Book 2, Guns Blazing
CHAPTER 1
“Sir, your erm, nine o’clock appointment is here.”
Looking down at my Rolex Cellini with its elegant leather strap hugging my wrist like a second skin, I felt my brow tighten and my eyes narrow. Mind you, the frown on my face was not aimed at my favorite watch but rather at the time it announced. Clearly, nine fifteen did not equal nine o’clock. There was a quarter hour difference between one and the other and I did not have time for tardiness in my life.
“Erin, please tell my nine o’clock to reschedule. Thank you.” Making it a point to stress the word “nine,” knowing full well that the client waiting was privy to the intercom conversation, I returned my attention to the computer screen, meticulously planning out the week. As an associate lawyer in one of the prime law firms nestled in the middle of Manhattan’s financial district, I should not have been turning away my potential clients. In fact, that type of blatant disregard for billable hours was cause enough for getting my ass kicked right out onto the New York sidewalk, doing my own rendition of the walk of shame. So, you ask, why would I put my career on the line for a mere fifteen minutes? Respect. It’s as simple as that.
As a criminal attorney, I defended those who were unable to get representation elsewhere. The unable aspect had nothing to do with their financial means, quite the opposite, really. When they came to me, they had most likely seen every other criminal lawyer within the five boroughs and had either been screwed over or been told that the case was open-shut and not in their favor. My fellow bar colleagues were too skittish when it came to losing a potentially media-frenzy type case. I, on the other hand, thrived upon them. My mouth would salivate at the thought of sinking my teeth into a case that could blow up in my face. I lived for the challenge of finding that one little detail that everyone missed and then flashing my million-dollar smile at the cameras that said, “You have witnessed greatness.”
So, yes, the partners at Grant, Mills & Spencer gave me the freedom to do as I pleased when it came to my desperate clients. Desperate and filthy rich, might I add. Billable hours were a given when it came to their cases because my talents were undeniable and my results spoke for themselves. One hundred and seventy-three cases in my seven years with the firm. One hundred and seventy-two wins. I know, I know. Not a perfect record but my first case was trial and error and since the man was actually as guilty as they came, I refused to even count that blotch on my pristine record. Did it bother me that I lost a case? Of course, it did. I was too much of a perfectionist to ignore the one and only failure of my career however, being the glass half-full kind of man, I used it to my benefit. That one loss was my ultimate driving force to make sure I did not make the same error twice.
As I moved around the schedule, accommodating the time frames to fit the meeting times more accurately, my head snapped at the sound of a door crashing into the wall.
What the hell?
“Hey! You can’t go in there!” Erin, my trustworthy assistant for the last seven years, was practically jumping on the client’s back trying to get him out of the doorway. It was a lost cause seeing as the man was easily twice her size in height and in width. As feisty as she was, the poor woman was barely five feet with heels and in need of a nice juicy cheeseburger to put some curves on her. Erin ate enough for us all but her metabolism was off the charts, which made her a great asset in the workspace. Aside from typing up my reports, my assistant was always running around doing something useful. This was why I made sure she was paid very well. More than most, in fact, to ensure she stayed with me.
“It’s okay, Erin. Thank you.” I said, watching her scowl from behind the mammoth of a man. I stifled a laugh when I noticed the top of her auburn head barely reached his shoulder. That did not stop her flipping him the bird, from the safety of his back.
Standing in place of my closed glass doors was a huge man taking up all of the open space under the doorframe. My eyes traveled from his chest, which was perfectly eye-level and hidden by the black long-sleeved cotton shirt, to his biceps and down to his fists. With his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves, the straining muscles were impossible to ignore as was the predominant ink that adorned them. A hundred scenarios ran through my dirty mind as my eyes continued their leisurely stroll down Adonis Avenue. Perfectly fitted jeans that encased strong thighs and, oh my…that crotch area was interesting. And big. Unconsciously licking my lips as I finished my perusal, I was brought back to reality as my gaze landed on the dirty shit-kickers dangerously close to staining my immaculate flooring. I didn’t think the term was supposed to be taken literally. I mean, the boots weren’t really used for kicking shit, were they? Obviously, my nine o’clock would-have-been appointment had not received that memo.
