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Total D*ck


Chapter One


My phone beeped. I ignored it and pressed a throw pillow into my face. Maybe it would dull the raging hangover that stomped through my head. Or maybe I just needed to get some hair of the dog from my desk. But that would require standing upright, something that wasn’t happening until there was a damn good reason. My beeping phone wasn’t even close.

The darkness from the pillow was welcome, blotting out even the small slivers of sunlight streaming in through my office windows. I’d spent many a night on my couch, either totally blotto or just shy. My law firm’s close proximity to the French Quarter was no accident. Work hard, play hard.

The phone wouldn’t stop. Faye, my long-suffering secretary, appeared to be firing on all cylinders this morning. Finally, the incessant beeping came to an end and I could relax into the cracked leather. What had I even done last night? I remembered leaving work and heading to O’Toole’s, a great bar only two blocks from the office. Then there was a blonde or maybe a brunette who caught my attention, couldn’t remember which. Drinks, drinks, and more drinks. Kissing, tonguing, groping. I brought my fingers to my nose and sniffed. No sex, apparently. Strike out for once. And now I was here.

A knock at my door was like a spike through my temple.

“What?” I groaned.

“It’s urgent, Mr. Granade.” Faye’s voice was, thankfully, muffled.

“Linc or Wash?” The only people I received calls from that ever qualified as “urgent” were my brothers. Everyone else could go fuck themselves.

She cracked the door slightly. “Mr. Granade, you need to get up. It’s Stone and Porter.”

My fog cleared just enough for an image of the posh downtown high-rise that housed the old-money law firm of Stone & Porter to pop into my head. The imaginary sun sparkling on the building made the headache turn up a notch, so I went back to focusing on the gloom created by the pillow.

“It’s urgent,” Faye repeated.

I threw the pillow at the door and immediately regretted it. Fucking daylight. I blocked it with my forearm over my eyes, but then I got a whiff of my pit. Rank. The hangover, the sun, and my need for a shower only served to magnify my irritation.

So, I blew. “Faye, I don’t give two shits that some stuffy, uptight, arrogant fuckwad from Stone and Porter is on my goddamn phone. Do me a favor and tell them I’ll call them back whenever I’m good and damn ready. And, if that bothers them, tell them they can suck on my nuts as a comfort until I get around to it. Okay? Can you do that for me? Oh, and tell them if that still isn’t enough, I’ll even let them get a few licks on my taint.” I flailed around until I found another pillow and smothered myself with it. “Jesus fucking Christ, bring me some Pepto-Bismol.”

I would have felt bad about unloading that much invective on Faye, but she’d worked for me ever since I opened my doors and had heard far, far worse. She was definitely grayer than when we’d started out, but she was the best secretary in the city, as far as I was concerned.

Faye coughed. Fuck. A dry Faye cough wasn’t simply a cough, it was a scolding of epic magnitude. Nothing good could come of it.

“What?” I groaned into the pillow.

“The ‘fuckwad’ from Stone and Porter you mentioned isn’t on the phone. She’s standing right here.”

Chapter Two


When I’d pulled up outside the faded house on the edge of the French Quarter, I knew I had to have the wrong address. This was a law office? Somehow, the morning sun made the building appear grungier, the peeling paint casting shadows along the façade so it seemed a mix of dingy white and gray.

My navigation panel told me in a smooth British accent that I’d arrived at my location, and upon closer inspection of the narrow front porch, I saw KENNEDY GRANADE, ATTORNEY AT LAW on a tarnished silver plate. This was it. I hoped I had enough hand sanitizer to wash off whatever funk I picked up from visiting this part of the city.

I let the car parallel-park itself and pulled my leather briefcase from the seat next to me. No point checking myself in the mirror—I was already certain I was more put-together than anyone who’d ever set foot in the Granade law firm.

The wind blew cold and sharp down the city streets. It rarely grew cold in New Orleans, but January was an exception. The streets bustled despite the chill, tourists and natives going about their lives in my hometown. The familiar smell of the Quarter—garbage mixed with sugar mixed with wet dog—assaulted my nose as a particularly biting blast of air blew by.

I snugged my scarf closer to my exposed ears. My hair was arranged in a tight bun at the crown of my head. As the only female associate at Stone & Porter, I found it important to dress impeccably and present myself modestly, not a hair out of place. Today was no exception.