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oing.
And going.
Holy shit.
I couldn’t come. Again.
I pulled myself from her mouth before she bit me.
The front door tinkled, and Ivan’s voice boomed through the shop. “Olga! Are you done with Mr. Gallagher?”
You could say we’re done.
I eased myself back into my clothes and pulled up my trousers, leaving Olga in the dressing room to clean herself up.
I ran smack into Ivan as I hustled out the door, my achy balls preventing me from moving as fast as I might have liked to.
“I’ll look forward to getting those shirts, Ivan.”
Back in traffic, I saw I’d missed a couple calls. My admin let me know my first appointment of the day would be late due to a delayed flight. The other voicemail was from Beau, my younger brother.
You never knew what you were going to get with him.
“Var. Dude. Hey, I need a little help with something. I’m kinda broke. Will you call me back?”
Beau sounded drunk, or high, or maybe both. As usual, I had to find out what the hell he’d been up to. In the past, it had been gambling debts, or he’d owed drug dealers, or he’d been kicked out of the most recent halfway home where he was staying. Whatever it was, Beau’s life was a far cry from mine of custom-made clothing, sex clubs, and blowjobs in dressing rooms.
Chapter 6
Saffi
The bus home that night was as miserable as it usually was—bumpy, slow, overheated, and smelling of too many humans crammed into too small a space. When I squeezed out at my stop, I took a deep breath of the foggy evening to shake off the stink of a city commute.
“Hey, Dad. I’m home,” I hollered, once inside.
“In here, sweetie.”
Dropping my backpack, I headed for my dad’s office, a gorgeous, masculine room lined with books, leather furniture, and a giant desk. And the faint smell of scotch in the air.
“You have a good day?” he asked, his silver head turning. The slight wrinkles around his blue eyes sprang into action as he smiled. He might have been my dad, but I could say with confidence that he was damn handsome.
How much should I tell him about my project? Everything? Nothing? Or just a little?
“It was pretty good, Dad. How was yours?”
On second thought, he didn’t need to know anything.
He leaned back in his chair and a swell of love thumped in my chest. The man had raised me single-handedly after my mother had passed. No meeting at his busy law firm was ever more important than one of my softball games or dance recitals. To me, he was everything that was good about the world.
“Day was good,” he said, nodding. “Things are booming at the firm. Knock wood,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the desk. His firm was one of the largest in San Francisco, but he took nothing for granted. “How are things at the paper?”
I leaned forward, forearms on thighs, hands clasped. “Well, you know how I’ve been getting crappy little assignments?”
“Like that Garden Club thing?” he asked.
“Exactly. I have a plan to do more.”
His eyebrows rose.