“Ever hear of the expression, ‘The customer is always right?’” Despite my repulsion to the disgusting footwear, my cock twitched at the sound of the deep, calm voice that made its way to my ears. Looking up, I met his hard glare and almost lost my breath at the penetrating blue eyes that pierced me like a steel sword. The man’s chiseled jaw, the strong features of his angled face and the slightly broken nose that matched his blue collar demeanor set my body on high alert. In my seven years as a New York attorney I had never slept with a client, nor had I wanted to do so. I would not be starting now.
Larson Blackburn, my ex-whateverhewas, did not count.
“I have heard that expression, Mr...?” I knew exactly who this man was. I had already started researching his files so I could get a feel on why exactly the man needed my services. “Guns,” aka Luke Gunner, had a record as long as my cock. Trust me, it was quite impressive. How none of them had ever actually led to a conviction was somehow beyond me. Probably a good lawyer. Which begged the question...why had he not sought out his former representation?
With a click of my index finger on the ultra modern cordless mouse, his file sprang to life on my screen. I was curious when I first started going through his information but seeing the man face-to-face had me more than a little intrigued. Going against all of my self-imposed rules of never backing down to anyone when it came to my work, I sighed and turned my attention back to the thug who, to my surprise, had settled himself inside and was now comfortably sitting on the large wingback chair facing my desk. I didn’t bother to stand and shake his hand. That would have made me look like a used car salesman foaming at the mouth for the chance to work the case. Dream on, biker boy.
“Gunner. But you already knew that.” Blue eyes stared me down but not enough to make me uncomfortable.
“Right. Well, I have a strict rule, Mr. Gunner. An appointment is at an agreed upon hour. I do allow for the occasional surprise of New York traffic but then that’s what planning ahead is for. You are fifteen minutes late,” I looked back down at my left wrist and arched a brow at Mr. Gunner. “Twenty-one minutes past the hour as of now, which means we only have twenty-four minutes left of this meeting before I have to prep for my ten o’clock. It’s not nearly enough time to get through this Declaration of Criminality that you call your file.” Yeah, I was that good.
My smug grin faltered and my eyes narrowed when I heard the bellow of laughter coming from my soon-to-be ex-client that never was.
“Jesus. Do you have your entire life planned out to the second?” Was that even a legitimate question?
“That’s none of your business and frankly you should be glad that I’m anal, it’s a talent that will get you off whatever charges are looming above your head.” Take that, you two-bit criminal.
The man leaned over my desk, his face a mask of determination, his eyes making me blink in confusion at their intensity. The deliberate licking his lips had my gaze immediately fall to the motion and my cock doing a happy dance at the prospect of sliding between the plump, wet flesh.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re anal, Mr. Ledbetter. It’s quickly become my favorite quality of yours. As for getting me off? I have no doubt your talents will come in very handy.” My hand instinctively covered my crotch to adjust my growing hard-on because, clearly, we were not talking about legal representation anymore. At least, I didn’t think we were. My brain was a bit in shock from the realization that this six feet and some brick house was potentially a top batting for my team and that he had just blatantly made a pass at me. At least, that was what my libido had decided. Yeah, I was pretty sure that was all sexual talk. While trying to reassess the situation to make sure I did not make an ass of myself, I saw the wink and the curl of his lip into a smirk I wanted to punch into next week. The punk was playing with me.
“Now that it’s settled, I’ll just go out there and make another appointment with your secretary. I’ll make sure to clear two to three hours of your schedule. You know...so we can catch up.”
With those words, he pushed off the desk, his arms again flexing in that delicious way, muscles on clear display and walked out the door. Before he was completely outside, he turned to me with a cocky grin that made me clench my ass and said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Ledbetter. And on time. Especially now that I know just how anal you are.”
