Five

"You jackass," I mutter, trying not to laugh, but it's impossible to keep a straight face when it comes to Dalton Cavendish. He's so unpredictable, he usuallydoesn't even know what he's going to order at a restaurant until the waiter looks him dead in the eyes and asks. It's how he ended up eating sea urchin foam on a bed of pickled rose petals when we went to yet another one of Everett's beloved and bizarre eco-friendly restaurants two weeks ago. The guy is a genuine wild card, and as I've learned from this call, the last twenty minutes of Dalton's life were no exception.

"Look, I was panicking," Dalton explains. "It seemed brilliant at the time."

I hold off until I'm past a group of Georgetown students waiting to get into the bar on the corner of Nineteenth and Jefferson before I ask, "How many shots did you end up drinking?"

"Four," Dalton admits, sighing before he repeats himself and drags out the word like he's re-living the moment and only now realizing how profoundly bad his decisions were. Verdict: bad. Real bad.

"Four shots in twenty minutes? Wow, Dalt. We haven't done that since college."

"Don't remind me. The worst part is, I didn't even take them over twenty minutes. After I got off the phone with my parents, fifteen minutes had passed. So…"

Sniggering, I dig into my pocket and pull out my keys. "You took four shots of a seventy-six-year-old whiskey in five minutes?"

He scoffs. "Okay, you sanctimonious prick, what saintly thing did you do with your last twenty minutes?"

"I fucked Valeria," I answer flatly, not bothering to mince words. I've been repeating the sentence in my brain nonstop for the past fifteen hours, ever since she raced out of my condo and hid behind her locked door. The truth basically spills out of me, no reluctance. I fucked Valeria, I fucked Valeria, I fucked Valeria.

For the first time in the twenty-seven years I've known him, Dalton Cavendish is quiet. In fact, he's so quiet, I ask him if he's still there, to which he responds, "Lander, you let me ramble for five minutes about how I chugged and spewed sixteen-thousand dollars of whiskey—"

"Didn't realize you threw up."

"—and all this time, you've been withholding the fact that you railed a camgirl?"

I inhale and exhale through my teeth. It sounds cheap. Sure, last night wasn't exactly "romantic," but I can't imagine a better way to close out my life than sleeping with a woman I've wanted for so long.

I remind myself that Dalton would never intentionally offend someone—especially me. "To clarify, she's my unspeakably hot neighbor who coincidentally happens to be a camgirl."

"Right. Didn't mean to sound judgmental. I'm glad this finally happened. You've wanted her for…. Hold on—how did this happen? I thought you two didn't talk."

"We don't talk," I confirm while I round onto the Halcyon's cobblestone walkway. "Last night, we didn't even talk until it was done." Well, except for Valeria telling me to fuck her like I've always wanted, which is now in the record books as the single greatest sentence I've ever heard anyone say.

"Shit, Lander," Dalton manages. "You didn't even have to talk to her to get her to sleep with you? I mean, you're good looking, but you're not that good looking."

"Yes I am," I correct.

He chuckles. "Ass." Then he respires, probably reclining in his ergonomic desk chair in the JP Morgan office in Penn Quarter, which is practically his second home. "So, how did it happen?"

Standing outside the door to the lobby, I give Dalton the rundown. It's a diluted version: only what he needs to hear. He doesn't get everything though. I keep the part where I came inside of her and watched my cum drip out of her wet, well-fucked pussy to myself. Nobody, not even my lifelong best friend, gets to know how tight a stranglehold the memory has on me.

"Was it as good as you imagined?" Dalton asks once I'm finished recapping.

"Better," I admit, recalling Valeria's soft body underneath mine. My hands practically tingle with the memory of running them over her generous curves and sweat-damp skin. "But it wasn't what I expected. After watching her for so long, I figured Aurora—sorry—Valeria would be more…"

"Innocent," Dalton fills in, reminding me that he's seen her streams and knows her angelic virgin routine. It doesn't bother me. I even sent him the link to her page when I found it. While most guys would devolve into cavemen if their best friend saw their girl doing the shit Valeria does online, Dalton and I were both raised by Alyssa Cavendish. We were bound to turn out sex-positive.

"But she wasn't innocent at all. She was…I don't know, Dalton. It's like there was this pile of horny dynamite stockpiled between us, and it finally detonated into something huge."

"How huge?"

"I basically destroyed every single item of clothing she wore to my place."

