Read Senn (A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel Book 5) Online
Authors: Lane Hart
Senn (A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel Book 5) (21 page)
“I guess, supposedly. Madam Tess said that after you fuck your soulmate you won’t be able to unsee the other, or whatever,” I tell them with a shrug of indifference. At once, all three sets of eyes start wandering around the restaurant.
“Ohhh, maybe it’s him,” Becca whispers, nodding to a giant of a man, slender with curly dark hair standing in line to order. The four of us are staring at him when his head swivels around. His eyebrows slant inward as he faces forward again, probably wondering what’s wrong with us.
“Super smooth, ladies,” I tease.
“Mmm-mm, check out Mr. Pinstripes,” Mallory says with a slight head nod to a table off to our right. Of course all of our heads turn, but at least we don’t get caught ogling this fine fellow while he inhales his burger.
“It doesn’t work,” I tell them confidently, convinced Bryan was the only soulmate I’ll have in this lifetime. One and done. “Besides, even if it did, I, ah, I threw it up a few seconds later on the side of the highway.”
“Ew,” Clarissa remarks with her nose wrinkled.
“And while my driver side door was open, a car came by and took it slam off the frame.”
“You mean, the car door came
off
your car?” Mallory asks, barely able to contain her snickering.
“Uh-huh,” I tell them, and it’s answered with silence for about ten seconds before they all start laughing. So loudly, in fact, everyone in the entire restaurant turns to stare at the cackle of hyenas around me. How appropriate that a group of hyenas are, in fact, called a cackle since that’s what they’re doing. “Hush, it’s not funny,” I chide them. “No telling how much it’ll cost to get it fixed, and the douche at the shop said it might take days.”
“Sorry, Josie. It’s just…picturing it…so funny,” Becca says, followed by more giggles.
“You ladies suck,” I tell them when I thankfully hear my order number called. I jump up from my seat to go retrieve my food.
“Number seven?” I ask when I get to the pick-up counter.
“Have a good afternoon,” a cute,
really
cute guy with chin-length blond hair and a dazzling smile says when he hands me my tray.
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling back at him, wondering…
ugh, stop that you dimwit,
I chide myself before turning around to take my seat with the hyenas again.
The rest of lunch is relatively quiet as we all dig into our food, needing to hurry up and get back to the office because it’ll likely burn down without us workhorses there.
“Hey, boss,” I say in greeting when I walk back into the office and see John standing in the middle of it. Today he’s wearing his tan, fly-fishing overalls and matching vest that holds all of his supplies, complete with tall, black waterproof waders. “Going fishing?” I ask the obvious question with a smile on my face since that means my afternoon is free.
“Hey, Jos. Yeah, if I can just find my damn tackle box. Have you seen it around here?”
Walking over to the seven-foot-tall bookshelves that sit in the corner, I go up on my tiptoes to reach the plastic container and pull it down.
“Here you go,” I say in offering.
“Well, fuck,” he says as he lifts it from my hands. “How did it get up there?”
“You brought it in a few weeks ago so we could reorder a few things online. And then when they came in the mail, you put everything away and sat it up on the shelf so you wouldn’t lose it,” I remind him. At seventy, this is pretty much our everyday conversation. He loses something; I find it.
“Oh yeah,” he mumbles with a scratch to his thinning white hair. “Well then, unless you can tell me a reason I can’t take the afternoon off, I’m gone.”
“Nope, you’re free to go,” I gladly respond. “Richardson has his plea tomorrow morning, continued from last month, but the file’s already been prepared from before. And you’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon with the Griffins who wanted a face-to-face update on why their piece of shit son is still in jail for his assault inflicting serious injury, but other than that you’re clear.”