As soon as the door closed behind the man’s retreating back, I leaned into the leather high back office chair and ran my almost trembling hands through my sun kissed blonde hair. I didn’t like the term “dirty blonde,” for obvious reasons. Cleanliness was a way of life, a purification from the outside in washing away the dirt that accumulated all around me. My clients were surrounded in filth—unlaundered money, defiled women, and murky water rising around them on the verge of swallowing them whole. But then, we would step in. The saviors of the unsavory, the ones who bleached the slate so clean it was almost impossible to find a speck of dust. I was surrounded by pollution and it had nothing to do with power plants or diesel trucks.
My social life was barely subsisting, a passing thrill between clients and trial dates. My love life? I had expunged that part of my existence six months prior. The last time I saw the man that made every cell of my body fire up like a fuel-drenched pile of dry wood, I had been forced to say my goodbyes. I wasn’t missing any type of closure since we had made things clear. But I missed him. I still longed for the pleasures only he knew how to bring out. The craving for his touch, rough and dominant, was constantly on my mind.
But Larson Blackburn was a thing of the past, living his present with the man who fulfilled him in ways I apparently could never hope to do. In every aspect of my life, I needed control. I did. I acted. I decided. In the bedroom, however, I could barely get hard without knowing that the next move was out of my hands. Some called me a submissive, maybe I was just that. I believed it was more of a decompress button that allowed my mind to focus on only one thing—pleasure.
My current problem was simple. With only words and a glaring gaze, the tattooed and barely civilized client had awakened a desire in me that I thought had died a permanent death.
That could be a problem.
Or...
Maybe it was the solution.
Chapter 2
Lloyd Ledbetter.
Well, aren’t you the picture of pristine perfection?
And here I was, punctual, as requested, for a case review. This was different. The case review part, I mean. I was no stranger to litigation—specifically being the defendant in said litigation. This wasn’t civil litigation either, hence Lloyd Ledbetter, one of the best criminal attorneys on the East Coast. I was being proactive, because there was a distinct possibility that I would be in need of his services, if not his protection until this all got sorted out.
Yeah, I’d had my share of lawyers on retainer, on payroll, and sitting next to my ass in court. And for the most part, they’d been worth every damn dime I’d had to pay them to keep me on the outside, which they had succeeded in doing to date. But this time was different. This was a whole new scenario I had found myself in and, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how I had become part of this whole equation with Senator Hastings’ disappearance. I had never even met the guy for Chrissake!
Anyone who knew me at all knew that I didn’t rub elbows with politicians. That was not my gig. Nor would I kidnap politicians—or anyone for that matter! It didn’t fit my persona. It wasn’t on my agenda. And it served no purpose.
I was a businessman. Actually, I was more than a businessman. I helped businessmen hide their money. I didn’t ask questions. They didn’t pay me to ask questions. I provided a service to them and my service ensured that they, along with their ill-gotten gains, remained safely beneath the radar of the FBI, DEA, U.S. Treasury Department, ATF and the rest of those alphabet soup organizations that strived to be a buzz kill to the American Dream.
What the fuck? Wasn’t the whole purpose of our founding fathers and the Bill of Rights they put together early on done in order to make this the Land of the Free? Not the Land of Let’s Tax Your Asses Off and, oh by the way, we also want to take your guns away and listen in to your goddamn phone conversations…
Bullshit!
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
I was too young to be this cynical and I knew it. I was thirty-three years old and nobody, including the gorgeous legal eagle sitting across from me studying the contents of the dossier his paralegal no doubt prepared in advance, would know my truth.
So, here were my stats in case you wanted to take notes:
Male: 100%
Gay: 120%
IQ: 168
Height: 6’ 5”
Hair: Dark and unruly
Eyes: Dark Blue—almost the exact shade as Lloyd’s tie
Parents: Don’t know the biological ones. I was traded for a bottle of Muscatel wine when I was ten months old. Ended up at Catholic Charities and fostered out to a great family in rural Detroit. Leroy and Patsy Gunner raised me so that was who I claimed as Ma and Pop. Loved them. No one would ever fuck with them as long as I was alive.
