Mack, p.7
Mack, page 7
I glance around the room and I’m all alone now. Most of the floor outside is quiet. I usually prefer it this way—I get my best work done when I’m by myself.
I turn back down to my work, but it’s still impossible to concentrate. You’d think I’d be worried about Barbara’s grandson, or whatever happened with the Collins brothers that might affect my career trajectory.
Nope.
Just Presley Griffin.
Over and over on a fucking loop.
She’s going to be mine.
Presley Griffin
I can’t sleep!
I put my work away and I’m trying to maintain so-called healthy habits even though I usually end up sabotaging my plans. Not that I mean to. I’d love to be asleep right now instead of tossing and turning, trying to get my brain to shut up.
What gives?
I do everything right, or at least I try to. You know? The things everyone says to do. I don’t read my phone or tablet in bed. Maybe under the blankets with my head on the pillow, but whatever. I try not to. I limit caffeine after lunch, though life happens sometimes. But I was good earlier! I was busy running back and forth from one courtroom to another, and I didn’t go for that extra white mocha at three o’clock because I knew I’d regret it about now.
I know I’m making excuses, but I really do try.
Now, I’m mentally spent and the hot shower I took before pulling on my Tigers t-shirt and sliding under the covers went a long way toward easing the stiffness in my neck and back.
So why can’t you fall asleep?
I flip over and beat the pillow with my forearm, trying to get comfortable. I’m kidding myself, pretending not to know why I have this insomnia plague upon me. I know damn well, and my jaw clenches at the thought.
If only I could stop smelling his damn cologne. It’s been over twenty-four hours since that little run-in, and I swear his scent lingers in my apartment. I couldn’t sleep last night either and the lack of sleep plagued my entire day. Even skipping my afternoon caffeine isn’t helping. Every once in a while I’ll catch a whiff of him and it puts me right back in the moment.
Him, right up next to my ear.
“I’ll get a date with you. Trust me.”
Pressed against my car, nowhere to go. My heart pounding, my body completely tense.
I shiver a little thinking about it, and Lord, the tingling radiates down to my fingers and toes—not in a bad way. Or actually, a very bad way. Very, very bad.
My mind’s playing tricks on me—that’s all. I’ve been working too hard. No sleep.
So, why can’t I stop thinking about him? What kind of magic spell is he using? What’s this power he has over me?
Ruin my blouse with your coffee but don’t get between me and my sleep, asshole!
And while you’re at it, don’t stalk me!
Another shiver runs up my spine at the word stalk, but I can’t think of another word capable of fully describing what went down. I didn’t return his calls—and who was to say I wouldn’t eventually get around to it? Maybe I would’ve called him back when it suited me.
You threw his messages in the trash.
So!
So he drives across town to my office? Ambushes me in the parking lot?
The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I should be afraid of him. Or at least concerned. What he did was not healthy behavior.
It’s enough to make me take stock of the entire situation so far. He’s already asked me out, and I turned him down. Like they say, you can tell a lot about a person by watching how they treat the server—or in this case, the barista.
I know all I need to know about him from that encounter.
He’s above working-class people. A damn elitist asshole.
He was mean. Arrogant. He treated me as bad as the barista, and I know why.
Yep. The barista—me—we’re subhuman to him.
Even if none of that had happened, I’d have turned him down for professional reasons. Even if he actually did things the correct way. That little bit about asking me out—twice—it’s all an act. He’s trying to throw me off my game.
Okay. I did call him, or he thinks I initiated the call. I still flinch and my stomach drops when I remember. So what?
So what does he do? He calls three times in the course of a single day. If his calls had been anything to do with the Winslow case, he would’ve said so in the parking lot. I have no doubt he would’ve flung it in my face, in fact.
Perhaps I can use this with the judge if it goes that far.
Play his own little game against him.
What did Mr. Mitchell do when his calls were not returned mere hours after he’d made them? Why, he looked up the location of my office, went there and waited for me to leave the building, and accosted me.
“I doubt the judge would immediately think ‘the guy’s a psycho stalker,’” I whisper to my ceiling, where amber light filters in from the street.
Why does he have to look like he does?
It’s all physical. I’m only human. I appreciate beauty. And Mack Mitchell is a specimen. Anybody with eyes can see that. My body reacts to him because my brain is stupidly wired. It’s wired to… I don’t know, make sure the species propagates, something like that. I’m a victim of biology.
Yeah. That’s what it is.
Nothing to do with him being commanding, forceful, arrogant, confident. Mysterious, like maybe there’s some secret side to him that’s caring and he’s just misunderstood and all that bullshit. I’m also a victim of romance tropes and bad Hallmark movies. Because Mack Mitchell is an asshole, and nothing more.
Groaning, I roll over toward my nightstand. My phone’s sitting there, whispering to me. Use me, Presley. Forget your stupid no-devices-in-bed rule. I might as well, since getting out of bed sounds like more work than I’m willing to put into anything right now.
Is there any doubt as to exactly what the phone will be used for now that I have it in-hand? Two can do a little online research.
