I count every one.
Then he walks in.
Tall. Lean. Gym-built, but not for power—for show. The tailored shirt hugs a curated body, and his smile is the kind you’d see in a campaign ad. But his eyes—blue, cold, calculating—don’t match. They’re too sharp. Too still.
He moves through the world without ever raising his voice. Born into money, coasting on charm. Frat-boy polished, daddy’s favorite. Probably still calls himsir.
This is the man Laurette fucked?
He gestures me into his office. Sleek furniture, glass and chrome. Books arranged by color. Desk so clean it’s sterile. I drag my boot across the polished floor—loud, intentional—and don’t apologize.
“Jon David Bellamy,” he says, extending a hand.
“Andrew Black.”
His grip is firm. Not dominant. I take my time, thumb grazing the bones of his knuckles before I let go. Cufflinks. Rolex. Every detail screams old money. But his eyes flick—just once—to my mouth when I say my name.
I give him the version of the story that sounds believable: bar fight, wrong place, wrong time. Some asshole grabbed my sister, and Isnapped.
Bellamy listens with smooth detachment. The look says he’s already built my psychological profile and filed it under predictable.
But his gaze drops. My jaw. My hands. The stretch of fabric across my chest.
Only for a second.
Quick. Controlled.
Still tells me everything.
Twenty minutes of polished bullshit.
He lays it out like he’s doing me a favor—charges, consequences, strategy. Says he can help. Says I’m lucky to have him. I nod and play overwhelmed, like I didn’t script this down to the second.
Then I stand.
“Appreciate your time. But I don’t think I can afford a lawyer of your caliber.”
He leans in, lips parting, ready to offer a solution—a payment plan, deferred fees, some righteous pro bono fantasy. I cut him off before he gets a single word out.
“Unless it’s something off the books,” I add.
That stops him. His mouth stills, eyes narrowing.
I let the pause settle for a moment. “I’ll fuck you. However you want.”
He doesn’t flinch. Not really. But his gaze dips—below my belt, fast, surgical—then back to my face as if nothing happened. He wants to pretend it didn’t, but he’s already there, already picturing it.
“Top, bottom. Doesn’t matter to me.”
The smile stays, but his voice is rougher when he speaks. “Off the books isn’t off the table.”
It’s the safest thing he could say, but there’s something under it—interest, tightly leashed. A man playing it cool with a hard-on pressing against a thousand-dollar suit.
I step back slowly. “You’ve got my number.”
He doesn’t. He’s got the real Andrew Black’s contact info. Let him call it. Let him chase.
I leave him sitting there—hard, and still pretending he has the upper hand.
