s no harm in me hanging with a beautiful woman.
And it’s not like anyone has to know about my secret dick blog since she’s sworn to secrecy.
I decide to text her. I’ll still see you at the party on Saturday?
Yeah! Turns out I’m going! It’ll be great to see you! And she adds a smiley face emoji.
She’s so goddamn cute.
And since she’s not my attorney after all…
Hmm. New ideas spring to mind. Maybe I can touch her.
That’s not an idea I can think about at work. But on a break I find myself looking at Powell’s Books and order original Craftsman plans and manuals and have them delivered to her with a note that says, “For inspiration.”
When she gets them it’s early evening, and she calls to thank me, telling me about her new project, and as usual, I love hearing her voice. Talking to her helps me get over the fact that she can’t represent me.
She’s decided she wants to refinish the built-in cabinets in her dining room—a huge task. After we hang up, I text, Do you have all the tools you need for stripping the paint off the woodwork?
I know I’d like to strip her out of her woodwork. With my tool.
Funnily enough, she picks up on it. I’m sure you’ve got the right tool I can use, if I ever need it.
She’s got that right.
On Wednesday, I post a picture on my blog, but this time it’s my dick on a farm rather than a stark skyscraper. The blog comments blow up—AATD is going country.
Of course I’m not, but I’m sure thinking of Evie.
On Friday night, she texts me. See you at the party!
And she sends me a selfie of her smiling face, split open with happiness. I stare at it for a really long time.
Maybe it’s not a bad thing that she’s not my attorney.
Because now she’s up for grabs.
The promise of seeing Evie at the gala tonight even makes donning formal wear tolerable.
When my brother buzzes the front door downstairs, I hit enter with one hand while I duck into my tuxedo jacket with the other.
Two minutes later, I’ve finally wrestled on the black tie.
I pat my pockets and make sure I have everything I need.
Wallet. Phone. Keys. Check.
I hate black tie events. If I never attend another one in my life…
The thought withers in my head the moment I open the door to my condo.
Because it’s not my brother Henry, who was supposed to give me a ride to the party.
Standing there, looking wide-eyed and nervous, wearing a long, slinky, strapless black dress, is Tiffany, my ex.
“Surprise! I’m your ride tonight!” she squeals, like we haven’t been broken up for almost eight months.
What the fuck?
I’m going to kill my brother for setting me up.
I just have to get through tonight first.
9
Evie
Butterflies thrash around in my stomach like drunk revelers, and I have to remind myself I’m just getting dressed for a birthday party.
As I turn my head to take a peek in my bathroom mirror, Kendall yanks on my hair.
“Jesus Christ.” I rub my scalp where she nearly created a bald spot.
She laughs. “Sorry, that was harder than I intended.” She coughs comically and then mutters, “Speaking of harder, did you see Mr. Man Muscle’s blog entry last night?”
I roll my lips to keep from grinning. “So hot.” I think I’ve masturbated more this week than in the last month combined. Something about Josh turns me on. And it’s not just his blog. Sure, his photos are scorching, but it’s knowing the actual man himself that gets me going. It’s the fact that he knows Chaucer and architecture and looks so damn good in my kitchen.
A little shiver runs through me.
“I can’t believe you guys hung out last Saturday, and you waited three days to tell me about it, you wench. I can’t get over the books he sent you. That was too sweet.”
“Sorry, Ken, I wasn’t sure how much I could say since he was going to be my client, but now that he’s not and we’re just friends…” I shrug. “I mean, I still can’t tell anyone his name, but I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you that his face is as fine as the rest of him.” I let a beat go by. “Or that we’ve been texting.”