Cash (Sexy Bastard #2) Read Free

Least of all mine.
    “Going home alone,” Jackson
says with a smirk. “Does it have anything to do with a
particular blonde at the bar?”
    “Who?” He couldn’t
possibly have noticed my freak-out over Morgan—or did he?
    “Savannah? You were talkin’
to her most of the night. She and her date were looking pretty cozy,
though. Never knew you for the torch-carrying type.”
    “Savy? No way. We’re just
commiserating over losing our buddies to the big L word.”
    “Me think he doth protesteth too
much.” Jackson smirks.
    “Whatever, dude. See you
tomorrow.” He waves me off home – not that I have far to
go. My apartment’s upstairs, above the bar. I should probably
find a new place, but you really can’t beat the commute. I mean
the traffic—even from across the street—would just kill
me in the end. Plus, on those nights when everyone’s a little
too buzzed, it’s nice to be able to sweep my flavor of the
night off her feet and into bed in ten seconds flat.
    Kicking my door closed, I flip through
the envelopes. My apartment’s a cobbled-together
comfort. It’s sleek, rugged, and mostly second-hand. Why
get new stuff when there is still perfectly acceptable material just
lying around? A salvaged antique brick and reclaimed wood TV stand,
repurposed steamer trunk for a coffee table, a cut-down, sanded, and
refinished barn door for a headboard. When you grow up with shiny,
marble, brand new and stale, all you want is something that feels
real. And the truth is, I like building this stuff. Working with my
hands makes me feel useful.
    I dump my keys in the bowl and check
the mail. Bill. Bill. Useless Ad. Postcard from Knox, living the
pro-ball life in New York...
    Gardner
and Sons.
    Fate, you fickle bitch, you would have
both land in my lap in the same day. First Morgan, and now my monthly
hush money. Still in my socks, I head to the kitchen. Taped to the
inside of the cabinet just to the right of the sink is a list. It’s
got too many names and not enough of them crossed off. I scan down
the list.
    Marissa Stamretz. Congrats.
    Ripping open the bank statement, I see
the deposits have too many zeros and none of it makes me feel good. I
could buy a lot of soap with that kind of dough and still never feel
clean enough. So I send it on to the people who deserve it. Who are
owed it, really. Not that the law sees it that way, but I learned a
long time ago, what’s legal and what’s just are two
different things.
    I seal up the new check in an envelope
and address it. Marissa Stamretz, I hope it helps. I hope it makes
up—oh hell, I just hope she isn’t already so far gone
that it can’t help. I cross her off my list.
    Crawling into bed, I try not to think
about all of the names still left.

 

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Savannah
     
    People always assume that Harvard is
the top law school in America. It’s not. In school we’d
like to say Harvard was for people who couldn’t get into Yale
or Stanford. That’s right, Harvard is not number one, not
number two, but third. It gave us all the need to push ourselves to
bigger and better things. We may not be the top law school in
America, but we sure as hell act like it.
    And fuck if I don’t live up to
that standard.
    That sort of blind confidence is the
only thing keeping my smile in place and my head firmly attached to
my shoulders. I’ve stuck my head so deep into the sand when it
comes to my personal life I’m about to hit the Earth’s
core.
    It’s also been great that I’m
basically holding my department together, so I can fill my empty bed
with contracts and my laptop. I don’t even want to think about
how many times this week I’ve woken up to ink stained PJs
because I fell asleep while working. For once, it would be nice to
wake up to something toned and naked.
    The elevator dings, and it’s time
to put thoughts of bare-chested men out of my head.
    Pity.
    I plaster on a smile and square my
shoulders. I am Savannah Sunday, I kick ass, I am up for a