Warders, Volume One Page 3

  “You’re very lucky to have Julian and Cash,” he told Mr. Davis after turning his attention from Ryan. “They’re really good. Nobody else had a clue what to do with my account when I was shopping for a PR firm. And even at your place it didn’t look good until I met your boys here. All those people flew in from New York, and it was such a waste since the winning idea was right here the whole time.”

  “The Moxie campaign was phenomenal,” Mr. Davis told Cash and me, “but the product demanded it,” he finished, looking at Mr. Winters. “We could do no less for you.”

  It had been a big campaign. Not the largest in Miller Freedman history, but it was up there in the top ten.

  We had been cornered, Cash and I, on the way out of a meeting that a hundred people had attended. Mr. Winters had sat through presentation after presentation, clearly bored out of his mind, committing to nothing, and on a whim, he called out to us as we exited the huge amphitheater-style meeting room.

  “What do you two think?”

  I just looked at him, and Cash did his patented squint.

  “Nothing, huh?” he teased us, chuckling, ready to dismiss us with the rest, making his way to the door. “Big surprise.”

  “Actually, we do have this one thought.” I took a breath, smiling wide.

  He stopped and took the sketch pad I handed him, the one I had been doodling in for the past two hours. Cash and I had passed it back and forth while everyone was talking earlier, droning on and on about the software that Mr. Winters’s company manufactured.

  “We”—I indicated my partner and I—“heard you say over and over that the software you were launching would presume to know what was best for all the inventory needs of your clients.”

  “And that made us think,” Cash chimed in, “maybe the software was like a wise guy and would have the guts to tell you sometimes what you wouldn’t want to hear. So then we were thinking, what’s a nice way to say smart-ass?”

  Kevin Winters, who was no longer trying to leave, seemed to have stopped breathing. He had basically frozen where he stood and was staring at us. I was vaguely aware that the room had gone quiet around us.

  “So we thought, ‘moxie’,” I explained.

  The CEO looked away from me, at someone else, and then returned his gaze to me.

  “Moxie, right.” Cash’s resonant voice drew Mr. Winters’s attention from me. “Like ‘that kid’s got moxie, lotta balls’. So we thought,” he said, pointing to my sketchpad in the software mogul’s hands, “that you make the word with a capital M at the beginning, put a fedora on it, and call the software ‘Moxie’. Moxie because it knows what’s right, and it’s gonna tell ya. Your business system’s got Moxie, kid.”

  “You gotta have the Edward G. Robinson accent,” I added. “Very, ya know.” I cleared my throat. “‘Your inventory’s low, see?’”

  “That sucked,” Cash assured me.

  “Yeah, but you were thinking Bogart.”

  Cash grunted, nodding. “I was, yeah, but you’re right. It’s more Edward G. Robinson.”

  Kevin Winters was staring openmouthed at Cash.

  “It’s simple and memorable,” I said as he turned his head slowly to look at me, “and you can have all kinds of fun with the commercials.” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “But it’s just a thought, since you asked and all.”

  He nodded slowly, looked back and forth between me and Cash before he offered me his hand. “This is going to work, gentlemen.”

  It had been the beginning of a very satisfying business partnership, one that had benefited Miller Freedman both financially and professionally.

  “I appreciate your business, Mr. Winters,” Mr. Davis said, offering the software mogul his hand.

  “I appreciate Julian and Cash, Mr. Davis,” Mr. Winters said to the CEO of our company before taking his hand. After a minute, he turned back to look at me. “So now what? Everything’s the same with you guys except new titles or whatever?”

  “Yep, all the same,” I told him, appreciating the fact that he wanted to make sure Cash and I weren’t going anywhere.

  “Good, because I need you. I need to throw a party for my shareholders, and I want you and your partner to make it happen.”

  “Of course,” Cash assured him. “I can call—”

  “I’ll call you next week. I’ll take you and Jules to Donatello’s. I’m dying to see if the new lasagna is as good as everyone says.”

  “Sounds great,” Cash agreed, offering the man his hand.

  He gave Cash the guy clench and then walked me a few feet away from the table.

  “So I’ll call you,” he said, “is the number the same?”

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  Mr. Winters pulled his phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket. “And your cell number? That’s still the same too?”

  “Yep.”

  His eyes flicked to mine. “Then I’ve got that already.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay, I gotta go.” He glanced around before looking back at me. “Unless you wanna come?”

  “Oh no, I’m good here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, thanks, though.”

  “Okay, I’ll see ya. Later, Cash,” he called back to my partner.

  “Later.”

  I got the hard shoulder pat, and then he was gone. Taking my seat beside Ryan, he leaned into me. I had no idea what I had done to deserve the familiar action, but I wasn’t about to question him.

  “I don’t remember him being so hot,” Phoebe was saying. “He doesn’t look like that in the magazines… I would have remembered.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “What a compliment that was,” Ryan whispered, his hand sliding up my back to my shoulder. “That man really trusts you and your creativity.”

  The attention, combined with the sultry tone of his voice, the way his fingers sank into my hair, the pressure of him massaging the back of my head… all of it made me dizzy. I could get used to having the man around very fast if I wasn’t careful.

