Mack, p.1
Mack, page 1
Mack
Alex Wolf
Contents
1. Presley Griffin
2. Mack Mitchell
3. Presley Griffin
4. Mack Mitchell
5. Presley Griffin
6. Mack Mitchell
7. Presley Griffin
8. Mack Mitchell
9. Presley Griffin
10. Mack Mitchell
11. Presley Griffin
12. Mack Mitchell
13. Presley Griffin
14. Mack Mitchell
15. Presley Griffin
16. Mack Mitchell
17. Presley Griffin
18. Mack Mitchell
19. Presley Griffin
20. Mack Mitchell
21. Presley Griffin
22. Presley Griffin
23. Mack Mitchell
24. Presley Griffin
25. Mack Mitchell
26. Presley Griffin
27. Mack Mitchell
28. Presley Griffin
Epilogue
Other Alex Wolf Books
Presley Griffin
Just when you think you’ve encountered the biggest assholes in Detroit, a new one presents himself.
His shoulders tense. “Is there something particularly difficult about this? Jesus.”
I glance up from my phone the second he berates the girl behind the counter for a second time.
The hell is his problem?
I gawk at the back of the man currently harassing the poor, frazzled girl. “I’m sorry, sir,” she manages with a ghost of a friendly smile. “I couldn’t hear—”
He cuts her off. “I don’t have time for this shit.” His voice rises as he speaks, until his deep baritone practically booms through the already noisy store. “It’s a coffee order. Do you not prepare coffee for a living?”
She scurries away to the machines.
He sighs and mumbles, “Barista my ass.”
It’s a Monday morning, the height of rush hour, and this guy wonders why the girl taking his order might be just slightly overwhelmed.
“What a dick.” I match his little tone change he just performed on her, shaking my head in the process.
This guy is a dick with a capital D.
“Thanks for noticing.” He doesn’t even turn around as he says it.
I can picture him glancing down at his crotch as he says it. I didn’t mean it that way! Ugh, this guy is like nails on a chalkboard.
I still can’t see him from the front, but it’s like I can feel the smirk on his face. His arrogant, hostile tone is enough for me to deduce he is a grade-A prick.
Typical.
I’m used to men like him. I see them in court every day. Smug bastards who talk down to everyone around them and think the second they snap their fingers people beneath them should jump to attention.
Bullies. All of them.
They think it’s an asset, how strong men should behave, like everything is a pissing match. It’s sad, really. Fortunately, I use it to my advantage every chance I get, and it’s oh so sweet when petite little me crushes them in front of a judge.
They always underestimate me.
Speaking of underestimating, I’m starting to think this trip to Starbucks was a bad move. I’m due in court in like twenty minutes.
Stupid Mondays. It’s always this way.
This judge is old school and rails on people for punctuality.
Something about respecting the ‘sanctity’ of the court.
Point being, it’ll hurt my case with Mrs. Winslow if I’m late, and that’s absolutely unacceptable.
The fact I still haven’t ordered my coffee because of Mr. Dick comes back to my mind front and center. I tap my foot, waiting impatiently as this guy draws out each syllable in the most condescending tone I’ve ever heard while he repeats his order.
I glance at my phone.
I still have time to make it to the courthouse and dip into the ladies’ room to double-check how I look before I’m up in front of the judge.
She finally gets his order right, and he steps to the side, tapping his foot like his coffee should just magically appear in front of him. I still haven’t seen his face, but I don’t care. As I place my order, it’s like I can feel eyes on me. I don’t dignify him with a single glance. To hell with him.
He seems to be appeased for the moment, and I don’t want to set off another tantrum that might hold things up for a damn white chocolate mocha with an extra shot of espresso. After I smile as nice as possible, and thank the young woman profusely for taking my order, I turn the opposite of where the jerk is, and take a circuitous route all the way around until I’m about five feet behind.
Machines hiss and steam.
I size him up from the back. Designer suit.
Typical.
Broad shoulders.
Not so typical for a Detroit attorney, but I don’t care. His suit sculpts to his body, and I tell myself I don’t give a damn what he looks like from the front.
After all of maybe thirty seconds, he starts rocking. The foot taps even harder. I glance down at it. Shoulders start to tense again.
Jesus Christ, Lord of Mondays, please deal with this man.
Reading body language is what I do, and this guy is slowly turning into another powder keg.
“M-Mack.”
Of course he has a hot name.
The girl winces as she sets his cup on the counter.
I start toward him, filing in from behind, the way people do, anxious to get on my way as well.
“About damn time.” He snatches his cup off the counter and spins a one-eighty on his heel, too busy being pissed to notice me.
Now, everyone in a civilization knows you take your coffee and exit stage left, then walk around the line on your way out the door. This is how society works.
Oh no. Not Mack.
