Chapter Text
The suit was so sharp it fit him like a second skin.
Armani, navy blue against the tanned skin of his neck, crisp lapels and a white shirt light enough for the spring temperatures of D.C. Adam Parrish had learned the rules of men’s tailoring over the years, though this particular suit had been a parting gift from an old boss. The same boss who’d cackled when he showed up, fresh-faced, in a black two-piece. Is this your funeral, Parrish? The humiliation still burned if he let it.
“Jamie,” he said calmly on the phone, “I don't pay you to get me coffee. I pay you to get me clients. So get me Charles Whittaker.”
He glanced at his watch. Vintage Seiko, kinetic, naturally; Gansey never missed a metaphor. 8:25. He was early for court.
On the phone, Jamie sounded uneasy, and perhaps... a little sleepy. Adam took a long inhale from his nose. He had promised himself he would not bully his interns the way he had been during his years at Harvard Law. Back when summer internships at big firms like Langford & Chase meant babysitting hedge fund babies and brushing dirt off insider trading criminals. Jamie was good. Jamie wanted to do good. Jamie needed to wake the fuck up.
"I just didn’t want to overstep,” Jamie said, tentative. “Whittaker already has a shortlist of counsel. He’s not going to respond to cold outreach.”
“Jamie,” Adam repeated, still calm, but colder now. “Pick up the phone at nine sharp. Pretend you know what you’re doing and they’ll believe it."
He crossed the street and added, “I’ll be in court till eleven. Have something for me by then, or I'll ask Angela.”
He hung up before Jamie could make other excuses. Nothing like a little competition to get blood moving.
Adam still had a good thirty-minute window before court. It was a slow morning, slower than he was used to. He was headed to a settlement hearing on a long, punishing case he'd been nursing for weeks. Tax fraud; not his favorite. Dry, procedural, ethically gray. Four months of his life lost to this case. But the payout was juicy enough to forgive the sleepless nights. Six-figure settlements meant a commission that could float at least a year of pre-paid pro bono work. Maybe even a down payment on a real, grown-up apartment, something with insulation and a working thermostat. Not the damp box he was still haunting in Dupont. Rent-controlled was its own kind of luxury, sure. But so was not smelling the neighbor’s weed through the vents.
In line at the kiosk, Adam adjusted the strap of his leather messenger bag on his shoulder. The middle-aged man behind the counter smiled handsomely.
“Counselor,” he greeted. “What can I get you?”
“Hey, man,” Adam grabbed a copy of the Washingtonian and laid it on the counter. “Can I get a cup of coffee? Black, double shot, no sugar.”
The vendor nodded, “You got it.”
As he turned around to prepare the drink, Adam opened the new issue of the magazine, page six. A foreign, unsettled feeling bloomed in his chest.
The picture wasn't too bad; he was standing in his new office in Shaw, against his desk, arms crossed against his chest. No smile but no jacket, sleeves rolled back; Adam was a criminal defense lawyer after all. The photographer had left her personal number on a card after the photoshoot.
The headline stared back at him. He wasn't mad at it either.
The Magician of the Courtroom: Adam Parrish's Quiet Rise.
No one had believed him, in the field. Going solo so young, starting his own firm, gathering his own client list. Even for a Harvard graduate, it had been a huge gamble.
“Is that you?” the vendor asked, nodding towards the magazine.
Adam’s mouth twitched. No one had believed in him, but five years later, he’d done it. He slipped a twenty on the counter.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Keep the change. Have a good one.”
Adam flipped the magazine open, one hand pressing down on the spine while his fingers gently tugged at the cover, the other holding his scalding coffee. Around him, the sidewalk buzzed with the early pulse of D.C., commuters in motion. He paused at a light and skimmed the profile.
The Magician of the Courtroom: Adam Parrish's Quiet Rise
by Celeste Markham
At only 33, Adam Parrish has become one of D.C.’s most elusive and efficient young defense attorneys. With an acquittal rate that hovers north of 85%, he's known not just for winning, but for dismantling the government’s case before it ever reaches trial.A procedure prodigy, Parrish is best known for his unshakable courtroom presence and a style of cross-examination that some call ruthless, others simply brilliant.
But despite a growing list of high-profile clients, Parrish keeps a low profile outside of court: no social media, few press quotes, and no slip-ups. “He's unknowable,” one rival attorney said. “Which is probably why everyone wants to win him over.”
The light turned green. Adam let the praise wash over him like something faintly toxic. To be fair, he’d rather stay unknowable than let the press turn him into a tired narrative about the kid from the trailer park who had clawed his way into the polished corridors of D.C. Law.
But he was kidding himself, and he felt it happen in real time; the way the ground started to shift under his feet, how easy it was for him to reject the pride, to push it aside in favor of something uglier and meaner, that always lived just below the surface. Because the truth was this: he had no parents to send this to. He wouldn't let that thought linger, but it was still there, it always was, even after almost a decade of on-and-off therapy.
