Page 8 of The Devil's Detail
“Is it that bad that you can’t even have a coffee without thinking someone is following you?” He’s sitting forward again, concern on his face, and I could cry. He cares, really cares. “Carter, is it that bad?”
He's trying to get to the bottom of my issues. Well good luck with that. There’s a huge gulf opening up between us, and it’s stocked with issues.
“What would I need to do if I wanted to replace my current team?”
Both eyebrows go up now. Fuck me, the man is a god.
“We’d need to see your contracts. Your exit clauses, if any. If you fire them without any cause or evidence, they may sue.” He looks me over like a butcher perusing a piece of meat. “Carter, why don’t you take some time. Try and put your finger on what the issues are. If you can’t sort them, then find the contracts and we’ll take a look.”
He’s being fair, rational. While I’m all over the place. He’s the calm in the storm, the safe haven in the maelstrom. And I want to curl up on the bench next to him, put my head down in his lap, and stay there for eternity. Let him stroke away the stress and bring the calm.
But I know I can’t. I nod resignedly. And then he smiles.
Two dimples, white teeth. Creases around his eyes. It lights up the dark, and I’m back to being mute. Oh honey, take me home, please!
“I’m going to nip to the loo. Order me an iced latte, and think about what, if anything, you would want from me going forward. Let’s assume your old firm is gone, think about what it is you want.” He grins again, as if he’s read my intentions since I sat down.
Holy mother of God, this man is going to be the death of me.
And make a list? Where is the pen and paper? I can write one helluva list, but security would not be anywhere near the top of it. Me, him, the end. Actually, that’s a pretty short list—I’m not a greedy man. Should be easy. But I know it won’t be. He’s not even interested in men in general.
He leaves, but his scent lingers. Woody, spice, and his own brand of musk. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, trying to trap it in my lungs. I could happily suffocate on it.
“Hi, are you Carter Maywood?” My eyes pop open to find a man standing next to me. Paper and pen in one hand, a phone in the other. “Can I get a selfie?”
Those words. I’ll have them engraved on my tombstone.
But I serve up my practised smile, and ask him who to make the autograph out for—his sister, she loves me. He’s just here on ‘holiday’ from London, loving Cali, the weather you know, sun. It rains in England, all the time according to him. I stand and take off my jacket, pose for the picture, then slide back into the booth seat. He’s just exiting the cafe when Jackson appears back at the table.
Well, I think it’s Jackson. He looks like him. But the change in his demeanour is incredible. Who the hell is this guy?
“What’s wrong, sugar?”
I look from him to the restrooms. What went on in there? What the hell is wrong with him? My head is on a swivel now, as his whole body is motionless. It’s like watching a panther catching scent of its prey. And lord have mercy, how the hell can I become that sort of prey.
His eyes dilate rapidly, his pupils like black dinner plates. The devil has taken over, his possession complete.
But Jackson doesn’t look concerned about that. He looks fucking deliriously. Ecstatic. And I don’t even give a shit that it’s not me causing that reaction. Just watching it is fanfuckingtastic.
Because, when things are said and done, I want it to be me.
6
Jackson
My world just exploded.Someone dumped a scented hand grenade into my lap and walked away. That scent,hisscent… Oud, cardamom, and spices—all fucking twenty of them—is swirling around the cafe. Who? Where? When?
I’m in fucking public, and I have to at least look as if I’m sane, but my cock is getting hard at the thought of him and all that that scent conjures up. It’s ignited my senses.
“Carter, has someone new come into the cafe?”
He can’t get any words out. He knows something is wrong with me, and, to be honest, he’s blatantly staring at my fly, which is obviously giving him a serious show. I think it must be pulsating. I have to touch his shoulder to get him to focus on my face. Fucking Carter, he’s always drooled over Jonno and me.
“Hey!” I’m snapping my fingers at his eyes. “Think, Carter. Has someone been in here?” I gesture to the toilets, and the fact I only stepped out for a few moments, but he’s nodding his head as if he’s in a trance.
“Autograph,” is all he states. Helpful then.
My breathing has picked up now, panic gripping my stomach. Where has the man gone?