I think I hear Dalton clapping on the other end of the line. "I'm proud of you. Although, this obviously went south. If it were all good, you would have told me and Everett immediately, and then you would have taken the day off to rail her. So, how did you screw up? Was it when you told her you watch her streams?"

"Didn't get a chance. After they sent out the second alert, she literally ran back to her place and wouldn't open the door. We haven't spoken since."

Dalton snorts. "So, you're an incredibly bad lay."

"Get fucked," I answer right as my work phone starts vibrating in my pocket. Incoming call from FRANK CAVENDISH. "Shit. It's your dad. I have to take this."

"Buzzkill. Well, have a good talk with Dad and text me later. I want to know how it goes with Valeria."

The sound of her name slams down onto the already crushing weight on my shoulders. "I'll text you, but I doubt I'll have updates. Like I said, she doesn't want to talk to me."

Dalton is quiet for all of three seconds before he sputters, "Are you kidding me right now, Dawson? Just talk to her."

The advice is classic Dalton. The guy has no reservations speaking to anyone and everyone he meets regardless of whether it's appropriate or remotely normal. It's how he ended up talking to Bill Clinton for twenty-two-minutes in a coffee shop, of all places, and nearly got a Secret Service agent fired for trying to usher the former President out in the middle of the conversation.

"You two share a wall, Lander," Dalton reminds me needlessly, his tone just short of admonishing. "Knock on it. Learn morse code for, ‘Sorry I railed you badly. Let me try again.' And for fuck's sake, get it over with and tell her you're a subscriber. That means you'll need the morse code for, ‘Sorry I railed you badly. Oh, and I've been your biggest fan for a year and have spent a normal person's monthly rent on tips, but hopefully we can make this work.'"

This time, I can't hold back from laughing. "I hate you."

"I love you more, Lan. Put your sneaky, terrifying lawyer brain to work and talk to her. You'll be fine."

We end the call and I switch to my work phone, but I've already missed Frank and he doesn't pick up when I dial back. Fuck. A call from Frank could mean a lot of things: a new deal, a problem with one of my clients, or even scathing intel on other associates. For most associates at my firm, any of those updates could wait until tomorrow, but things are different for me. Frank Cavendish isn't just my best friend's father and a managing partner at the firm; he's the man who raised me from age fourteen onwards. To say I owe him is an understatement. I always answer his calls.

To be fair, there's also a chance nothing is going on work-wise. Frank is too tech illiterate to manage two phones, so he uses his work phone for everything. Luckily, he sends me a text: Stafford is up for grabs. And with those five words, Frank changes my entire life.

I mean that literally: My entire life is about to be different.

Stafford is Cavendish Waits' most profitable client. They keep ten of our lawyers on retainer, and it's a well-known fact that a couple years on Stafford are requisite for making partner. The retainer agreement is like the Supreme Court though: The only way on is through nomination and approval; the only way out is through death—a grim fact I know far better than most associates.

Me

Who died?

Frank Cavendish

Maxwell Miller's wife caught him cheating. She's taking him for all he's worth. He's doing a four-month "sabbatical," the pathetic fuck. Update your resume and send it to me TONIGHT.

Shit. This is really happening.

No matter what, I have to get Stafford. They're not just the firm's most important client, but they were also my father's last client before he died. In other words: This is my legacy.

Luckily, Valeria canceled her stream, so there's nothing competing for my attention tonight.

Inhaling deeply, I bask in my final moments of freedom before a long night of resume updates. It's beautiful out. Field crickets are emerging with the setting sun, and the serene chirps bristle in the crisp air.

My building, the Halcyon, is in the hub of Dupont Circle and is quintessentially DC: old, historic, and exclusive. Up until last night, living in my condo had been a dream. It's near my office, has crown molding, and there's nothing but an eight-inch common wall between Valeria and me.

But for the first time ever, I'm dreading going home. Upstairs, I know exactly what I'll find. Our quiet hallway. Closed doors. The wall between us.

Fuck those eight inches.

Dalton's right: I need to talk to her, if not to make things right, at least to understand what happened. Valeria went from calling our hookup "amazing" to sprinting away from me. Clearly, something changed when she realized she wasn't going to die.

I need to know what changed.

If she won't open her door, I'll find another way to talk to her. It might take some maneuvering, but I'm a lawyer—one on the verge of a career-changing milestone. I maneuver shit for a living, and I'm very good at what I do.

So, game on. It's time to make partner and get the girl.