His personal phone buzzed into the pocket of his dress pants. He tucked the magazine under his arm and fetched it. Blue Sargent had a strange ability for texting him the second before he could spiral.
Blue
8:34 a.m.
sent a picture
lady behind me at whole foods said you were “smokin hot"
are u into milfs
booked u for lunch today, already called gabi
8:35 a.m.
im so proud of you
Adam smiled, a brittle thing he would allow himself. Then typed one-handed as he walked:
8:35 a.m.
Pick a place where the drinks aren't fermented
Also you're buying
Since he was still early, Adam slipped quietly to the edge of the block, shoulder against the bricked wall, to finish reading the article without blocking the way. He had too much self esteem to read this at the office, but not enough to pretend he didn't care. He had just reached the part where the journalist was referring to his “coal-miner's work ethic” when a hydraulic hiss split the air.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Adam didn't look up at first—he didn’t want to look up. But the shrill whine of the tow truck’s reverse alarm made it impossible to ignore.
A gorgeous, disgustingly rare BMW was being towed from the curb. E30, wagon? Imported, then. Shiny black, manual, pure indulgence. It was a beautiful car, a little too close to hearse for his taste, but still. There were probably, what, a hundred of them? The irony made him snort. Adam watched, temporarily transfixed, as the tow truck latched onto it and—
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” a man shouted, already running to the crime scene. “Jesus fucking Christ, man, stop!”
Adam tucked the magazine away for good.
Tall, broad-shouldered, BMW had a headful of dark curls, looser at the nape. Adam watched, taking in the stretch of his black muscle tee across his back. Cropped shirt, like he had cut off the sleeves and hem himself. Was that a tattoo under there? Jesus. When the guy moved to follow the movement of his car, Adam's gaze poured low on his frame, his attention snatched by the low-rise baggy jeans. Hipbones and white Calvins peeking above the waistline, the little slut.
“Fuck you dude, I was gone two minutes!” he snapped.
Tow Guy did not give a single shit. “No-parking zone, sir.”
“It’s loading hours, you dumb fuck,” BMW shouted, “That sign is for weekends !"
“New policy, then.”
Adam frowned. That was a blatant lie, or at least, he could twist it as one.
Over the years, Adam had developed a very prized lawyer-skill: getting away with pretty much anything as long as he bombarded the person with the right amount of jargon. He'd gotten rid of several tickets by spewing absolute nonsense to municipal agents, got Blue out of an arrest for insulting a police officer by threatening with obscure doctrine, and loved to fuck with customer service over email. He didn't do this for a lot of people, especially when his name was on the line.
BMW groaned—raw, deep voice, insulting the entire lineage of Tow Guy now—and fisted his hands in his curls. The shirt rode up some more. The tattoo curled into the dimples on the small of his back.
Adam was early, Adam was bored. Mostly, Adam wanted to fuck him stupid.
He didn't even push off the wall. “He's lying to you.”
They both turned sharply to him. BMW had clear blue eyes, like a sting under the morning light. Cruel mouth, crueler jawline. Thirty-ish? In a cool, edgy, skater kind of way. He was so, so hot, and Adam had never been wrong a single day in his life.
“Who the fuck are you?” they both said at the same time.
Adam finally made his way to them. The once-over BMW gave him was shameless and self-indulgent.
“New policy requires mandatory signage,” he said, voice smooth. “That sign is for weekends. Meaning that you're illegally seizing private property.”
BMW gaped at him, hands crossed at the wrists behind his head. Stranded dark curls falling on his forehead. He had light brown freckles on his nose.
Adam nodded curtly at his slutty jeans. “Got a dollar? For the retainer.”
That was very unnecessary, but might as well put on a show. BMW clocked the bullshit, and frowned. His face did something complicated. He fished for a crumpled bill inside his pocket.
Rough hand, warm. BMW muttered, “Cheap date.”
Adam tucked the bill into his breast pocket, and turned coolly to the tow truck driver.
"Since you’re about to unlawfully seize private property from an unmarked zone," he continued, "you are in violation of D.C. municipal code. If you don't drop the car right now, we’re filing suit for unlawful seizure, fraud, and damages. Emotional duress, and all. We'll have the summons sent to your office by noon.”
Tow Guy opened his mouth but Adam wasn't having it.
“You're looking at triple market value in damages.” He looked up, appraising the car still suspended in the air. Felt like bragging a little. “An '88 e30? Custom motor, I bet.”
BMW was beaming now. The grin cut smile lines into his cheeks, like long slits into marble. He winked. Jesus. “You fucking know it.”
Adam focused back on Tow Guy, who was looking a little blanched now.
“I'll sue you, your supervisor and your company. A mountain of paperwork. You'll be retired by the time we settle this in court. Hell, might even have you testify against the company.”
“You're fucking bluffing,” he simmered.
Adam was smiling too, now. “Try me,” he said, and sipped his coffee.