“Got it,” he says with a nod on the way out the door. “You’re the best, kid.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” I tease and hear his answering chuckle from down the hallway. Honestly, the man does pay me twice what I’m worth and more than any other paralegal probably in the city. I’m damn good at my job when he gives me actual legal work, which is rare, but happens. If it does, I step up and get things done. Otherwise, I sit back, relax, and hang out in case my boss calls needing something or one of our clients get antsy and I have to talk them down.
By four o’clock, I’ve read every article on the celebrity news sites, played five games of solitaire and read half a book on the Kindle app. If I had my car, I would consider leaving early, but I don’t. So, I’m stuck here until five when one of the girls can give me a ride home. Which is just awesome.
…
The next day, I actually have work to do, because in a rare form of assholerly, the judge denies our plea and demands we get ready for trial in a case that John had negotiated a great deal for our weed dealer with the prosecutor. Which is stupid since they ought to just legalize the damn drug, but whatever. The judge leaves us scrambling to call witnesses, get them to the right courtroom, and copy and label all of our exhibits within an hour. I have to cancel John’s appointment with the pissy parents who are not thrilled with having to reschedule for one measly day, and then I have to listen to them bitch about it for five minutes before they finally concede. Once that’s taken care of, I go over to court to observe and help out with the trial. Also, there’s a part of me, albeit a small, practically miniscule part that was hoping to meet “the one” during my many runs back and forth from the courthouse. No such luck. Guess I’ll be single for nine more long years.
Later that night, I pass out from exhaustion after Becca gives me a ride home for the second day in a row. Tomorrow, I vow to take my ass over to the auto shop and get my car, fixed or not since I didn’t hear a word from the jerk mechanic today.
…
The next day at work, I also earn every penny John pays me. It was one crisis after another with an old, snooty client getting arrested for shoplifting
again
to get her rich husband’s attention, a client who didn’t show up to court and a federal agent calling, wanting to meet with another one of our extremely guilty clients. It was a lovely day. By the time I got to leave an hour late, I had forgotten about my car being in the shop, until I stepped out into the back parking lot and noticed it missing, along with everyone else’s car.
Huffing out an annoyed breath because I haven’t gotten any updates on the shop’s progress on my baby, I walk back through the alley and cross the two blocks that take me to
Andrews’
Auto Shop
, hoping I’m not too late. Outside the brick building, all three garage doors are lowered, but the door knob easily turns in my hand. Opening up, I call out, but get no answer. The front lights in the receptionist and waiting area are out, but the ones in the garage are on. I hear rock music coming from the same direction, so I start that way. I go past a car raised up on the lift, and then I come to an abrupt halt, unable to move another step when I see
him
.
Too jaw-dropping gorgeous to be real, his thick, golden hair is mussed and messy, and a hint of stubble runs along his chiseled jaw. From my profile view of his shirtless body several feet away, his smooth bulging muscles, obviously carved from granite, are covered in sweat, shining like a beacon of sexiness as he works underneath the hood of a car. Never before has sweat looked so sweet, nor the sight of a man ever been this absolutely delectable. Maybe it’s all the remnants of car fumes getting to me, but I feel lightheaded when a scorching hot inferno suddenly ignites somewhere deep inside. Unfamiliar liquid heat burns through me, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Lord Jesus, there’s a fire…In. My. Panties.
Lawson Andrews
Fuck me, it’s hot. It’s only the first of May, but the great thing about the state of North Carolina is that it can go from winter to summer and back again within a week. Forget spring and fall. Those comfortable seasons are usually skipped right the fuck over. So, year round I’m either freezing my balls off or my balls are sweating like a dirty whore in church.
Since the shop’s been closed for an hour and all my guys have gone home for the day, I unzip what used to be navy colored coveralls, but are now mostly black with oil and grease stains, and shrug out of the sleeves to lower the drenched material to my waist. Relieved at the cool air now hitting my chest and back, I pick up my wrench and go back to work. Or I try to, but the unexpected sound of a woman muttering something about a fire over the radio interrupts me.
