The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(7)

“There isn’t enough luck in the world to help them win this case,” he tells her. And for the first time today, she looks pleased.

I guess it’s possible that there are worse things than sharing this case with him.

Not many, but some.





We get in the car, and I start making notes with a small smile on my face. I was absolutely right about Margaret, even if he won’t admit it.

“Has no one ever told you,” Ben says, “that it’s unbecoming to gloat?”

He’s already tapping away on his phone. Probably arranging his post-lunch sex with a struggling actress he keeps in a high-rise.

“This might come as a shock to you, Tate, but I don’t give a shit if you or anyone else finds my behavior unbecoming.”

“Based on your social life,”—He continues to type—“or lack thereof…no, that does not come as a shock.”

I roll my eyes. As far as I can tell, Ben’s social life only requires the female be pretty and have a pulse, and I’m not even sure about the pulse part. “How’s that yoga Instagram girl you were seeing, by the way? Have you explained the difference between your and you’re to her yet?”

He puts the phone down and looks at me, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize you were following my social life so carefully. You almost sound…jealous.”

This is one of those moments. The kind where I know what I should do—ignore him—but the devil is leaping in my chest, suggesting all the wrong things. We’re nearly back to the office, thank God. Perhaps that will keep the damage to a minimum.

“That must be it,” I deadpan. “If I wanted my vaginal penetration with a side order of disease, you’d definitely be the first person I’d seek out.”

“Vaginal penetration?” he repeats. My nipples tighten, as if he just placed his hand inside my bra. “I doubt it would work anyway. Lot of cobwebs there. Too many to bust through, I imagine.” His mouth curves upward, as if he’s still considering the possibility.

“Well, your parts certainly wouldn’t be up to the job. Or any job, if we’re being honest.”

“You bring up my dick an awful lot.” His eyes fall to my mouth, and that traitorous devil inside me likes it. “I wonder if that means something.”

For a moment I’m picturing him and it—together, obviously—and I’m so winded by the idea it takes a solid two seconds for my mean mouth to make a recovery.

“I have always had a soft spot for the small and the weak,” I reply.

The car stops at the curb and he climbs out, but before I can exit, he ducks his head back inside, so our faces are level and far too close. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the starch in his shirt. “Gemma,” he says, eyes glittering dangerously, “I promise there’s nothing small or weak about me.” He walks away, and it takes me a full second to recover from my shock. And another full second to catch my breath.

Gemma, I promise there’s nothing small or weak about me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drive the memory from my head, but I can still feel it exactly where I did—between my legs, fluttering like a hummingbird.

I can’t believe we just had a conversation about his dick.

And I really can’t believe I started it.





That night, driving home, I go left when I should go right. Ben, I happen to know, lives in Santa Monica, though I can’t imagine why: he works just as much as I do, so it’s not like he’s ever hanging out at the beach. I wonder if he takes the route I’m taking now. If so, he’s an idiot. Even at nine o’clock, there are an irritating number of stops and starts.

I’ve never driven down his street, but if I take Alta I can see his house to the left. There’s still a dumpster in front and a building permit posted in the yard. Whatever he’s doing has been going on for two years straight. His neighbors must hate him as much as I do.

I do a U-turn a few streets later, take one final look, and then drive home, trying to forget this little moment of weakness, even when I know it won’t be the last.





5





Somehow, I’m still a romantic at heart. I weep copiously during seasonal commercials in which racial divisions are bridged or a child and an old person bond. I have my dream home all mapped out on Pinterest, and have also choreographed the way my future husband will propose in Iceland (I won’t expect it; a children’s choir I never even noticed will begin to sing “All You Need is Love”, and then whoosh…the Northern Lights appear).

I blame this on the fact that, together, my mother and I have watched pretty much every Hallmark movie ever made. Though ninety percent of them have nearly identical, misogynistic plots—career-minded woman from the big city is saved from herself by a hot guy in a small town, where she will eventually adopt a more traditionally feminine profession (baking, motherhood or inn-keeping)—I inhale them when I’m home.

“Which one are you watching tonight?” I ask when my mom picks up the phone. It’s eight o’clock on a Thursday and I’m on my way to meet a potential client; it’s eleven for her and she’s recovering from her second shift of the day. Neither of us have a Hallmark-worthy life at the moment.