But if I let it run to voicemail, I’ll have to check it, and that’s an even bigger pain in the ass.
I hit answer, irritated at the interruption, until I hear a familiar, low, seductive voice. The irritation is gone, quickly replaced with a shot of lust, something that wakes me up faster than any injection of caffeine.
“Josh? This is Evelyn Mills.”
She sounds wary, slightly more tentative than she did last week, and I realize with a smirk what the difference is—now she’s seen my blog and understands why I’m being so cagey. She knows her task will be to protect my identity, and she’s had a whole weekend to Google-stalk me, find the articles written about the mystery man behind the famous dick—on BuzzFeed, Wired, Cosmopolitan, GQ—and see the photos on my blog.
Of my junk. Hard.
I want to laugh with embarrassment, but I can’t. I have to stay professional. This is my dick we’re talking about. It’s no laughing matter.
Okay, it’s a little amusing.
“Hey, thanks for getting back to me.”
I hear her let out a breath on the phone, and my thoughts go dirty, just like that. What I wouldn’t give to hear that provocative voice when I’m working on my blog. And by working I mean—
“I reviewed your blog over the weekend, and I have some concerns before my firm agrees to take on your representation.”
A flash of annoyance races through me. Cartwrights don’t have to jump through hoops to get service.
But she doesn’t know I’m a Cartwright.
And maybe, just maybe, since I’m asking her to be the front person for a pornographic internet site, I should let her voice her reservations. To represent me effectively, she has to be comfortable with the subject matter.
I loosen my tie and pace behind my desk. “Let me guess. You don’t know if you can even present my blog to your partners because of the subject matter.”
She pauses, and I know I hit the nail on the head. “Even though I want to help you, I’m not sure if our traditional law firm can take you on as a client.” The honesty in her voice is palpable.
But this is what I want. I don’t want a brown-noser. I want someone to tell me the truth, to protect my interests and not feed me a line of bullshit.
She continues, “Waller has a reputation to uphold.”
“So do I,” I interrupt. “That’s why I contacted you.”
My reputation has more to lose than Waller’s. They have many clients. One won’t destroy the firm’s standing in the community. But me? I bring with me all the history and stature of being a Cartwright. We aren’t porn stars—not that I’m a porn star per se. Admittedly, I’m the one who voluntarily put my dick on the internet, but I take responsibility for my inappropriate actions. Although now that the blog is flourishing beyond what I ever thought was possible, I want to capitalize on it. As long as I can ensure that no one ever connects me with this project.
I push back. “My reputation is just as important.”
“I know.” She sounds frustrated, and I feel bad for her, but goddamn it, if she’s going to be my attorney, she needs to be able to put up with me. Her business-like tone returns, and she says the next part in a rush. “I would be pleased to take on the challenges of representing you, but to be frank, I want to make sure you’re who you say you are.”
That’s funny. “I haven’t said who I am.”
“That’s the problem.”
It’s silent for way too long, and in the pause, I realize she’s exactly what I need. An attorney who asks questions, doesn’t accept things as they appear to be, and verifies I’m getting the best offers possible. So while she’s being a pain in the ass and not jumping on the chance to represent me, I appreciate her approach.
I’d hate to have to call every firm in town to find another attorney and tell them about my dick blog. Once is enough.
It’s quiet on the phone. Someone has to move this stalemate forward. I pick me to save time. “A consultation with a lawyer is confidential, right? You can’t tell anyone I contacted you?”
“Generally, the name of a client is not a secret, but your case is unique. If you ask me not to tell anyone, I won’t. Anything you disclose to me is between you and my firm and doesn’t go beyond that.”
I think about this for a moment. No one, absolutely no one can find out.
It’s her job to keep this secret. In some ways, I suppose I can trust her because I’ll be paying her. Right? But there must be a hundred employees at her firm. That’s a whole lot of people knowing who I am.
As if she hears me, she continues, “To be clear, work on any project is on a need-to-know basis. I must, however, present you to the partners to determine if they want to bring you on as a client, so there will be discussion of the subject matter, but I’ll do my best to minimize the connection with your name.”
I’m stuck. Do I trust her? Does she trust me? Am I really going to show my face to someone that can connect me with my explicit internet activities? Activities that are not widely accepted in society?
And if I do tell her who I am, will it be wasted because her firm will reject me as a client?
I need to move on this because I can’t afford to be without legal representation for my upcoming contract negotiations. “Meet me for coffee at The Coffee Pot on Broadway. At nine.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, and I quickly understand why. She probably still thinks I’m a creeper. Who can blame her? I take pictures of my dick and post them online.
I’m a modern-day flasher in a raincoat.
But there’s a difference. I’m not sending anyone unsolicited pictures of my dick—I’d never do that—and I don’t direct message anyone.
I lower my voice. “Evelyn. It’s a public place. I’d suggest your office, but if I’m seen there, it might raise questions I’m not prepared to answer. At least this way, you’ll see I’m a real guy, not an internet weirdo.” Then I can’t help but laugh. “Well, maybe I am an internet weirdo, but I’m the legit kind.” That’s not helping, and I let out a breath. “Look. I’m from a very prominent Portland family. I can’t have anyone know who I am.” My tone gets harsher. “That will be your job. To ensure that no one ever finds out my name.”
“Understood.”
“It goes without saying that no one knows I’m doing this. Well, no one except my best friend.” Which is probably one person too many.
“I read that on your blog.” And she quotes me. “‘You’re seeing my dick because I lost a bet.’” She laughs, and it’s gentle and light. I immediately want to make her do it again. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”
Not on her life. But I’ll tell her my name when I see her.