Funny how when he does it, it’s stalking. When I do it, it’s research. “At least I have no plans to sit outside his office building until he leaves.” Yes, that makes it feel much less stalkery when I Google his name.
He played football for Michigan State, I see. And judging by the number of articles featuring his name, I’d say he was pretty good.
I swipe past his face really quick because there’s no need for me to stare at a picture of him looking so hot.
I’m not surprised he was an all-American. Not surprising at all considering the way he wears those suits, and I’m sure he was in even better shape back then. He also has a killer instinct. You can tell the second you size up opposing counsel. I doubt he’d let up on his on-field opponents any more than he’d back away from a challenge in court. Not this guy. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he not only won, but decimated the competition.
When I land on another picture of him, one of those staged photos where the uniformed player goes down on one knee in the middle of the field with his helmet in-hand, I suck my lower lip under my teeth and make a sound that lands somewhere between a strangled squeal and a lusty grunt.
Then another picture, with Mack throwing himself against a wall of three enormous guys. He’s holding the ball, one shoulder lowered to bust his way through them. According to the caption, this was the game-winning play. He scored a touchdown.
No wonder he has such a huge head. He was practically a celebrity back in college. I bet the girls went wild for him.
Orgies every night, penicillin shots in the morning.
I laugh to myself, giggling while I ogle his picture. I’m sure that was his daily routine.
Though… it’s not easy to take such a hard view when I’m staring at that photo of him on one knee. I keep reading then scrolling back to that one picture. I don’t know what makes it so irresistible to the point where I keep returning to it. Yes, he was as gorgeous then as he is now, though now he’s got a maturity he lacked in these college photos. Lines on his face, like he’s even more experienced—a sharper jawline.
It’s the eyes that does it, though. That’s got to be it. Somehow, they were even more intense back then than they are now, like two light-blue laser beams. The man knew what he wanted even then, and nothing was going to stop him.
I know it isn’t possible, but I’d swear he’s looking straight at me. No, through me. Those eyes of his. I glance up at the ceiling and wish I had the will to get up and turn on my ceiling fan because I swear the temperature just rose ten degrees in here. I don’t though. He’s like a damn tractor beam. Why the hell did I do this to myself? Maybe it’s the fact I stared into those same eyes twenty-four hours ago, when he stared at me like I’m some trophy he’s determined to win.
And by win, I mean get me in bed. I know that’s all he wants.
It’s all that would happen, if I did allow it. There’s no way in hell he’s capable of a relationship. Not a doubt in my mind.
He should turn me off. I’m an independent woman, not to mention a brilliant attorney who’s currently kicking his ass. I’m too smart to fall for basic flattery and a fake smile.
It’s a nice smile, though.
I’m too busy.
So why am I getting wet just looking at his photo? And why, oh why, is my right hand now sliding under the blanket between my legs?
Oh Lord.
No, no, no, I can’t do this.
You can. It’ll help you relax. Just give in to it.
My eyes bulge. Why did I just hear that in his voice?
My fingers reach their destination and my eyes close. I pretend I’m grabbing the hair on the back of his head and shoving him down where I want his mouth, so I don’t have to hear him talk.
Phone!
Pinging!
My heart stops when my phone buzzes with a new message.
My hand flies up out from the covers and smacks me right in the side of the cheek. I rub my jaw. “Holy sh—”
I recover and pick up my phone that was knocked face down on the mattress when it vibrated.
No way in hell. It’s not possible. It’s just work.
I take the phone in my hand and slowly start to turn it over, knowing full well who it could be, and I tell myself it’s just work. Just Sarah asking about my day, but I know it’s not, because she knows I should be in bed by now. She wouldn’t want to enable my bad habits.
I close my eyes and slowly turn the phone face up.
“Don’t be who I think it is. Don’t be who I think it is. It’s not him and there’s no way he knew what you were doing.”
I open one eye slowly, and the name comes into focus.
The second it registers, I toss the phone away like it’s poisonous. Three feet away on the bed. My eyes dart down to where my hand was, even though the covers are in the way, the shame still fills my chest.
I gently reach over and pick the phone back up, because it was just a text. It doesn’t stop my pulse from pounding, panic spreading through my body. What are the odds of him sending a text when I was about to…
I fling the phone away once more like he might know the truth if I hold it any longer.
I debate just leaving it there since it’s gotten me into enough trouble already. What am I thinking? Who am I turning into? Rubbing one out to a college football photo of a guy I can’t stand?
I squirm again, groaning, knowing the phone is right there and I can’t not check my messages.
That stupid little red circle with the one within it. I can see it clear as day in my brain. It needs to be gone! Erased from existence. Notifications do not exist in this dojo!
The only alternative is to click on Mack Mitchell’s message.
I shove the pillow over my face and wrench my head back and forth. If the world could see me right now. How is this possible?
The longer I lie here, trying to calm myself down, the sillier this seems. Why should I be embarrassed or ashamed? I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to touch myself if I damn well please and think about whoever I damn well want. There’s no way he can know. The man’s a certifiable stalker but I doubt he planted a bug in my phone that lets him see what I’m looking at and about to masturbate to.
