Ego Maniac(70)

“Hey,” I said.

“Visitor gone?” Wariness had crept into Drew’s confident voice.

“It was Baldwin. He wanted to check on me. Apparently he knocked last night and this morning and was worried because I didn’t answer his texts today either.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him I’d slept at my boyfriend’s and had been busy, but everything was fine.”

“Your boyfriend, huh? Is that what I am?” There was relief in his voice.

“Do you prefer to be called something else?”

“I don’t know. What else you got?”

“Hmm…let’s see…how about man who gives me many orgasms?”

“That sounds like my Indian name.”

I laughed. “How about landlord with benefits or Captain Prolactinator?”

“Call me whatever you want to Professor Putz, as long as he knows you’re mine.”

Mine. I liked the sound of that. I wasn’t sure how it had happened. Knowing us, it had started to blossom in the middle of a fight and flowered while I was bent over his desk, but regardless of how we got here, somehow we had. And I realized there was nowhere else I’d rather be.

“Are you alone?”

“Roman’s down at the bar. Bartender is a woman. Don’t think he’ll miss my company.”

“Okay, good.” I reached over to my end table and opened the drawer. “Did you hear that?”

“Don’t tell me he’s knocking again.”

Slipping my vibrator out of the drawer, I decided Drew needed a little distraction from the last two horrible days. I switched it on and held it close to my cell for a few seconds before lowering it down my body.

“Is that—”

“My vibrator. It’s been lonely the last few weeks.”

Drew growled. “Fuck. I wish I was there to watch you.”

“I think I’d like that. Maybe when you get back.”

“Not maybe. I’m coming straight to your place from the plane.”

His reaction fueled me. I rubbed the vibrator on my clit and spoke as my voice strained.

“How about you come a different way first?”





Drew



“She’s got balls,” Roman not so quietly whispered to me as Alexa smiled our way while strolling into court with her lawyer, Atticus Carlyle.

My hands clenched into tight fists. After coming up empty for a day and a half looking for her, I don’t know why I was surprised she’d picked that asshole. I hated that fucking guy almost as much as he hated me. He was the quintessential good ol’ southern boy—thick drawl, bow tie, and worked God into his opening and closing arguments. He was also the one attorney who’d ever made me lose it in the courtroom. And we happened to be assigned the judge who’d hit me with sanctions as a result of that unraveling. It was starting to feel like nothing was a coincidence.

Needing to keep whatever semblance of calm I had left, I couldn’t even look at the other side of the court. Judge Walliford took the bench, and the uniformed clerk called our docket number. He spent a few minutes reading with his glasses at the tip of his nose and then looked up.

“Well, well, well, lookie what we have here. Seems the three of us have done this little dance before (be-fo-wah), haven’t we?

“Yes, your honor,” I said.

“Sure have, your ahn-na. Good to see you again,” opposing counsel drawled.

Walliford shuffled some papers and removed his glasses, then leaned back in his chair.

“Mr. Jagger, why do you think this case should be heard in a New York City courtroom instead of here in Atlanta? Do you not trust the wheels of justice to turn at the same speed as you northerners like things done?”

How the hell was I supposed to answer that? I’d filed a motion for a change in venue based on residency. I cleared my throat. “No, your honor. I’m sure this court would do a fine job in any case presented before it, but since the plaintiff and I are both residents of New York, I believe the proper jurisdiction would be New York County. According to our agreement—”

Carlyle butted in. “Your ahn-na, my client is a resident of the good state of Georgia. She was born and raised here. During her short-lived marriage to Mr. Jagger, she was a temporary resident of New York for a period of time, but she’s recently bought a house in Fulton County, and this is the state of her residence.” He held up some papers and continued. “I have here a copy of the deed to her new home, her Atlanta driver’s license, and a copy of the lease where she was temporarily staying in New York. You’ll see the lease was not even in Ms. Jagger’s name.”

“That’s crap. The lease was in my name because I was paying for it. She’s lived there for two years.” I knew before I finished that I’d made a huge mistake with my outburst.

Judge Walliford wagged his finger. “I will not tolerate that language in my courtroom. You northerners might find it acceptable to communicate that way, but this is not a smoky bar or some slick city street. You will respect this bench. I’m warning you, Mr. Jagger. After your behavior last time you were in this room, you’re on a very short leash.”

And that was the best part of my day. Judge Walliford denied my motion to change venues to New York and ordered a full trial on the change in custody petition Alexa had filed—to begin two weeks from Monday. The only thing he did in my favor was enforce our current custody schedule, where I had Beck Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, as well as Wednesday for dinner. Although he ordered my visitation to take place in, you guessed it, the great state of Georgia.