“We’re closed,” I huff over my shoulder without even sparing her a glance. “And you’re not supposed to be back here.” Dumbass Todd must have left the door unlocked again when he hurried his ass out of here. That idiot is gonna get me robbed one of these days.
“But…but I…”
Slinging my wrench down hard enough to make it clang loudly on the cement, clearly demonstrating my annoyance, I turn around to see who the hell…
Holy. Fucking. Shitballs.
It’s a girl. Not just a girl, but a really hot girl with long, sandy blonde hair and big blue eyes. My own eyes are instantly drawn down her bangin’ body that’s covered in a fancy white dress, revealing thin but toned arms and long, lean legs encased in the same color high heels with a sexy, strappy thing around her ankle.
My first thought is
it would be so fucking fun to dirty her up
.
My second thought is
I have a girlfriend.
Wait, I have a girlfriend? And what the fuck? Right now I can’t even remember her name. It starts with a K, and we’ve been seeing each other for over six months, living together for two or three maybe?
Fuck. I scrub my grubby fingers through my hair to see if there’s a knot where I obviously busted my head on the hood of a car. Not feeling any lumps, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on except I sure as shit need to remind myself, and my overexcited cock, that
I have a girlfriend
.
“G-good for you, and, um, her too, I guess, but I’m looking for my car, not a boyfriend,” the woman says slowly like I’m a dumbass. Shit, I must’ve said that last comment about having a girlfriend aloud. Maybe I
am
an idiot or going senile at thirty, because I can’t even remember my girlfriend’s name. Kelly? No. Kristina? Uh-uh. And then it finally hits me.
Katrina
. Whew. I swipe a hand across my forehead to wipe the sweat off before it drips into my eyes, likely leaving an oil streak across my face now that I think about it.
“Which car?” I eventually ask the woman once I get myself under control. Mostly.
“The, ah, El Camino,” she responds at the same time her ivory cheeks redden. Laughter erupts from my big mouth before I can help myself. The guys and I have had a helluva good time joking about the classic car with a missing door, especially after we found out it belonged to a chick. Never in a million years would I have guessed that it belongs to
this
woman. The BMW with a broken AC? Sure. The Mercedes with the oil leak? Yeah. But the nineteen seventy-two El Camino? It’s un-fucking-believable.
“Is it ready or not?” she huffs, puffing out her chest. Those perfect handfuls of tits are so nice that I start to forget the name I just worked so hard to remember.
Katrina.
I’m a horrible boyfriend. Thank fuck women can’t read men’s minds or they would never talk to any of us again.
“Yeah, it’s not ready,” I tell her, and then have to clear the gravel from my throat.
“It’s not?” she asks, her face falling in a way that makes my chest ache.
What the everloving fuck?
Am I having a heart attack or some shit? I try to rub the strange sensation from my left pec, but all I do is end up spreading more filth across my skin since I forgot that my coveralls are still pulled down. This chick is throwing me off my game, making me forget that I’m exhausted, overworked, underpaid and haven’t been laid in over a week by the woman who lives with me and sleeps in my bed every night. Therefore, I’m all out of fucks to give her or anyone else for that matter.
“Did we call you? Nope, didn’t think so,” I say to be a jackass, because that’s what I am, dammit. I will not have some chick waltz in here and make me go soft. Although, thanks to her, there’s nothing soft about my neglected cock at the moment, and that’s so messed up.
“Fuck,” she mutters. And hearing the curse, that word in particular fall from her ruby red lips makes the aforementioned cock jerk inside my now too snug boxer briefs.
“Watch your mouth,” I tell her with a smirk, remembering when she gave me the same line over the phone two days ago. “Or do you
want
a spanking?” Her gasp of surprise echoes across the big concrete room.
Motherfucker. Why did I say that shit? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.
“You wouldn’t,” she says so softly I barely hear it. And, hell, there’s only one way to make me do something, and that’s to tell me not to.
“Oh, I would,” I warn her, even if I am all talk. “Try me.”