Yes, rationalize it. Do it!
I’m going to!
I nod my head, like I’m working up the courage, finding the strength to deal with this situation Presley-style. I don’t back down from anyone.
Which is why I pick up the phone once more to read the message this time. It consists of two words.
Mack Mitchell: you up?
The infamous booty call intro. I let out a long, exasperated exhale.
I put myself through all of that? And that’s the payoff? Ugh! At least make it interesting, frat boy!
My thumbs sail over the screen.
I know what he’s getting at, suggesting I’m comfortably asleep while he’s raiding old women of their real estate. Evil never sleeps. I almost type out are you but that would only encourage him. He’d bleed that innuendo dry, and that’s not the message I want to send. I’m better than this.
Me: Not for you.
Not a bad comeback on the fly. It’s remarkably easier to stay cool when we’re not face-to-face, even though I was heading toward an orgasm at the expense of his picture. For some reason, the disconnect has me feeling much bolder right now. That could be dangerous.
Put the phone down! Nothing good can come of this.
Do not put the phone down! You want this!
It’s like an angel and a devil are screaming on my shoulders.
Mack Mitchell: Interesting. I expected some dissertation about how you never sleep when there are lives to be saved.
“Oh, you dick.” I send him a thumbs down reaction on his text and leave it at that. I should’ve known this was all about his bruised ego. So fragile.
Mack Mitchell: The truth stings. Someone has to keep you honest.
He adds the cry-smiling emoji at the end.
Okay, this is a waste of time. I do not need to respond, but my thumbs don’t get the message.
Me: So you’re adding digital harassment to your rap sheet?
Me: And I do sleep. On Sundays, after I’ve destroyed men like you all week.
Hah! Take that, Mack.
Mack Mitchell: I’ll pencil myself in for a Sunday then.
Oh, you arrogant assh…
I should put the phone down. I should turn it off. That ache I’d forgotten about returns between my legs though, with a vengeance. I read that last text at least five times, and the temperature of the room increases each time my eyes move over the words.
I bite my lip, debating on silence vs. coming up with a cutting reply.
It doesn’t take long. They come to me quickly and my thumbs go to work before I can stop them—again.
Me: Hard pass. Pencils don’t do it for me.
Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I just typed that.
I sit there, chewing on a fingernail, watching the three little dots bounce around, then stop, then bounce around, then stop.
Hah! He’s got nothing. A disappointment, just like he is in the courtroom.
Mack Mitchell: Well done, but you know what I think?
My thumbs pound on the keyboard, knowing it’s a setup, but I don’t care.
Me: What’s that?
Mack Mitchell: I think you’re full of shit. I think you haven’t been penciled right, ever.
Jesus Christ. I tug at the collar of my Tiger’s shirt a little, but the competitor in me can’t let this go. He needs to be put in his place no matter how hot and bothered I am right now. My thumbs fly over the screen.
Me: You know what I think?
Mack Mitchell: What’s that?
He adds a smiley face at the end.
Me: I think you’re the one who’s full of shit, number two.
I smile to myself.
The dots bounce some more.
Mack Mitchell: Number two?
I grin, wondering if he took the bait on purpose and he’s just letting me win. I think that might be the case, but I don’t care.
Me: Yeah, number two. Like the pencil and you in the courtroom. Though I’m not surprised the double entendre was beyond your grasp.
Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that, but it felt oh so good. Damn near as good as I imagine sex would be with this man. Well, let’s not get carried away.
But a surge of adrenaline rushes through my veins.
I should shut this down immediately. Right? Completely unprofessional, not to mention I’m giving him what he wants with every message I send back. The longer he keeps me engaged, the better for him.
What about what I want? I don’t even know what the point is right now, but I’m enjoying it. One upping him is everything.
Mack Mitchell: Come on, Presley. You’re better than that.
Me: Don’t get mad that you picked a fight and got your ass handed to you twice in one week.
Mack Mitchell: No, I mean the triple entendre without you realizing it.
I glance around the room. What the hell is he talking about?
Me: Triple entendre?
Mack Mitchell: Yeah, number two as in you shitting yourself when I had you pressed up against your car. And you know what? I think you can’t stop thinking about it. I think you liked it, a LOT.
Holy fuck. Maybe I did underestimate him. I can feel him up against me again, smell his damn cologne everywhere now, feel him crawling up onto the bed with me like he’s in the room. I start to fire off something, then delete it, because it’s nonsensical. He has my mind all kinds of jumbled when the dots start bouncing again.
Make them stop!
Keep them going!
Mack Mitchell: I think you haven’t thought of anything else, and you’re lying there in bed, thinking about everything I’d do to you. What would’ve happened, if I’d kissed you so hard you couldn’t breathe. Hiked up your skirt to see what kind of panties you had on.
I gulp, fanning my face in the process.
Mind. Gibberish. Can’t think. But I’m so wet and it aches so bad it hurts between my legs. I need a release right now like I need air to breathe and I’ve never felt like this in my life. It’s so bad I think it might be a medical emergency.