Siblings: All kinds. That’s what Ma and Pop did. They helped kids, adolescents and wayward teens. They were God sent.
Education: Need you ask? An IQ of 168? Hell yeah. Got a full ride to Cornell. Dual majors in Math and Economics. Never studied. Photographic memory did it for me.
Career: Financial Consultant. You won’t find my name in the Yellow Pages. I was of the low overhead variety, you see. My biggest business expense was the cache of burner phones I used to conduct my consulting business. That’s all you need to know for now.
Passion: My Harley-Davidson Night Rod Special. Yeah, it was sweet. There was almost nothing better to straddle than my bike. Note: I said almost. There are a few exceptions.
Flaws: Of course. I was not perfect. Nor was I a perfectionist. Aside from my brilliance and penchant for money laundering consultation to support myself quite nicely, I was totally ADD. I flew by the seat of my pants. I detested schedules, planning in detail, and putting my life in order.
Favorite Word: Askew.
There it was in a nutshell. But right now, my ADD was kicking in hard. And I knew the source of my distraction was sitting three feet away from me. Lloyd’s thick wavy hair was sun-streaked in places, but it only added to his overall sexiness. His suit was grey, and he was wearing a light blue dress shirt and dark, royal blue tie. It was a bit flamboyant, but sexy as hell at the same time. I studied his long fingers as they flipped through the pages of my file, his head bent as he sped read through the contents. He released a sigh, and then looked up and across his desk. Our eyes locked and my breath hitched as I waited to hear what he had to say.
Would he take my case if, in fact, there was a case?
For days now I had been hiding out in New York City waiting to get in to see this man. I hadn’t set foot back in Syracuse since I’d left three days prior. I was lucky I had a connection that got me in with Ledbetter. The hard part was going to be explaining the situation to him, and trusting that he wouldn’t buzz his paralegal to call the authorities, while he slapped a pair of handcuffs on me declaring that, as an officer of the court, it was his moral and civic duty to detain my ass.
When I received the tip, I packed as much of my shit as my backpack could handle, grabbed all the cash from my safe, and hit the road on my hog.
Destination New York City because that was where Ledbetter was, and my connection insisted the man was the best, persuading me to set up a meeting.
My source had told me that an indictment was going to be handed down soon, the whole thing apparently hush-hush. And you could imagine my surprise when said source told me that I was the intended recipient. Well, if my inside connection was worth a damn, that meant my ass would be ordered to go in front of a Federal Grand Jury in Albany. The part that was really fucked up is that I didn’t kidnap people. I didn’t murder people, if in fact that is what had happened to Senator Hastings since he was last seen. But I already told you that.
Ledbetter finally spoke, and his voice was cathartic to my scrambled mind. “I’ve seen your background reports, Mr. Gunner. What I haven’t seen is the reason why you’re here now. It looks like you’ve done fine beating every rap on what appears to be a long list. Let’s cut to the chase because I’m not sure you can afford to waste my time with small talk. Why did Brenner send you to see me? Clue me in, please.”
And so I filled him in on the tip I’d received from a trusted source. I didn’t share that source with him because it wasn’t pertinent to my reason for needing his services. When I finished, he stared at me for a moment, and I couldn’t tell how the fuck he was processing this information.
“In a nutshell, you want me to find out what the Federal prosecutor has on you as a potential participant, if not perpetrator, in the disappearance of Senator Hastings?”
I nodded, rubbing my denim clad thighs with the palms of my hands. “I also need your protection while I get this shit cleared up. I swear to fuck, I have never met Senator Hastings. How in the hell could I be indicted on a charge of kidnapping someone I have never met? This is more than absurd. This is some serious malfeasance of something!”
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