All About the DBy: Lex Martin & Leslie McAdam
About the Book
I'm known for being formal. Meticulous. Professional.
So you’d never suspect I spend my nights photographing my impressive junk for a NSFW blog. Don’t roll your eyes. I’m not bragging. I have millions of followers who’ll tell you they live for my posts.
I’m like a superhero, saving humanity one dick pic at a time.
Except leading a double life means I need someone to help me protect my anonymity, so that no one, especially my family, ever discovers my online celebrity.
When I call one of the most respected law firms in town, I expect quality legal advice and confidentiality. Not a sinfully sexy attorney whose dangerous curves and soul-piercing gray eyes make me want to personally demonstrate my particular skill set.
I shouldn’t be tempted.
Especially when she knows all of my best-kept secrets. But everyone has a breaking point. And I’ve met mine.
To Our Readers
We hope you enjoy All About the D! We had an insanely good time writing it! Keep flipping at the end for short excerpts from our other books.
Lex & Leslie
To our husbands, for not letting us starve to death while we write
Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
- Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
I could look.
Take a peek.
God, I want to look.
All afternoon I’ve busied myself in case after case, meting out my life in the six-minute increments of the billable hour, but it’s nagging me like a bar exam question I need to answer.
On one hand, checking out this guy’s blog is technically work-related, so that NSFW warning in his email cancels itself out…doesn’t it?
Surely I need to know what I’m getting myself into before I consider representing him, and I could really use a huge client right now.
Huge. My word choice makes me blush, but I’m guessing he’s well-endowed given the reason he contacted me in the first place.
How will I look him in the eye if I see his Johnson all wild and woolly, swinging like the trunk of an elephant at the zoo?
Please, Jesus, I hope he trims his monster.
Despite my need to bring in some heavy-hitting clients, this project doesn’t exactly fit the upper-crust clientele we typically service.
I mean, we’re talking about full-frontal male nudity. I don’t need to read the novel-length employee handbook to know that viewing his blog on a computer at my law firm is a no-no.
Why did I have to forget my cell phone charger today of all days? I could be locked away in the women’s two-stall restroom right now, scoping out the most interesting client—well, potential client—who’s crossed my desk in the last three years, if my stupid phone worked.
I glance at the open door to my office. Should I close it? Or does that make me seem more suspicious? Does it scream, “I’M SURFING PORN”?
If it weren’t for that stupid memo from Bill Fleming, everyone’s least favorite partner, that “requested” we keep our doors open unless we’re on an important call or with a client, I wouldn’t be concerned.
Tired of debating what I should do, I gaze out the lone window that runs along the far side of my office. While the partners have grandiose views of Mount Hood, I’m just an associate, which means I overlook a three-story parking garage, two dumpsters, and the back alley of a dive bar.
The office manager assigned me a simple oak desk and credenza, and my decorations consist of a ficus tree, a few photos, and a framed diploma from Georgetown Law. At more than $165,000, it’s my most expensive possession. Well, that and my new house, a dilapidating Craftsman bungalow, where I sink any money I can spare after my exorbitant student loan payments.
So hell, yes, I could use the origination credit for a new client. My firm pays a bounty on bringing in business, which could mean the difference between getting new bathroom plumbing now or waiting five years. And I don’t think I can hold it that long.
My attention returns to my computer. I’ll admit that guy’s call this morning intrigued me. At least he isn’t the typical corporate client out to crush the competition, leaving all human resources laws in shambles.
Slowly, my hand moves to the mouse.
It’s not every day I’m told I probably shouldn’t check out a work-related blog from an office computer.
Admittedly, I’m not totally up to date on porn these days. I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but orgasms require time and preferably someone else to lend a hand, and I haven’t had much of either in a while.
Unable to resist, I pull up the email that’s been making me crazy and scan the message again. It’s fairly formal considering the topic of discussion. He writes, “Ms. Mills, per our conversation this morning, I’ve forwarded the link to my blog. Please review so you may ascertain whether or not you can represent me in this negotiation. Best, Josh.”
Josh. No last name. No hint at who he is based on the random Gmail account.
I study the link to his blog, which looks like it’s been truncated. It’s innocuous. Just a short series of numbers and letters that don’t give me any indication of what I’m about to see. Well, except for the “not suitable for work” warning Josh typed above it.