Page 39 of Drilled

“Not without that deal,” he announced.

“It’s not my deal to give,” I said, filtering the frustration from my voice. Disappointment slumped my shoulders and I closed the folder. “Guess we’ll just have to see what the judge says.”

Later in the day, when most of the rush had settled, I finally had a quiet moment to myself in the office. It was funny how things could change on a dime. Not too long ago, I worried that thinking of my personal life could be a distraction from work. Now I was dealing with work being a distraction from my personal life.

I was still ostensibly staring at the paperwork in front of me when Nance sauntered into my office with a mug of coffee and leaned against the doorframe.

“You’ve been working over that same motion to dismiss for twenty minutes, Whittaker. Spill it. Is this about the HOA bully or the blueprint boys?” she asked, taking a sip.

I rubbed my temples, something that was fast becoming a habit under the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights. “Just a weird day in lockup. A client tried to barter info on an underground ring.”

“And let me guess, the ring involves a certain brooding electrician?”

I hedged around the answer, not wanting to get into any of that stuff right now. Instead I directed my focus to ticking boxes.

“You’re just not gonna talk about it?” she pushed.

I dragged my head up to look at her.

Nance walked in, dropping into the visitor's chair. She pointed a manicured finger at me. “Lane, you are a brilliant public defender, but you’re an overthinking disaster when it comes to your personal life. There are three ridiculously hot, protective men rebuilding your house. Pick one, let your hair down, and try flirting. See where it takes you. Have a little fun for once.”

“I don’t know how much fun can actually be had in this situation,” I said.

“Then you desperately need to fine-tune your imagination,” she replied with a wink.

I brushed off the comment, my cheeks burning, but her words struck a chord with me. The situation with Sandy hadn’t just disappeared. It instead lurked in the background like a landmine just waiting to explode under the tiniest bit of pressure. And now this whole mess with Dax and Bear…I was at a point where work seemed easier.

I did my best to ignore the specific thought gnawing at me, but when I finally got on the train ride home, it came in full force. Nance was right. I knew first-hand just how bad burnout could be and I’d spent the last, maybe five years, just surviving, not living. My love life certainly paid the penalty for that.

But the last time I did something spontaneous, something that took me completely out of my comfort zone and brought me to a place where I felt free and weightless had been in that tiny little narrow pantry with Dax.

It wasn’t just the pleasure of the sex itself. Sure, the physical side of it had been hot and satisfying and, well, fun. But the risk of being caught, the need to stay quiet and the understanding that what I was doing was perhaps the most reckless thing I could possibly have done, all contributed to a climax that wiped my mind completely for a few minutes.

That’s what I craved the most right now, that sweet bliss of cool nothingness that settled into the hollow space such a soul-destroying orgasm could bring me. I didn’t want to think at all. I didn’t want to overanalyze the logistics or the morality and ethics of that kind of pleasure.

I’d played by that rulebook all my life and I was exhausted. Of rules and etiquette and thinking.

I pulled my gaze from the train window, my forehead cool against the glass, and watched the grey landscape of the industrial corridor blur past. The rain started as a light mist, streaking diagonally against the pane, but by the time the commuter train screeched to a halt at my station, it had transformed into a relentless, blinding downpour.

Great. The one, miserable day I forget to bring an umbrella with me and Chicago decides to piss on me. The concrete stairs leading down to the street were slick with oil and water. I clutched the railing, completely soaked and shivering as the damp autumn chill cut straight through my blazer. The street below was a chaotic mix of splashing puddles, bright red brake lights, and commuters scurrying toward their cars with briefcases over their heads.

"Fucking fantastic," I muttered, freezing under the meager shelter of the station awning.

I pulled my collar up, bracing myself for a miserable walk. Then, a horn honked twice. Short and sharp.

My head whipped to the direction it came from and I recognized the truck idling not too far from where I was huddled. It was dark charcoal with stenciling on the driver’s side that read: Cornerstone Contractors.

Before I could even process why it was there, the engine cut. The heavy driver’s side door flung open, and Bear stepped directly out into the freezing deluge, umbrella in hand. He wordlessly walked towards me, then popped the umbrella over my head and guided me back to the warmth of his truck’s cabin.

I climbed in, shivering as he rounded the front again and took his place in the driver’s seat, now also soaking wet.

Guess I wouldn’t have to brace the rain on my own after all.

14

Lane

The first thing that struck me about being inside Bear’s truck was how it smelled. I guess some part of my brain just associated construction company vehicles with the soot and grime the tools were usually covered in, and assumed it would stink of grease and old demolition funk.