He stares down at his cup, turns, and hauls ass right at me and everyone behind me, as if we should all instinctively part like the Red Sea when Mack picks up his coffee.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I see it all happen in my brain, like it’s in slow motion, but it’s too late to stop the universe and this set of events from unfolding.
It’s too late to put on the brakes and my momentum carries me right toward him. A collision of epic proportions is about to occur, and my mind goes into panic mode.
His eyes glance up with a microsecond to spare, and I swear it’s like he grins a little, like he planned this to happen, right before it does. His latte with an extra shot of espresso and two percent milk introduces itself to my best suit, explodes all over me, and spills down the front of my blouse and blazer.
I shriek, because that’s what you do when someone runs into you and soaks your chest with piping-hot coffee.
I have carefully trained myself to not react with profanity. It was a necessity with some of the ridiculous crap attorneys—just like this asshole—try to pull in court. Things so absurd and egregious and not leveled in reality, that I had to train myself not to scoff and release a slew of curse words.
My training fails me on this Monday morning.
“You fucking serious?” I stare down at my legs. Coffee runs down my calves to my alligator heels and there’s a pool around my feet. I have to be careful not to slip in it.
Was it a damn five-gallon bucket? Jesus.
Slowly, as reality sets back in, my eyes drift ever so slowly back up his suit, to his face, anger building with each degree as my head tilts up.
For some odd reason, I expect him to be somewhat remorseful, because that’s a rational human response to expect in this situation.
Oh no. When our stares finally meet, the only thing I find in his light blue eyes is irritation.
“Jesus.” He turns to the barista he just berated minutes ago. “I need another. Now.” He taps an index finger on the half-empty cup, then glares back at me like it’s entirely my fault.
Nothing but pure heat rushes into my face. I’m not even self-conscious about how red my face must look. I would very much like to reach out with both hands, wrap my fingers around this guy’s throat, and just squeeze. Not to kill him, but enough to cut off his air supply and induce panic, let him feel the anger in my palms. Slowly, and deliberately, the same way he repeated his order to the poor barista, I say, “I repeat, are you fucking serious?”
His icy eyes move over me, seemingly admiring his handiwork, and a smirk twists up the corner of his mouth, like he just went from angry to amused.
Now, to be sincere and honest to this story, and with a duty to always be truthful—I must admit he is not bad looking. In fact, he may even look like a model fresh off the cover of GQ. It’s no excuse, and he will not receive any preferential treatment from me because of that, but it does give me a second of pause. I thought he might be cute initially, but not like this.
Okay, he’s insanely hot, but it doesn’t stop my palms from twitching, eagerly wanting to perform the aforementioned chokehold.
After studying me for a moment, the same way I just sized him up, he shrugs. “Your situation seems fucking serious. You’ll probably want to remedy that if you plan to go about your day.” He looks me up and down one more time before checking the enormous watch on his left wrist. It’s such an obvious show of power these type of men engage in daily. Alpha whatever. The most expensive watch, the custom-tailored suit, Italian leather shoes—I’m sure he has some ridiculous car out front. His haircut probably cost more than mine, and his perfectly slicked-back hair gleams about as bright as his ultra-white teeth when he flashes
My cheeks set on fire the second he mentions the wet t-shirt contest, and I look down to find my lace bra completely on display thanks to my now see-through blouse.
“M-Mack,” the barista stutters out for a second time, and sets a new coffee down for him that he just demanded.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that they made his before mine.
He winks right at me, then snatches it off the counter, replacing it with the half-empty cup he just dumped down the front of me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have somewhere to be.”
My twitching fingers ball into fists at my side. I only thought I wanted to choke him before. Now, I have to mentally restrain myself from actually doing it, and the brain might not win this battle.
“I’ll tell you where you can go.”
He stops in his tracks.
“You can go fu—” I stop myself when I glance around and see everyone looking at us wide-eyed, plus a woman who just walked in with two kids about waist-high on each side of her.
My jaw clenches, and pure, unadulterated rage fills my veins, not just at him, but at the fact I have to be the bigger person here and control myself in front of children.
“I’d love to stick around longer.” He smirks again, this time almost a full smile. “But it seems you have a few things to figure out, like that outfit and the rest of your sentence. Good luck, ma’am.” He puts extra emphasis on the last word, smiling the entire time he says it.
The son of a bitch has the nerve to whistle on his way out, like this is a typical beautiful Monday morning for him.
I’m left, standing there, soaked, trying to rid myself of the horror of what just happened and figure out how I can make this morning work, but it’s nearly impossible because I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever been this angry in my life. My chest rises and falls, and as hard as I try not to—I just seethe, my teeth grinding so hard I wonder if I might need to make a dentist appointment.
“P-Presley.”
The girl sets my white chocolate mocha on the counter, like she’s sorry she made his replacement coffee before mine. I don’t blame her, but the symbolism is not lost on me. Assholes are always catered to. It’s the way of the world.
I try my best to thank her, and I pride myself on never being rattled by these kinds of men. But, it happened. He beat me and I know it.
