Элла Франк - Try

Tate gritted his teeth, and as calmly as he could, he stated, “You need to take your hand off me—around four seconds ago. You have a nasty habit of taking liberties.”

“I have a lot of nasty habits. Want me to tell you about them?” Logan countered, removing his hand.

Tate felt his blood starting to boil. “You don’t fucking quit do you?”

“What can I say? I don’t like to lose.”

Tate had finally had enough of the cocky attitude and decided it was about time to put Logan in his place. Moving forward, he snarled, “Well, you aren’t going to win anything here. I’m not interested in this little game you’re playing. I work here. You drink here. That is where it ends.”

Tate felt his ears ringing as Logan licked his lips and argued right back. “Are you so sure about that?”

Disconcerted, Tate fumed, “Am I sure I don’t want to have sex with you? Yes.” Pausing, he took a tense breath, and before he thought better of it, he continued, “Surprisingly, I don’t want to fuck you, and I don’t want to be the third invite to your party of three. So, stop licking your lips like you want to suck my dick.”

It wasn’t until Logan raised his hands, palms up, that Tate realized he’d backed Logan up against the wall.

“You’re pretty pissed off, Tate. What’s wrong? Afraid you might like it? How do you know unless you try?”

Tate took a step back from the man who was radiating as much heat from his body as he was. But where his was from anger, Tate was positive Logan’s was from something else entirely, and for some fucking reason, that thought was making him hotter by the second.

Instead of acknowledging his body’s meltdown, Tate grabbed a hold of the emotion he understood and let the anger thrum through him. “That’s your motto, right? To try everything once? Well, newsflash, some people just know they won’t like something.”

With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Tate didn’t even think to move as Logan pushed off the wall and came closer.

“Again, you didn’t answer the question. How do you know—unless you try?”

Tate tried to think of something, anything, to say in response, but he had nothing, so he stayed stubbornly silent.

“Because Tate, for someone who isn’t interested, your body certainly has different ideas. I’m all about doing what feels good. You see, I’ve never had a left-handed hand job, but I’m almost positive I would love it.”

Without even thinking, Tate raised his hands and shoved hard against Logan’s shoulders. The man didn’t budge. Instead, his eyes turned from the usual cocky blue to a steely don’t-fuck-with-me gray.

“You get to do that once. Unless the next time you shove me violently, it’s to fuck me against a wall, you got it?”

Tate jammed his hands into his pockets, disgusted with himself for reacting as he had. Glaring at Logan, he tried to rein in his bitter contempt—for the man before him, himself, or the situation he was now in, he wasn’t sure. “Stay away from me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why? I don’t even like you.”

“Your cock says otherwise. Stop fighting so hard, Tate.”

Logan brushed by him, and their shoulders met.

Tate couldn’t bring himself to look at Logan as he heard, “And just try.”

Before Tate could say anything else, Logan moved past him and disappeared from the bar, leaving him with about fifty-thousand questions and not one good goddamn answer.

Two days later, Logan was sitting in the conference room, listening to Cole trying to placate one of their clients. She was a tall, dark-haired woman around five-eight, if he had to guess, and she was dressed like a sexy librarian or perhaps a schoolteacher. She was wearing a white pencil skirt, ending just above her knee, with a little black blouse and a red cardigan over it. The overall look was sexy and demure, and it made Logan want to yank her skirt up and lay her back on the conference table.

Maybe then she would leave satisfied, and the morning would be over quickly.

He wasn’t a fan of dealing with ugly divorces, but Cole was about to leave town with Rachel for a couple of days, and he’d assured Logan that this particular case was pretty much over, it just needed to be wrapped up. Today was about tying up loose ends and finally signing on the dotted line.

Logan was already bored.

He much preferred working with businesses than petty husbands and wives with trivial issues. That was part of the job though, and right now, as he looked down at his watch, the defendant still hadn’t shown.

“I’m sure he will be here soon,” Cole assured their client.

