The Anchor Read Free Page A

says, and my eyes peel open a little wider as I look up and find my uncle, Gregory Paul—Uncle Paul, for short—staring down at me, his expression hard. “You need to see your guest out.” When he moves to the side, Karissa is standing about fifteen feet away, her eye makeup smeared down her cheeks and her dress wrinkled and drab. Shit. Slow to stand, I take a minute to get my bearings before I make my way over to her and lead her to the door. Uncle Paul remains in the living room, his arms crossed, watching us. I’m in only my boxers, which makes this all the more uncomfortable with my uncle standing here.
    “I tried to leave without waking you,” Karissa whispers. “He insisted we wake you first.” Of course he did. Paul’s a dick like that.
    “It’s okay,” I tell her as I open the door. “Do you need cab fare?”
    “No,” she says, as her brows furrow. I guess she wants me to say I’ll call her. That we’ll meet up again. Yeah, not going to happen.
    “Thanks for last night,” I whisper and kiss her forehead. “I gotta go deal with this.” I jut my chin toward my uncle.
    “Oh, yes. Of course,” she agrees and steps out. “I guess . . . I’ll talk to you later?”
    I run a hand through my hair, hating how awkward this is. We’ve hooked up three times and I’ve never called her. She just always happens to be at the bar I go to after work and we’ve ended up back at my place. I think I need to cut this off because obviously she thinks we’re becoming . . . more. I have no inclination for more right now. “Bye, Karissa,” I finally manage with an apologetic smile. She hears my message loud and clear: This is done. Shaking her head, she turns and walks toward the elevator as I shut the door.
    Making my way into the kitchen, I grab the O.J. out of the fridge and chug straight from the carton. It’s mine; no one else drinks it, so I don’t think it matters.
    Paul slips off his suit jacket and lays it across the arm of the couch before walking to the breakfast bar and standing in front of it with his hands in his pockets. “Ever heard of a glass?”
    I put the carton down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did you want some?”
    He snorts. “I’d love some of your backwash.”
    “It is tasty,” I jest. “When did you get in?”
    Moving to the counter, he laces his fingers together and rests his hands on the dark granite. “This morning at one. Had to do a few things at the office.” Paul works as a liaison between the law firm’s New York office and its international offices. He’s rarely home or at the office, but even when he is, he never seems to stop and relax. It was his reputation as a meticulous employee and contact along with years of working with Shuestar and Bechman that got me my kick-ass job.
    A heavy moment of silence falls between us and when his gaze moves from his hands, folded on the counter, to me, I know he has something that he deems as ‘extremely important’ to say.
    “It’s not easy being a young man in your position. You’re smart with a bright future ahead of you.”
    “And I’m a stud,” I add. This only earns a halfhearted smirk from him.
    “But . . .” I groan with an eye roll, knowing what’s coming.
    “You’re going to fuck your future up if you’re not careful. Women like that,” he points at the door, indicating he’s talking about Karissa, “would love nothing more than to nail down a guy who’s about to become a New York lawyer. And what better way to do that than with a baby?”
    “I’m always safe, Paul,” I say, defensibly.
    “Condoms aren’t one hundred percent foolproof, Parker,” he argues as he runs a wide palm down his face. “Do you want to end up like your parents?”
    I pinch my lips together to avoid saying something shitty to him. My father, Paul’s younger brother, knocked up my mother the summer before his senior year of college. He was destined to be aprestigious architect but when my mother got