Mister O(31)

“I bet you are, sir.”

“And you know, I did create a show myself back in the day.”

Of course, he has to mention his brief flirtation with the other side. “I heard it was fantastic,” I lie.

He waves his I’m-so-humble wave. “It was a damn fine show. But here’s the thing. It wasn’t quite as racy as yours. Which got me to thinking,” he says, as he furrows his brow. His eyebrows are like two caterpillars riverdancing. “What if The Adventures of Mister Orgasm were more, say, family-friendly? I wonder if we could go broader, make it less naughty, and find an even bigger audience?” he says, giving me whiplash with his Mister Orgasm meets The Brady Bunch ideas. “Think about it.”

He slaps my back and takes off, and I scratch my head as I leave to see my attorney. The Uber I ordered waits by the curb so I slide in, say hello to the driver, and return to my new favorite thing—my text messages. It’s like hitting the jackpot, because there’s a note waiting for me.

Princess: I thought of some other things I like.





Tell. Me. Now.

Princess: Pretty, lacy lingerie.





Dragging my hand over my face, I sink down in the leather seat. Like that will hide this problem. I breathe out hard. Like that will make this steel rod in my pants f*cking disappear before I walk into my attorney’s office. There are certain words that flip a switch on a hard-on, and she just used one of them. Lingerie.



What kind? What color? What style?

Princess: White. Black. Purple. With a little bow. On the rear. Picture a lacy panty, with a pretty little ribbon on the butt that can be untied.





I raise my face, and stare out the window. Maybe there’s a store somewhere with a tub full of ice. Maybe I can just go sit in it for a couple of hours to make this lust dissipate. Bows on panties that can be untied? C’mon. No man is strong enough to withstand those words.

Especially not a man who was sent a black satin bow with pink polka dots. A scorching heat wave crashes into me as I mouth holy shit. When Harper sent me the pencils tied with ribbon, it was like she left me a little hint before I even knew what it was. A clue to all her desires, to her secret fantasies. It’s like a woman undressing as she walks down the hallway, glancing back at you, her eyes saying follow this trail.

And I will follow.



Like a black satin bow with pink polka dots?

Princess: Yes. Did you like it?





I’m not sure I’ll ever look at it the same way again.

Princess: Did you enjoy untying it?





Jesus f*cking Christ. I tug at my shirt. No way can I make it through this meeting. But there’s no way I can stop.



I did. I love untying little bows. In fact, ‘untied’ is my new favorite word.

Princess: I like dirty words, too. That’s another thing I like.





Have I told you I’m a human thesaurus for dirty words?

Princess: You don’t have to tell me. I figured that out on my own.





Then you know me so well.

Princess: Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. I also like letting go. And I like when a guy is just so consumed with making you feel good that you want to do the same to him.





I pinch the bridge of my nose as the car swings up the avenue. I swear Harper can read my mind. I lick my lips and tighten my grip on the phone.



Do you watch porn?

Princess: Does Tumblr count?





Yes. What do you watch or like to look at?

Princess: That’s hard to describe.





No. It’s not. Try.

Princess: You just want me to tell you what type of gifs or photos I like?





Yes. That would be awesome. In fact, it would make my day. It would make my day f*cking amazing.



Her answer will have to wait, because I’ve arrived at the offices of Nichols & Nichols, where a well-coiffed young blonde receptionist rises from behind a sleek desk and greets me by name.

“Good to see you, Mister Hammer,” she says with a crisp, bright smile. “I’ll let Tyler know you’re here.”

“Thanks, Lily.”

Before I can even grab a seat on a plush cranberry-red couch in the lobby, the head of the firm opens the glass door. “Nick Hammer,” he says in his deep voice as he walks over and claps me on the back. I stand. The man is pure class. Clay Nichols wears a dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a purple silk tie. “Tyler told me you were coming by. Couldn’t miss the chance to say hello and congratulate you on all your success.”

“And you as well. Love the new digs. And tell your wife she does not have to give me free liquor.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Let me give you a piece of advice. The wife takes orders from exactly no one.”

He guides me down the hall to Tyler’s office.

“My favorite client!” Tyler says as he greets me. I met Tyler back in the day when I was at RISD studying animation, and he was a history major at Brown. He’s risen up quickly in entertainment law, and it’s not only because he has a mentor in Clay. He’s just really f*cking good.