There was a beat of stunned silence in their triangle of misfortune. By his side, BMW turned to Tow Guy, arms crossed against his bulky chest, hip poking outwards.
“You know what?” the man spat. “I'm not paid enough for this shit.”
He circled the truck and pressed on something. The car started to lower. BMW praised God.
“Fuck this,” Tow Guy repeated. He was very flushed. “Really, fuck this fucking city.” He pointed at them both. “Fuck you and your fuck-ass lawyer. I quit.”
Pretty boy whooped, fists in the air, "Fuck yeah! Stick it to the man!"
They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the car lower back to the curb. Adam tipped his cup towards it. “How did you get your hands on that?”
A little private smile, eyes still on the car. Up close, Adam caught a hint of stubble under pale skin.
“Met a guy in Baltimore who was desperate to get rid of it, Christine-style.”
Adam snorted. “As in, what? Haunted?”
BMW snapped his face to him, clearly pleased. “Yeah,” he said. “I fixed most of it. But she acts up. Dashboard flickers, locks jam, weird shit.”
“Murder?” Adam said. “That’d explain the chainsaw in your trunk.”
He craned his neck. Yup: a duffel bag and a fucking chainsaw. Of course.
BMW scoffed. “Chill. It’s for an art piece.”
“What kind of artist uses a chainsaw?”
“The right kind,” he shot back. “Open studio at the Phillips. Come see it sometime.”
Ah, subtle. Warmth, sprawling inside him; liquid heat.
“Chainsaw art at the Phillips Collection?” Adam raised an eyebrow. “Trust fund, then.”
A sharp laugh, bright like thunder. “Asshole.”
The tow truck rattled off, driver flipping a final bird out the window. The smell of diesel hung in the air.
He was a little taller than Adam, broader too. Nothing that couldn't be handled. BMW slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans, thumbs sticking out, and leaned against the car like he had all the time in the world. Through the cotton of his muscle tee, Adam caught the subtle outline of a nipple piercing. Come the fuck on.
His stern blue eyes, pinning Adam in place. It was sweet, how he pretended the flush wasn't bleeding into his skin. Something white-hot and certain twisted in Adam's guts. BMW kicked his tire with the heel of his combat boot.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” he asked calmly.
Adam tilted his head. "Is that how you say thank you?"
He blinked slowly, the corners of his mouth curling in a lopsided grin. It seemed to surprise him. He looked away. God, he was unbearably handsome; like something had cracked open and let the sun through. He rapped his knuckles against the car door. “Breakfast or a ride, take your pick.”
Someone was feeling bold. There was a faint dew of sweat at his temple, his neck. His hands now flexed around themselves, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
Breakfast or a ride could mean sweet pancakes and the purr of that designer motor. Or, since they were both leering, it could mean heavy hips pinning Adam to the leather seat, and his hand slipping under that waistband. Or, it could mean his hand splayed around his throat, the vein in his neck pulsing between Adam’s teeth, his stubble scraping his inner thighs. Must be pretty, with his tongue sticking out. Getting head in the District Court parking lot, that sinful mouth stretched, Adam fucking into it, and coming straight inside his throat—no stains on Armani silk.
Oh yeah, now the visual hit just fine; Adam had a very clear, very detailed image of this built, gorgeous man on his knees in his own fucking car, begging.
He had court in fifteen minutes. “Consider it pro bono,” Adam offered instead.
“Don’t fucking pro bono me," he laughed, more snarl than anything. "I don’t do debts.”
Adam ran his tongue inside his cheek. Whatever he saw passing in his eyes (desperation? urgency?) flipped a switch he hadn't touched in weeks.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Ronan,” he said, slightly too eager, and pushed off the car to extend a hand. “Lynch.”
Ronan Lynch. Adam almost said it out loud, just to taste the weight of it. It suited him to perfection, somehow. Without a hint of doubt, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a card and a pen. He scratched his professional number and wrote his personal one instead, under his name in clean serif letters, and handed it over. Ronan immediately flipped it between his fingers to read it.
Then, he stepped closer. Long lashes fluttered under Adam’s gaze. He was close enough to see the bob in Ronan's throat and smell the warm, smoky note of his perfume.
“Text me, then,” he drawled, eyes lingering on his mouth. “Better ask nicely.”
Adam watched it happen: the flush blooming furious across Ronan’s cheekbones like ink on cotton. It was a wonder, really, how he clenched his jaw through it, looked away, then back, biting the inside of his lip.
Ronan huffed. "Jesus."
Adam watched him squirm a second longer, and made his way to court. But as soon as he started for Judiciary Square, Ronan's voice echoed for him.
“Hey, Parrish?”
He turned, slowing his steps until he was walking backwards into the slanted morning light. Sunlight caught in Ronan's curls. His grin was all teeth, feral and glinting.
He lifted the hem of his shirt and slid Adam’s card into the waistline of his Calvins, right at his hip.
“I’ll see you around,” he called out.
Adam strode to court smiling and flushed to the bone.