  Half an hour later, Mr. Davis stood up from the table.

  “All right, everyone, we need to call it a night before I have to call cabs for all of you. Monday morning we’ll all meet at nine sharp to go over the budget and the profit and loss statement from last year. I want to meet your team, the shining stars and the people we’re looking to develop. I want a deep bench, especially here, because with the numbers you’re both putting up, I feel that, eventually, we will need to call you to New York.” Cash tried unsuccessfully to interrupt him. “Your results put you in a very exclusive club, Mr. Vega. You and Mr. Nash are the future of this firm, and I plan to make it impossible for you to say no to me.” Neither one of us said a word. “We’ll go over everything on Monday.”

  We both gave him the agreement he was looking for, the yes sir of acknowledgement. Outside the restaurant, we all said our good-nights. Ryan and I walked Cash and Phoebe around back to the parking lot. Once they left, we were alone.

  “So,” he said. “You ready to come home with me?”

  I cleared my throat. “Ryan—”

  “Thank you for introducing me to Kevin Winters. You didn’t have to.”

  I squinted at him.

  “Well, you didn’t.” He shrugged.

  “But you being here with me was a huge deal.”

  “I know.” He cleared his throat. “You showed me. I’ve never been to a work function with anybody else. It means more than you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He nodded and closed the rest of the distance between us, his hand reaching for me, his fingers sliding over my jaw then down to my throat. “And now I believe you need to come home with me.”

  The way he said it, the exhale of breath, I felt my stomach knot.

  “Please, Julian.”

  “Why?” I asked sincerely, wanting to know.

  “Because,” he said, his voice hoarse, wetting his lips, “I want to talk
to you.”

  And I realized as I stared into those gorgeous cat eyes of his that I desperately wanted to go home with him. His hands felt good on my skin, his breath was warm on my face, and he seemed content standing close to me. It was nice, and I was very flattered. But no good could come of me wanting Ryan Dean. He wasn’t serious, and I was nothing but. There was no way to win.

  “What’re you thinking?” he asked, staring up into my eyes before he reached for and took off my glasses. “Can you see without these?”

  “Yes.” I told him as he put them on top of his head. “You plan on keeping them?”

  “I do like the style: very cool, the metal, the screws, very sleek and clean, but I dunno. Now tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you’re way outta my league.” I was honest. “You know you are.”

  “I think it’s the other way around,” he said, grabbing hold of the lapels of my pea coat, making sure I couldn’t walk away from him.

  God, he even smelled good.

  “Come home with me.”

  “And do what?”

  “Lemme make you dessert,” he said gently. “Please, Jules.”

  How was I supposed to say no?

  “Julian?”

  I had not had sex with Channing Isner, and now Ryan Dean wanted what?

  “Come home with me; I’ll make you something amazing.”

  But what I hoped for and what he wanted had to be two completely different things. And I had a process that I went through: friend to lover, lover to boyfriend, boyfriend to partner. I didn’t work any other way; I never had. “I’m not how you think I am,” I told him.

  “How do you know what I think?” he asked, his hands opening my coat and sliding over my abdomen. Just that much contact made my jaw clench.

  “You know, I should probably just go home,” I barely got out as his hands slipped up under my sweater and T-shirt to touch bare skin.

  “Oh yeah, I knew your body had to be something under your clothes, Mr. Nash.”

  No one had touched me since my last boyfriend, Mitch Carmichael, and six months of celibacy was tough on the libido. At twenty-nine, I had just as healthy a sex drive as the next guy.

  “You’re shaking.” I closed my eyes. His lips brushed over my throat. “Come home with me… please.”

  The idea of casual sex was exciting, the reality simply not me. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, untangled myself from him, and took a step back. “I can’t. I don’t just fuck for fun.”

  “Who said anything about fucking?”

  I arched an eyebrow, and his smile, which made his eyes sparkle, took my breath away. The man was truly the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. I was in no way prepared to trade snappy banter with him.

  “I know that’s not you,” Ryan breathed. “Is it, honey?”

  Could he read my mind? And what was with calling me “honey”?

  “You’re serious and smart, and you don’t go to bed unless you mean it,” he said, reaching out and slipping a finger through one of the belt loops of my pants, easing me close to him, his eyes never leaving mine. “Well, I mean it, too, so come home with me.”

  “Ryan, I—”

  “Just come with me,” he insisted, and I saw how serious he was. “And we’ll see if I can convince you that I’m serious too.”

  He was messing with me, I thought, a second before he stepped forward and wedged his thigh against my groin. Hand on the back of my neck, he pulled me close. I slowly parted my lips, and then Ryan’s mouth was on mine, his tongue darting inside, the kiss hard and urgent. His hands were on my face, making sure I didn’t move. He had no idea about what kissing could be, how hot and consuming. I changed my stance, straightened, and decided to show him what he was missing. I tipped his head back, stilling him completely under my hands before I exhaled. He shivered just once before I sealed my lips down over his.

