Against the Wall Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Against the Wall

  Mia Benjamin

  © 2017 Mia Benjamin

  MB Books, November 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or institutions is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  Mel

  So maybe getting involved with my boss wasn’t the best idea in the world, but at least the fallout freed up my schedule.

  I’m not sure I want to be a drug rep much longer, anyway. You can only handle doctors sneaking furtive glances down the front of your blouse for so long before you just start wearing the lowest-cut blouse you own just to get the sale.

  Not that I was doing that. Much.

  Okay, I kind of was.

  So, in retrospect, the whole thing was kind of gross, and I was pretty much over it.

  Which is why I didn’t put up much of a fuss when my boss handed me a pink slip. Between the cleavage-flashing I was doing at the doctors’ offices, and the putting out I was doing was on the desk in my boss’s office after hours, it was getting a little hard to look at myself in the mirror.

  So I’m done with guys for a while. Good thing, too, since now it’s family-duty time. Pretty hard to be out on the prowl when you’ll be spending a week in your childhood bedroom.

  I’m currently sitting on the beach at Powell Lake in eastern North Carolina. My parents own a cabin here, and it’s time for our annual family vacation. This year is a bit different, though; usually it’s just the three of us, but this year my dad’s oldest friend Joe will be here. I haven’t seen him since I was six, and he married some bitch that decided to hate my dad for no reason.

  They just got a divorce, I guess, and my dad invited Joe to come to the beach with us. Which is fine; it’ll give my dad someone to drink and build fires with, and it’s not like one extra old dude is gonna cramp my vacation style.

  Especially since I plan to spend the majority of this vacation lying in the sun and bleaching the memory of my ill-advised work affair out of my brain.

  To that end, this afternoon I decided against the plain black one-piece I wear if I’m going to do any serious swimming, and instead wore a miniscule pale yellow bikini. Good move for soaking up rays, bad move for soaking up rays without being bothered every five minutes. It seems like every guy on this beach sees blond hair and a pair of tits in a bikini top, and decides he needs to buy me a drink.

  Never mind that I’m already holding a damn drink.

  One dude had stumbled up with a long beard and the leathery skin of a roof layer, or whatever you call them, wearing a red hat with a political slogan on it. “Buya drink?” he’d slurred.

  Seriously, dude? I just wanted to catch some sun before heading back to the cabin. I didn’t expect to be hit on by a bunch of douchebags who remind me of the unjustifiably overconfident shithead who just fired me.

  I’ll buy my own beer, thanks.

  The group of frat-boy-looking guys standing over by the cabana bar has been staring at me for half an hour, and one of them finally gathers the confidence to head my way, bumping fists with the other three guys before grabbing a fresh Corona and swaggering in my direction.

  I’m so not in the mood right now.

  I stand up, grab my towel, and dust the sand off my ass. A Frisbee whizzes by me and narrowly misses the guy; he turns his head to follow its progress and I walk away while he’s distracted. I guess I should take it as a compliment—he’s young and built and it did take him half an hour to muster the courage to talk to me—but I’m just not feeling it right now.

  Heads turn as I head for the Snack Shack: four more frat types; a couple of chubby guys; a kid that’s got a ways to go before his voice even drops, God love his heart; and even a creepy old guy with curly, spiraling gray hairs running down the significant belly hanging over his waist.

  I sigh.

  Not that guys with a little mileage can’t be super-hot. Hell, after having just wasted one of my prime years shagging my twenty-five-year-old junior-regional-manager-asshole boss, maybe I ought to try something different. But it won’t be with that guy.

  Peel your peepers off me, dude.

  A couple of sour-faced women, including the one who hurled the Frisbee, shoot me glares I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve. I look good, but lying around looking good isn’t an offense, and I haven’t so much as spoken to anyone on the beach today, let alone flirted or invited attention.

  I just wanted some damn sun.

  I leave the sun outside now, and stand just inside the shack for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. The crowd in here is pretty sparse. Two older women sit at a table by the open front windows, and a single customer sits at the end of the bar.

  The female bartender, a slender black woman with tight, dark curls, is wiping down the other end of the bar and chatting with the guy sitting there. The other bartender, a young guy in board shorts and a tank, shoves a pencil over his ear and picks up a clipboard. He throws his coworker a two-finger salute as he slaps the clipboard onto a nail and heads for the door behind the bar.

  “Later, Rhona.”

  She returns the salute. “Have a good one,” she says, and flashes a smile at me. “Getcha?”