Mack made me so pissed I want to scream, and I can’t.
Finally, I compose myself, grab my coffee—because some things are sacred—and head out the door, pink with embarrassment and rage, and soaking wet.
Fortunately, with a few steps and some sunlight, my mind begins to order events as my blood pressure decreases.
I need to run home, literally, and David Blaine myself into a new outfit, before hustling down to the courthouse. I don’t even have time to get my car from the parking garage. I’ll have to catch a cab instead. It’ll be a miracle if I’m not late and like I said, I have the worst judge possible when it comes to punctuality.
The entire time I jog down the street in my heels, getting sweatier with every step, Mack’s face flashes through my mind. What kind of a person does that? No apology, didn’t even offer to grab a few napkins to help me dry off a little. No attempt at all. He acted like it was my fault, or I brought it on myself. My skin feels sticky, and I’m going to reek of coffee. There’s no time to take a shower, so the best I can hope for is to sponge bath my chest, arms, and legs and hope everything else turns out for the best.
There are worse things to smell like than coffee, I suppose.
How glass-half-full of you, Presley.
I’m barely inside before I start peeling off clothes like an out-of-control cyclone, slinging them on the floor where they fall as I run for my bedroom. I congratulate myself on finishing my to-do list this weekend and being prepared for contingencies, so all my dry cleaning hangs over the back of my closet door. My grey suit is in there—not my favorite, not the navy blue, but it still fits well and is satisfactory for court. Unlike the asshole back at Starbucks, those of us who work for non-profits can’t afford bespoke suits.
I strip out of everything, since even my bra is useless right now, then grab a handful of baby wipes I like to use when taking off my makeup. I scrub my skin furiously, looking like a maniac in the process, before putting on a new bra, buttoning up another blouse, zipping up another skirt. My shoes need a little bit of work, too—my best pair, the only pair I would wear to court.
Wipe them down in the cab.
A quick glance at myself in the mirror on my way back out the door doesn’t do much to assure me. My hair, once pulled back neatly in a businesslike bun, now hangs in strands around my face after the run down the block. My face is flushed, my mascara running a little. Not sure if my pink skin is from the air on my face during the run, or from wanting to dick kick Mack so hard he coughs up his nuts.
This is far and away the most Monday of all Mondays in the history of Mondays.
I can fix the mascara in the cab along with my shoes. This is what I tell myself on my way downstairs and out the door, where thankfully I don’t have to wait long for an available cab. I practically throw myself into the back seat and immediately wipe one shoe, then the other. Next, I pull out my compact and take another baby wipe to the smudged mascara under my eyes.
The entire time, with each frantic beat of my heart, all I can think about is him. What’s he doing right now? Definitely not worrying about his clothes, even though he probably has a monstrous closet full of replacement designer suits. He’s probably smirking, maybe even laughing to himself about everything that happened. No, more likely he’s forgotten about me by now. I was just a short, meaningless obstacle on his walk through a privileged life. A doormat to wipe his feet on.
Why do the worst guys have to be the hottest, too? It’s like there’s a correlation between looks and being an utter asshat. Well, maybe not always, but this is an outlier, because Mack might be the best looking man I’ve ever seen and conversely he’s one hundred percent the biggest asshole I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something.
By the time I reach the courthouse, I catch myself in the window of the cab and at least look a little more human. I’ve managed to smooth out my hair and clean up my makeup.
There’s no shaking the fact I’m rattled now, thrown off my game. It’s like I’m going to spend the rest of the day playing catch up after this. It’s not who I am and how I operate—at all.
“You’re better than this,” I mumble to myself out loud after swiping my card for the cabbie. I take the steps up to the courthouse doors two at a time. “You are Presley fucking Griffin, and you’re about to destroy whoever gets in your way in this courtroom.”
That’s the plan. I’m going to channel this negative energy from this morning and use it for good, for Mrs. Winslow and her situation. Failing is not an option for her. Her livelihood depends on it.
But, as I glance down at my phone—I’m also five minutes late.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Stop worrying.
Worrying won’t help anything. All I can do is stride purposefully into Judge Lincoln’s courtroom and hope he’s feeling, umm, forgiving this morning.
I take a deep breath out in the hallway, composing myself, then throw open the door with all the confidence I can muster, like I’ve done hundreds of times before this.
Everybody is already there, waiting for me. Judge Lincoln makes a big deal of looking at the clock on the wall, then at me as I stride up the center aisle. My eyes stay locked on his the entire time, because judges usually respect eye contact. He doesn’t need to say a word. His body language says it all.
I don’t believe he’s feeling pleasant. Quite the opposite from his facial expression.
I take the initiative to speak first as my heels clack on the concrete floor. “Please excuse me, Your Honor, I had a bit of an emergency on the way this morning.” I place my briefcase on the defense table and open it, withdrawing the briefs I labored over all weekend.