  Being taller than he was, even by inches, gave me the leverage I needed. I slid my tongue over his, slowly, deliberately, tasting him, going deep, back and forth, stopping for just a heartbeat before starting again, drinking him down as he pressed himself to me. I kissed him as though he belonged to me, like all I had was time. I felt him tremble when my teeth touched his bottom lip, tugging gently, sucking it inside my mouth before I stepped back away from him.

  The muscles in his jaw clenched tight, I had all of his attention. I stared at him as he looked back at me, his chest rising and falling, swallowing hard. One thing I knew: I was a world-class kisser. Sometimes, when I was really concentrating, moving slow, letting the heat build, being playful and dominant at the same time… sometimes, for my lovers, the kissing had been enough.

  “Julian,” he whispered, his hand lifting, coming to rest gently on my throat, stroking my skin as his eyes narrowed in that way they will before you go to bed. It was very sexy, and the man himself irresistible. I leaned in, and he met me more than halfway. The second kiss was even better than the first.

  His lips parted instantly as he submitted to me. I put my hands on his face, my mouth slanting over his, kissing him thoroughly, deeply, making sure I didn’t miss anything: the bumpy roof of his mouth, his teeth, the inside of his cheeks and his tongue. I kissed him until I heard the sweet whimper I was after, the telltale sound of surrender. I felt his hands on my waist, his thighs against mine. I slid my tongue around his, letting him feel me move back and forth, the motion hinting at more. And I wanted more, because if it felt this good just kissing him, the way his mouth fit mine, his uninhibited, sensual response, I could only imagine what he would be like in bed. I wanted to feel his bare skin under my hands, be buried inside of him.

  I didn’t want to stop, he tasted so good, but I made myself before I did something stupid and let myself touch him again. When I pulled back, he came with me for a second, leaning hard before he recovered and straightened up. His eyes were deep olive green, heavy-lidded, and his lips were swollen. I found myself just standing there staring at him, unable, unwilling, to step away. I really wanted to take him up on his offer. I wanted to go home with him.

  “How ’bout this?” he asked softly as he dragged in air. “How ’bout we go next door to Dante’s and have a drink.”

  I waited.

  “And then,” he said huskily, “when you’re ready, you let me take you home.”

  He was being so accommodating, moving slow instead of attacking me. His reputation was that he moved fast: he slept with you and discarded you, usually in the same night. I didn’t want to be another notch in his bedpost; I wanted to mean more or never be anything at all.

  “Okay?” he pressed me.

  “You really think I’m gonna go home with you?” I was watching him intently, studying him, and so did not miss the sudden shiver, the quick constrict of his chest, or the pursing of his lips. The man looked nervous, and I was at a loss as to why.

  “Oh yeah.”

  And the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, the way he was holding my gaze, none of it flirty, just honest, was surprising.

  He took my hand, his fingers sliding into mine. “Come on.”

  The way he was touching me was nice, like he cared. The way his eyes sought mine, the way he bit his lip, took a quick breath, it was all very telling. He wanted me to go with him. When he tugged gently on my hand, I followed after him.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked gently.

  “Nobody makes me nervous like this,” he confessed, releasing a quick breath even as he tightened his hand on mine.

  INSIDE DANTE’S, a Latin jazz club I liked, he pointed at an empty table toward the back, and I made my way toward it while he kept going toward the bar to get drinks. I was relaxing, waiting for him, my legs stretched out in front of me, when a guy walked up beside me. I watched as the man squatted down so he was at eye level with me.

  “Hi.” I greeted him.

  “Can I get you to come sit with me?”

  “I’m actually
here with someone,” I told him. Handsome man, older than me, brown eyes, beard, mustache, tall, broad-shouldered, he was the kind of guy I would have loved to talk to. I hadn’t been cruised in a long time. The timing was funny.

  “I don’t see anybody.” He openly stared at me as he put his hand on my knee. It was funny; I could not even remember the last time anyone had approached me at a bar, or anywhere else, for that matter. I was not the kind of guy most men noticed. With brown-black hair, dark blue eyes, and glasses, it was easy to lose me in a crowd. My mother has always said that I had striking features, but from living in my own skin, I knew the truth. I was plain, and that was all. I was built long and lean, covered in muscle that came from being an athlete in high school and college, lots of swimming, since I was eight, that I still did daily. I ran and lifted weights, but my body was not the chiseled piece of art that Ryan Dean’s was.

  “He’s right here,” I said, tilting my head at Ryan as he closed in on me, reaching for the glass he held out once he was there. “But I appreciate the offer; it’s very flattering.”

  “Oh,” the guy said, getting up, looking down at me. “Well, maybe after you’re done here, you can—”

  “He won’t be done,” Ryan interrupted, taking a seat in the chair beside me, his legs sliding under mine.

  The guy nodded, gave me a last look, and left.

  “Can’t leave you alone for a second, huh?” Ryan said quickly, his smile forced. I could tell the difference between the real ones that fired his eyes and the fake ones that never made it there.

  “Doesn’t usually happen,” I assured him as he leaned forward.

  “Oh, I think it does. I think you just don’t notice.”

  But I actually was a very observant man. For instance, I noticed everything about Ryan Dean. “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you’re just radiating happy right now.”

  “And why would I be doing that?”