  Sliding onto a stool at this end of the bar is a calculated move. From here, I can see the door, keep an eye out in case one of the brainless racks of abs outside decides to head in and bother me. I note the frosty glass and amber lager inside the mug sitting in front of the guy at the bar. It looks divine—a hell of a lot better than the Solo cups they let you take out to the beach.

  I drop my cup on the bar and lift my chin in his direction. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Throwing me a suspicious glance, she asks, “You got I.D.?”
r />   I guess the fact I just set a near-empty on the bar isn’t enough. Like, I get that she wasn’t the one who served me before, but do I look like a freakin’ teenager? No, I do not.

  I reach into my bikini top, throwing a quick glance at the man drinking the lager, and produce my driver’s license. To this guy’s credit, his eyes are on my face, and don’t divert to my tits as I produce my credentials.

  I show him no such courtesy as his eyes return to his beer—because damn, he’s good to look at. Smart of him to sit in here, instead of out there gathering attention like I was doing. Judging from the biceps stretching that shirt, he would’ve done exactly that.

  His hair is cut close, with maybe a speck of salt amongst a full head of pepper; with the sun shining through the window behind him, I can’t really tell if those white grains are reflections. His chin is carved like granite; a shadow paints where a beard would be, had he chosen not to shave it this morning.

  After the assault of wandering eyes outside, I appreciate his restraint as he finishes drinking his beer, keeping his eyes on the beer in his glass–even if I don’t share his discipline.

  Damn, he’s handsome. I figure he’s in his early forties maybe; he has the air of someone experienced in life. A guy who’s been places and seen his share of women.

  Now that I think about it, why isn’t he gazing at me? What am I, chopped meat?

  The bartender slides my I.D. back and nods. I peer at the silver fox with interest as the bartender walks past him and bends to grab my beer from the bottom shelf of the cooler. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and has a mile or two of long leg showing, but he barely even glances at her.

  She comes back to me with a bottle in one hand and a frosty mug in the other, and I slide a five across the bar. My phone beeps, and I pull it out of my bag.

  Great. A text from my former-boss-slash-ex-lover. What’s with this guy? What does it say about someone’s narcissism that they actually think you’ll go on dating them after they fire you? This is the fourth text today, and about the twentieth overall since he canned me three days ago.

  Get real, dude.

  He’s lucky I’m not the kind to sue. I could probably clean him out, but it’s not my style. I decided to let him nail me. I can take responsibility for that.

  But he seriously needs to fuck off.

  Hmmm. What can I say that will get my message across? I use my thumbs to tap out a quick, clear message: You have a tiny dick. Piss off or I’ll sue you for harassment. I mean it.

  The bartender moves down the length of the bar to Mr. Handsome Guy. I check out his muscular form, the nice, natural-looking tan. He’s wearing a collared shirt that looks out of place at a lakeside cabana bar, but compliments his thick biceps perfectly, thank you very much.

  “So, what’s your name?” the bartender asks him.

  I shouldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation, but hey, it’s quiet in here. Can’t help what you overhear.

  “Dexter.” He reaches across the bar and grips her hand. “Nice to meet you, Rhona.”

  He caught her name and remembered it. That’s another point on my scorecard, though I’m not sure why I’m keeping score.

  “What brings you to the area?”

  “Just a little vacation,” he says.

  “What’s your day gig?” Rhona leans against the bar. Her tits are practically resting on it, now, and I’m starting to think the bending and the leaning aren’t by accident.

  “I’m a writer,” he says.

  Without even realizing I’m going to, I blurt out, “That’s awesome.”

  Their heads turn. His expression is even, but Rhona throws me a glare like I’m breaking something up.

  I feel my face warm. “Sorry. I write, too.”

  “That’s great,” he says.

  Rhona turns back to him, but he’s not looking at her anymore.

  “What do you write?” he asks.

  I shrug. “A little mystery, a little romance. Just fun stuff. I’m not some literary god or whatever.”

  He flashes a smile—even white teeth, dimples, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Lord have mercy. “Hey,” he says, “nothing wrong with fun stuff. I’ve tried my hand at romance—wasn’t very good. But maybe I’ll try again. Right now I’m doing this post-apocalyptic thing. Zombie stuff. It’s fun, too.”

  Obviously understanding that I just sniped this guy—which, yeah, was rude even if it was mostly unintentional—Rhona pushes away from the bar and flashes me a quick glare, then begins wiping the perfectly clean cooler doors.

