The Devil You Know (The Grumpy Devils, #3)

by Elizabeth O'Roark

They think it’s a slur when they refer to me as a castrating bitch, but all it says to me is that they’ve finally realized I’m not someone to fuck with. I was someone who was fucked with a lot, once upon a time. It won’t happen again.

“That must be it,” I deadpan. “If I wanted my vaginal penetration with a side order of disease, you’d definitely be the first person I’d seek out.”

“You bring up my dick an awful lot.” His eyes fall to my mouth, and that traitorous devil inside me likes it. “I wonder if that means something.” For a moment I’m picturing him and it—together, obviously—and I’m so winded by the idea it takes a solid two seconds for my mean mouth to make a recovery. “I have always had a soft spot for the small and the weak,” I reply.

He closes the overhead bin and takes the seat beside me again. “I practically watched your thoughts scroll across your face and they were surprisingly filthy. I’m not sure I could even say them aloud.” I press my thighs together, feeling breathless. It’s probably the heat. “Considering most of the women you date don’t read yet, I figured you’d be better at talking.”

It’s a welcome distraction when my mother texts to tell me the couple bought a Christmas tree farm together at the movie’s end. I’m smiling as I reply, and Ben’s gaze darts to the phone with a sneer. I swear to God if he criticizes me for two seconds of personal time this late in the day, I will literally explode. I cross the room to grab another box of files and catch his gaze on the seam of my stockings, traveling up to the hem of my skirt. His jaw shifts, and he throws down his pen in disgust, looking away.

someone’s jealous

“You okay?” I ask. “You look like you’re having a stroke.” “It’s cute that you’re worried about me,” he says, even more irritated than before. “It’s cute that you think that was worry, not optimism.”

“Are you really going to pretend you didn’t kiss me back?” I kissed him back. I ran my hands into his hair, and I’m pretty sure I gasped. Denying it, at this point, is illogical. “You took me by surprise.” “I should have fucked you then, too,” he says, eyes flashing, “just to see how else surprise makes you yield.”

He meets my eye, a small grin on his face. “Told you you’d beg.” I stiffen. It’s not like I expected him to write me a love poem now, but I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for him to act like it was all a fucking game, and why I ever expected anything more of Ben is beyond me. It’s a lesson I’ve had hammered home more than anyone alive. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

His jaw is locked tight. “I made a mistake. I admitted it. I’ve apologized until I’m blue in the face. But you are hell bent on seeing the worst in me no matter what.” The elevator doors open, and I walk out, grateful to escape his clean, testosterone-scented air. “No, because I don’t see anything in you at all,” I reply. “Go play your games with someone else. Or better yet, don’t. Grow the fuck up and stop treating women like pawns.”

A muscle flickers in his temple. “You look nice.” “Thank you,” I reply coolly. If he’s waiting for me to say it back to him, he’ll be waiting a very long time.

“I’m not sure what else we’d talk about.” “You could tell me what the deal is with your parents,” he suggests. “Why’d you get so upset that night I brought it up?” I laugh. “Wow, Ben, you’re so good at small talk. Why don’t we talk about the worst thing you’ve ever been through instead?”

“Don’t get that look on your face like you suddenly have some deep insight into my psyche,” I warn with an irritated click of my tongue. “It’s all very much on the surface. My father treated my mother terribly in their divorce, like tons of men before and after him, and I want to even the playing field. You all call me The Castrator. You know what I bet they call Paul Sheffield for doing the same fucking thing? A really good attorney.” He's quiet for a moment and finally nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Guess who was arrested last night?” she whispers. “Ben. He just met with Fields about it. Debbie told me.” I blink. “Arrested?” It has to be a mistake. Ben is too smart for that. “He hit some guy at the party,” she says, “and the guy is a friend of Fields’. He won’t even explain why he did it. All hell is breaking loose.” I stare at her, speechless. Ben didn’t go back into the event last night for Miss Universe at all. He went in to kick Webber’s ass.

A thousand caustic responses come to mind. But what’s overriding them all is a single thought: I can’t imagine being here without him. I close the distance between us and, on tiptoe, with my hands on his lapels, pull his mouth to mine.

“I can’t believe he flew all the way back for this,” says Nicole. I can’t either. It’s at least a five-hour flight, and a ninety-minute drive, and then he’ll have to do it all over again tomorrow when he returns. “It’s a waste of resources,” I reply. And yet…and yet…I have the stupidest, most pathetic desire to smile.

“He keeps looking over here,” Nicole says. “Is my lipstick okay? I’m going to say hi.” Her lips are chapped and her lipstick is mostly smudged off aside from the bright red ring of her lipliner. It looks terrible. “Yes,” I reply, “it’s great.” Not exactly my finest moment of supporting a fellow sister, but no one’s a champion 24/7.

