CHAPTER ONE
WADE
FUCK.
Flopping down onto the mattress—alone—is like fucking Heaven right now.
Exhaustion permeates deep into my bones. I’m not even sure I could get it up right now if I tried. No amount of tugging, sucking, or fucking right now would rouse my soldier.
How fucking depressing is that?
My poor dick is so over-used, it’s practically ready for a coffin and burial. Six straight nights of dates. Six straight nights of fun but meaningless sex with six different women—over and over and over and over…
Against a wall, on a desk, in a pool, in the backseat of a car, bent over the sink in a bathroom at a restaurant, in an alley behind a nightclub…
Pretty much anywhere and everywhere you can fuck, I did this past week.
Most men would be thrilled and probably call me a fucking pussy for complaining about too much sex. But I need a breather, at least for one night.
Just give me a little time—away from the women, and away from the Goddamn filet mignon.
If I don’t see another tiny, round piece of steak in my life, I would die a happy man. These women all think they’re funny and clever serving it to me when we eat at their homes or ordering it if we eat out on our dates.
Yeah, real original.
I would roll my eyes, but I’m too fucking tired for even that miniscule movement.
But I need to know what time it is. I didn’t expect to be coming home this late, or early rather, since it was already well after midnight when I finally left her place.
That woman was an animal tonight. Four…no five rounds of hot, sweaty, hair-pulling, hip-slamming, nail-scratching, fucking exhausting sex. And she probably would have wanted to go again if I hadn’t managed to sneak out when she finally dozed off. But there are rules, and rule number one is no spending the night…no matter how utterly exhausted I may be.
With some concerted effort, I roll onto my side and check the clock on the nightstand.
Two thirty taunts me in bright red numbers.
Christ. I roll onto my back and close my eyes.
Thank God it’s Monday. A night with the guys to unwind, and a few beers at The Bottle is exactly what the doctor ordered. Jason knew what he was doing when he required us all to take Mondays off. You can’t do this job without a scheduled break of some kind, it’s too physically and emotionally taxing.
But I can’t enjoy that respite for another seventeenish hours.
I first have to try to get a couple hours of sleep so I can make it through my two motion hearings this morning, and then a full afternoon of client meetings. But at least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
No dates until Tuesday, and as of right now, my Saturday night is still free. I can’t even remember the last time I had a weekend night off.
Fridays and Saturdays are prime nights, and my rates are double those nights for that very reason. Women don’t want to attend parties alone. And with The Meat Market offering escort services, they don’t have to anymore.
Tonight was an anomaly. Sunday dates are usually low-key—a walk in Lincoln Park, maybe a stroll through the Field Museum. But this lady…sweet fuck was she feisty. I had barely knocked on her door before she was dragging me inside by my lapels and smashing her mouth on mine. It was immediately clear this was not going to be a casual mid-afternoon date, but rather an all-day and all-night fuck session.
I normally wouldn’t mind, but after my dates Friday and Saturday, I had kind of been looking forward to something a little less, well, physical.
Who would have ever thought I’d be tired of having sex? Not me. But after almost two years, and countless women, it’s starting to get real old, real quick. The faces all blend together, and I’m pretty sure at least half of them give fake names anyway. Having a hot, wet pussy wrapped around my cock always feels incredible—how could it not? —but just once, it would be nice to spend some time with a woman who wants to actually spend time with me, not with “Lewis.”
I stare at the ceiling and try to will myself to get off the bed.
A scalding hot shower would probably be prudent right now. The scent of her flowery perfume and our mingled sweat still clings to me, but I don’t have the energy to make it to the bathroom, let alone stand for ten minutes to scrub the filth off. I’ll just change my sheets tomorrow.
Right now, the only thing I’m going to do is sleep.
Sleep and dream about my night off and away from the sexually crazed, desperate women of Chicago.
JOSETTE
It’s taunting me.
The damn calendar entry is a constant reminder of how pathetic my life truly is. Well, maybe not pathetic. But definitely lacking in social engagements. At least, ones that aren’t work-related.