Seated in the corner of the room on a couch pushed up against the window, Logan watched her patience wear thin as she paced back and forth.

“Yes, I’m sure. He’s always so punctual. He can’t even be on time for something important.”

“The guy is probably avoiding this,” Logan thought.

And then, he realized he’d said it out loud.

The woman spun around to pin him with an icy look, and Logan shut his mouth real quick, but that was more due to the glare Cole was throwing his way than pissing her off.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, anything but.

As the woman turned away from him, Logan let his focus shift to her ass, and he took a good, long look at it. Maybe he just needed to let go of his pursuit of Tate. The guy was obviously conflicted, not to mention furious at him. And this woman? Logan knew if he worked it right, he could have her within the hour, and in turn, satiate the ache that had been building in him for the last several days.

He had come to a final decision to do just that when a knock sounded, and the conference door opened. In walked a harried-looking, short, bald man. His suit was slightly crumpled, and he was shaking his head as he held the door open for, presumably, his client, the defendant.

“So sorry we’re late. Mr. Morrison got held up on his way here.”

“Big surprise there,” Logan heard their client mutter.

The fifth person finally walked through the door, and Logan found himself staring at none other than—

Tate. Tate Morrison apparently.

Tate raised a hand and pushed his fingers back through his hair as he stepped into the conference room. Situated in the center was a large oval table was surrounded by at least, Tate would guess, fifteen to twenty chairs, and the back wall was made up of large windows covered by thin blinds letting in the muted morning sunlight.

Holding his helmet by his leg, he scanned to room, and he was shocked when they landed on the blond man from a couple of nights ago.

What the—

 Before he could say anything though, Mr. Branson, his lawyer, indicated a seat opposite from—ugh—his pissed-off and soon-to-be ex-wife.

“What did you do? Walk here?” Diana accused from across the table.

Tate resisted the urge to flip her off as he placed his helmet on the floor beside his leg. “There was an accident, okay?”

“You couldn’t call?”

Tate shook his head and glared at the woman he’d stupidly wasted three years of his life on. “Sure, Diana, when would I have done that on my bike?” Turning to face his lawyer, Tate sighed. “Can we just begin and get this over with?”

Mr. Branson nodded and opened his briefcase with two clicks of the locks. “Of course, of course.” He fished his glasses out of the case and pushed them on. “Well, first, this is Mr. Madison, the plaintiff’s lawyer. He’ll ask you a few questions today, and then we’ll go over some paperwork. Do you have any questions about that?”

Tate glanced at the blond man sitting opposite him. Um, no, but I do have a question about him. How does he know Logan?

He was considering asking the question when something in the corner caught his eye. From where he was sitting, his view was obstructed, but it was obvious that someone else was also in the room with them.

Great, she needs two lawyers? Nice to know that Daddy’s money bought her good representation, and she still took twelve months to sign.

Right now, as a final hurrah, she was after his Kawasaki Ninja 650, and he would be damned if she took it. He loved that thing—probably more than he’d ever loved her.

“Do you really need two lawyers, Diana? How many times do I have to tell you? I am not selling my bike. Bringing me to a fancy lawyer’s office for a little over seven grand is ridiculous, even for you, but I suppose you actually need me here this time to sign the papers I filed over a year ago.”

“And you being a pigheaded ass about a bike is nothing new either. It’s a toy, one you don’t need, and we bought it together.”

“Bullshit, we’ve already split everything, and I—”

“Mr. Morrison,” the blond guy finally spoke up.

Tate pinned him with a fuck-you look. He was surprised when the big guy glanced over his shoulder, obviously looking toward the second lawyer, who was still silent.

“Yes, Mr. Madison?” Tate snapped, bringing the man’s attention back to him.

“If we could keep this civil, it would probably work out much better for all involved.”

“Is that right?”

Mr. Madison nodded once as the look in his eyes changed from serious to one of—

Is that sympathy? Fuck that.

“Fine,” Tate conceded, slumping back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Okay then, if you could have your lawyer read over these terms and either agree or disagree—”