Sometimes I write fiction. This story is based on a character I created as part of some Sons of Anarchy Fanfic a few years ago. No worries. If you’re unfamiliar, you won’t need to know the old stories to follow along.
Julian hated galas. He didn’t mind dressing up–he spent too much money on clothes not to enjoy them–but the pictures and politics bored him. He couldn’t even remember which association this was for? Was it the Sacramento Black Bar Association or The Urban League? He toyed with his glass of Macallan 25 and surveyed the room wondering how long before the next Michelle-In-Search-of-Her-Barack joined him at the bar to chat him up about her last trip to Cuba. Since the 40 Under 40 feature two years ago, he’d met (and fucked) his share of strategic daters. They too bored him.
He walked his drink out to the hotel balcony. The quiet night and crisp air filling his lungs raised his spirits for the moment. His Stanford Law classmates gave him shit for choosing Sacramento as his stomping ground, but fuck that. He was a name partner at 41 and a newly crowned prince of the state capital while they were kissing ass and fighting for billable hours in the Bay. Nights like tonight–gazing into the twinkling downtown skyline–he felt the city wink at him, inviting him to take her. Speaking of which…
He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and snapped a photo. “Night would be so much better if I was fucking you over this balcony right now” he typed and hit send. The text’s recipient had an event of her own and was wearing that black dress she modeled in his living room two days prior. The dress that looked deceptively conservative in the front, but revealed her toned back and accented every curve of her hips and ass. The dress he almost ripped off after she cat walked across his hardwood floors.
His phone vibrated in his hand with the notification “New Message from Kyra James.” A picture of her arched foot with red-painted toes, covered by a strappy black sandal danced across the screen. “In these shoes, I imagine?” she responded.
“Yep. From the back. My hand over your mouth so we don’t make too much noise” he typed. His pants tightened at the thought. He had to pull his shit together before someone caught him with a hard on. Imagine that shit. Julian Davis. Hot shot attorney. Busted jerking off on a hotel balcony.
He wondered how she’d work at events like this? It’d be typical–popping up with a doe-eyed ingenue ten years younger than him. Men would give the thumbs up. Women would note her age and resume and deem him too lazy to meet the challenge of his female peers. He chuckled. Kyra looked the part of the girl-next-door; she was anything but. Measured, focused, and perceptive. Quiet but not shy. Mature beyond her years, which told him she’d been through some shit (as did the strange crow tattoo on her back) but he liked it. She was a survivor. And like him, she had little room or desire for attachments.
His phone buzzed again. “Stop getting me all wound up in this room full of boring CPAs.”
That’s right. She was at her firm’s holiday party and likely as bored as he was. “So you don’t wanna know I’m thinking about leaving early and telling my driver to pick you up?” He paused a beat before following up “…and making you come on my fingers in the back seat of my car?”
She answered in less than a minute. “How soon can you leave?”
He checked the time. He was at the gala two hours. Had his picture taken and shook the right hands. He finished his scotch and left his tumbler on the rail. “Text me the address. On the way.”