The retirement party for one of the founding partners is Saturday.
And it’s shaping up to be another blown opportunity to demonstrate to the partners I’m stable and reliable enough to be considered as a new partner. After busting my ass for them as a clerk during law school, and another five years as an associate, I’ve brought in more business than some of the damn partners.
Yet, they still don’t take me seriously as a partner candidate. The misogyny runs deep. These old codgers don’t believe a young, unmarried woman is partner material, no matter how good I am at my job or how much money I make for them.
Assholes.
I could sue them for sexual discrimination, but aside from the misogynist shit, I actually like working here. I have great co-workers, great benefits, and I’m free to do pretty much whatever I want. I don’t want to throw away all the hard work and long hours I’ve put in to establish my client base. But I need to do something. I can’t bust my ass for another five years of my life knowing there’s no potential for advancement. There’s no way I’m moving up in the firm without at least a stable relationship.
Which means I’m screwed, because it’s not like I have time to date.
Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I went on one. It was probably Jake whatever his last name is, and God, that had to be…what…eighteen months ago? Working eighty hours a week doesn’t really leave time for relationships. Other than the one I have with my BOB.
Which reminds me…I need more batteries.
I drop my face in my hands. God, I am pathetic. My life revolves around work and a battery-operated boyfriend.
Something needs to change.
I let my hands fall, and my gaze returns to the calendar. Only this time, it’s not the party reminder my eyes are drawn to, it’s a phone number scrawled along the side margin.
When Ginger told me about The Meat Market, I thought she was full of shit. How in the world is there a male escort service in Chicago? Do women actually use it? I mean, what kind of woman pays a man for sex?
And I figured she had to be fucking with me when she told me her boyfriend, Dylan, used to be employed there, as something other than a butcher. He seemed perfectly normal when I met him at The Brown Bottle when Ginger dragged me there for dinner after work one night. Ginger got a kick out of my disbelief and assured me it was true, and that she actually met him because her sister booked her a date through The Meat Market.
I’m glad things worked out for her, I really am. Dylan seems like a really amazing guy, and I love seeing her so happy. But come on, I’m a fucking lawyer.
I know escort services are legal as long as nothing sexual occurs, but hiring somebody to be my date is just so…I don’t know…sleazy. Plus, there’s no way sex isn’t happening with these guys. Ginger confirmed as much for me. So, getting involved with The Meat Market, even for just a date, would be putting me in concert with illegal activities. And that is so not kosher.
Besides, even if I did book a date, no way I could pass off an escort as a legitimate romantic partner. My bosses would never buy it…would they?
Ginger insists the level of “cuts” they have is unlike anything I could ever imagine and that I’ll be surprised by their “quality.” But I can’t say I believe it. How could anyone I would actually be able to pass off as a date work as an escort?
When she slipped the menu underneath my office door this morning, I almost shit myself. It’s one thing to mention it to me over lunch—far, far away from the office—but she actually brought that thing into the firm. She’s lucky she’s an amazing assistant, otherwise I would smack her upside the head for bringing it here.
Instead, I quickly perused the menu and scribbled the phone number along the side of my calendar before I shredded the evidence.
Good thing my industrial shredder doesn’t leave anything for the cleaning crew to piece back together…
Dammit.
I don’t want to do it. Just thinking about calling and actually paying for a date has my stomach churning worse than before final exams in law school. But I don’t have a choice. It’s this or slave away for another five to ten years and maybe never make partner.
My hand shakes as I pick up the phone from my desk and then immediately slam it down.
Jesus Christ, I almost called from the work line.
Epic face-palm.
I’m not cut out for this cloak and dagger criminal shit.
Instead of using the phone on my desk and potentially leaving incriminating evidence, I pull out my cell phone. After pressing the numbers into the keypad, my finger hovers over the send button so long, the screen blacks out, and I have to reenter my password to bring it up again.
It’s now or never, Josette. Time to grow a pair and just make the call.