Ben: I flew across the country and drove over an hour, only to see you. I’m heading to my room. #312. The door is unlocked.

“Someone could walk in,” I warn. “This needs to be fast.” He spins me toward the closed door and places my palms against it. “Fast is my middle name.” “That’s a terrible middle name,”

His mouth twitches. “And how exactly does this proposal unfold?” “You’re ridiculing me and I don’t care. One day when I’m posting a video of my small but tasteful ring with the Northern Lights behind me and a children’s choir performing, you’ll see how wrong you were.”

“I want to be someone you trust enough to invite home, Gemma. And I’m willing to wait for it.” There’s a small squeeze in my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s pleasure or terror. “I’m only falling for this whole dinner ruse once,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt. He grins. “I’ll have to come up with something new the next time.” I climb out. “There won’t be a next time.” He waits until I’m safely in my car and driving away before he texts: Ben: Sure there won’t. I smile like a fool the rest of the way home.

"Do you even live here,” he murmurs against my mouth, glancing quickly at my bare apartment while I unknot his tie, “or is this just some rental you use for sex?" The tie loosened, I begin to unbutton his shirt. His chest is firm and hot beneath my hands. There’s so much of him to explore I can barely decide where to begin. “I've been too busy being a better lawyer than you to decorate.” “It’s funny then,” he says, pulling my blouse overhead, unzipping my skirt, “that you haven’t made partner yet.” I laugh against my will.

What exactly did I do wrong, aside from refusing to sleep my way into a job? Nothing, but that’s all it takes. Men will vilify you for enjoying sex, and they’ll vilify you for using it to get ahead…but they’ll punish you if you don’t enjoy it, if you don't use it to get ahead. There should be more choices left to me than either slut or prude.

I exhale, exasperated. “Mom, how the hell did you meet Ben?” “I heard someone outside this morning, so I went to the window and there he was, shoveling my path, wearing a suit.” I perch on my desk, legs suddenly weak. “A suit?” She laughs. “Yes. No one was more shocked than I to discover it was the terrible Ben Tate, of whom I’ve heard so much.”

When we get off the phone, I lock the office door then sit with my face in my hands, trying not to cry. I love him. I love him so fucking much it terrifies me.

“I’m not going back to FMG,” I tell him. “I will never make that firm another dime for as long as I live. But do you lose the promotion if you don’t go to San Francisco?” “I couldn’t care less about that promotion,” he says. “If you’d wanted to stay at FMG, I’d have suggested we go to San Francisco together. But since you don’t…I have a better idea. What if we both left FMG and went out on our own?” I’m so dumbfounded I can barely find the right words. “You want to leave? And start a new firm with me?”

“You love me?” I ask. His thumb swipes a tear off my cheek. “This can’t be a surprise to you. I’ve been in love with you for two years straight. You were the only reason I interviewed there in the first place.”

“I love you,” I whisper. “And I wanted to make partner, but for the past two years, you were the reason I stayed there too.” He laughs as he presses his lips to mine. “I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m glad you finally figured it out.”

We walk up the path, and with a deep breath, he unlocks the door and holds it open for me. I step inside…and freeze. There are wide plank hardwood floors and white furniture, an exposed beam ceiling, a beaded chandelier. Toward the back of the house, in the kitchen, I see butcher block counters and an island painted navy blue. I gasp. “It’s exactly like my Pinterest board.” “Yeah,” he says. And he sounds ashamed, which is when I turn to him, confused for a moment, and then incredulous. “I didn’t realize what I was doing at first,” he says softly. “And by the time I did, I couldn’t take it back, and I didn’t figure it would matter. It seemed like you were never, ever going to give me the time of day.”

I brush at the tears running down my face as I laugh. “That’s so creepy. It’s so much worse than I thought.” “I know, right?” he asks. “But…imagine how much more of our money you could blow on shoes if you lived here instead of your apartment.” “Our money?” He rests his hands on my hips. “I have waited for you, Gemma Charles, for two years. Every day of two fucking years. You don’t really think I’m letting you go after all that?” I smile like a pre-teen who just got asked out for the first time. It’s so goofy I want to hide my face from him, but I don’t. I just go up on my toes and press a single kiss to his mouth. “Fine. But I don’t really believe in marriage.” He grins. “Sure you don’t.”

think it’s the alternator,” he announces, climbing back in the car. “The alternator? How would you possibly know that?” “I didn’t always work in an office,” he says. I’m pretty sure he did always work in an office. I picture him being born in a tiny suit and tie, immediately demanding a higher quality formula than the one offered by the hospital.