  Sorry, not sorry, Rhona.

  I point at the barstool next to him. “You mind?”

  He smiles again. “Slide on down.”

  I do, and reach out a hand. He takes it.

  “I’m Dex,” he says. His voice is like the smooth, low growl of a grizzly.

  “I’m Mel.” I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand yet.

  And I can’t really say that I mind.

  2

  Dex

  “Nice to meet you,” she says.

  I keep my eyes trained on her face—something I’ve been struggling with since she and her stupendous rack walked in here a few minutes ago. It only took thirty seconds, easy enough before she really noticed me, to imprint them on my mind. A little bigger than a handful, even with my long fingers, almost but not quite too big for her tiny, feminine frame. Barely contained in a tiny bikini top the color of sunshine.

  My dick’s been sending me little wake-up signals from the moment I laid eyes on her, but I keep my attention on her face. Honestly, that doesn’t do much to stop it; she’s gorgeous in the wash of light coming through the window behind me. Pale blue eyes, straight hair the color of straw being spun into gold. High cheekbones, slightly upturned nose, full lips.

  I’m overcome with a near-irresistible urge to lean over and lay my lips over hers, see if they feel as nice as they look.

  Jesus, what the hell is going on with me?

  The cute little barmaid seems a little put off—and to be honest, before Mel showed up, I wasn’t exactly averse to letting Rhona earn her tips with her cleavage—but there’s nothing to be done about it. Something about the look of this blonde has set a hook in me. I’d love to follow that to its natural conclusion but … I mean, how old can she be?

  Old enough to produce an ID in a bar, but I’m guessing not much more than that. And my next birthday cake is gonna be a bona fide conflagration if anyone actually puts 44 candles on it.

  Not that anyone’s going to be serving up a birthday cake for me. Jennifer—my bitch of an ex—is in the rearview mirror, thank god, and the one good thing you can say about the fifteen years I spent shackled to her is that we never brought any kids into our miserable sham of a marriage. I think next birthday I’ll get my own cake, and put in a single candle to mark one year of freedom.

  Still—not gonna make me any younger, and I’m more than a little too old for this sweet thing.

  Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not here for that.

  I’m here to spend the week with my friend Mike and his family. We used to meet here every year, back before I met Jennifer. Then along she came, and I saw Mike less and less, until finally I hardly saw him at all. She thought he was a redneck—which he kind of is—and an asshole, which he most decidedly is not. Didn’t he make a point of getting in touch every time he was in Virginia, and meeting me for a drink? He never gave me shit for not coming around, never made me feel pussy-whipped—even though I was—for not keeping up my end of our friendship.

  And when I called to tell him I was divorced, there was no I told you so, or any bullshit at all. Just the invitation to come down to Powell Lake, just like the old days.

  I may not be in my twenties anymore, but this little trip down memory lane is just what I need—well, one of the things I need. And I’m starting to wonder if one of the other things I need might not be this sexy beauty on the barstool beside me.

  I came in here to relax and get ready f
or the inevitable discussion about my divorce—even if Mike lets it go, his wife Delores won’t—but maybe I’ve found a better way to relax.

  I look her up and down; she licks her lips and drops her eyes to her glass of beer.

  “How long have you been a writer?” she asks.

  She sips her beer and I find myself wondering how old she actually is. I find myself wondering if those soft, full lips would—

  I cut the thought off. “I’ve been tinkering with it for a couple years,” I tell her. “Then I sold my business not too long ago, and decided to go for it, actually write the damn book. Honestly, I’ve found it difficult getting off the ground. I bought a little place in the foothills recently, to isolate myself and get real about it.”

  Am I repeating myself? Suddenly, I feel like a blathering idiot, a kid imprisoned by a rush of testosterone. I’m thinking she’s too young for me, then that maybe a quick shag might be just the thing to settle my nerves, then I’m back to thinking she’s too young, then about her sucking my dick. I’m a fucking disaster. I need to stop fucking talking.

  “How about you?” I manage.

  She smiles, and I want to either jerk off immediately or kill myself.

  “Same story,” she says. “I guess the first book is the hardest.”

  I’d like to show you the hardest.

  I curse myself and crease my lips in what I hope is a winner of a smile. “Cheers to that.” I raise my beer.

  She clinks my glass with her own. “Cheers.” Then she takes a drink, sets her mug back down, and catches a bit of foam at the corner of her mouth with her tongue. I look at the tip of her little pink tongue and wonder how it would feel gliding across my—