“We were just out for our nightly walk.” My mother is a firm believer in fresh air constitutionals both in the early morning and very late evening—especially if there’s a party on the lake. She likes the life, says it makes her feel young again.
“I see you’ve met the man.” Chuck exchanges a partial embrace with Caleb. They’re friends, apparently. “Say, why don’t you kick around the office a few afternoons a week?” He shakes his head at me as if stymied that he hasn’t thought of this before.
“That’s a great solution!” My mother bounces on her knees. “We were just trying to think of how you might possibly spend your gap year. Taking an internship at the office is the practical thing to do. It falls right in line with your academic goals.” My mother shakes her head as if she were contradicting herself.
“Yeah, sure.” Lie. “I’d love to pop in.” Never. “But I’ve got a ton of great things lined up—” Manicures are great, so is a shoe sale at Nordstrom.
“Oh, hush.” My mother brandishes a limp wrist. “You’ll be there every single day front and center. Warren and Charles are headed to Japan for a few weeks; you can help hold down the fort. Caleb here couldn’t do it all by himself. Surely he needs a woman’s touch.”
And I know exactly where he would like for me to touch him.
“I refuse to be his secretary.” I give a satisfied smile at Caleb whose grin hasn’t stopped expanding since my stepfather opened his pie hole.
“I already have a secretary,” he assures. “I can teach you the legal ropes. Mentor you. This will be a great way to spend your gap year.” His smile dims a moment. “Very productive.” His eyes hood heavy when he saysproductive,and that tender spot between my thighs clenches. I can see visions of office sex dancing in his eyes.
“Goodnight, you two!” My mother sings while pulling Chuck off as if he’s the oversized catch of the day—a big, wet carp.
Caleb leans in. The warm scent of his cologne wraps around my defenses. “It looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other very, very soon.”
His eyes latch onto mine, and we have our own standoff, something that borders love and hate.
“I don’t need a mentor. I don’t need a job. I most likely will not be following in my douchebag of a father’s footsteps, so the very last place you’ll be seeing me is your office.”
I take off for the house before I change my mind about everything.
I just spilled so many damn lies at his feet that I almost shoutedYahtzee!
Come Monday, I sit and stare at my laptop in disbelief. Keith was right. He was not having it. He was going to end this shit, break me of my wild juvenile ways. He’s already left dozens of threatening messages, and it’s not yet eight in the morning. Keith Stearns has been driven to the brink and so have I. My eyes are glued to the screen. I want to switch it off, gash a hammer through it, but I can’t look away. It’s finally here. The end of me. Whoever is messing with us had driven me to the edge of insanity. I’ve long suspected that Keith himself was relying on juvenile pranks to make me look like an asshole. His ego is bruised over the fact I finally had the balls to leave him. He denies he’s culpable to any of this. I deny it. And round and round we go. This madness has taken us to places I didn’t know either of us were capable of.
But today, the shit has hit the fan. My father will hear of this and laugh in my mother’s face. Their divorce was nasty. My sister and I took sides—she my father’s and I my mother’s. This would confirm that my mother screwed me up, that I was just a product of her insanity, her trailer park, Fake Fifth Avenue, Nouveau Riche money pit that came without morals or scruples. Those were the very words she flung at him after discovering he had slept with numerous women on the side. Their divorce was very ugly. My sister and I reluctantly chose sides. I burned two familial bridges, and, now, my mother would hate me too.
I don’t smash my laptop to smithereens like I want. Instead, I pack it up in my thirty thousand dollar Birkin bag and speed all the way down the hill to the glittering building that houses the Westfield and McCarthy law offices. I take the elevator up the phallic extension to the top floor and brush right by the blonde window dressing filing her nails outside of Caleb’s office. It’s Zoey, and as much as I want to be disgusted by this, I’m too unnerved, too unhinged from the latest unimaginable revenge in my ongoing dissolution from Keith to acknowledge or scathe her properly. I barrel past her without so much as a hello.
“You can’t just go in there!” She screeches after me, wielding the nail file in her hand, the stench of polish remover thick in the air.
Caleb rises, looking every bit as startled as she is. His widening eyes match the denim sky in the oversized window behind him. His white dress shirt is rolled up at the elbows. His navy tie demands that his eyes glow like flames. I glance to his laptop and catch him monitoring his stocks. If it were Keith, he would be at war with zombies while clutching a well-worn controller in his hand. Caleb is all business, no fucking around. He’s the exact man I need.
“You’ve changed your mind.” A lewd grin buds on his lips as if the proposal to work here were exclusively sexual in nature. “Zoey, leave and close the door,” he instructs without tearing his gaze from me, and she complies with a heavy grunt and a slam.
“I haven’t changed my mind.” Lie. “I’m not here to punch a clock and have you teach me how to speak legal-ease.” Maybe, but not today. I pull out my laptop and slip it onto his desk like pulling a viper from its nest. “I’m here because I need a lawyer.”
Caleb
Kennedy Westfield—Slade, is stunning. I’ve spent the last several years of my life trying to forget her, to remember her, something hazy in between, but the truth is I can’t take a breath without thinking of her. Every damn love song seems to be written with the two of us in mind, every couple in the street holding hands only makes me wish it were Kennedy and me. Kennedy is a merry-go-round I hopped onto years ago and couldn’t hop off, don’t want to. I’m all in, have been since the beginning.
I pry my eyes off her long enough to zero in on the laptop she thrust my way. My gaze flicks across the screen like a pinball, and I take a quick breath trying to check my reaction.
A porn site stares back at me with the wordLustflashing at the top of the screen in large glittering red letters. I’m ashamed to admit I’m vaguely familiar with the look and feel of this come bucket. This is household porn, usually uploaded by amateurs. It’s the new wave of sick kicks for idiots of all shapes and sizes who like to get off on other everyday people going at it. There are hundreds of these sites haunting the Internet with their oversized vaginas, limp dicks struggling to ride out a threesome. Solomon, my brother, apprised me of them a few years back. Sol has a way of apprising me of most things that are quasi-legal, and almost always questionably moral.Two out of threemy father used to say, meaning my brother Abel and I were on the right side of the law (both attorney’s like the old guy himself) and one on the very, very wrong side of the law with prison bars gracing his new holding cell.Two out of threehe’d chime to my mother on multiple occasions before he left her and then long after that, too.
“What’s this?” I pull the featherweight Mac toward me, almost sure I’m aware of the answer. I grimace before she can give it. Kennedy is attractive, smart as a bullwhip, mean as one, too. I’d hate to think she’s got herself mixed up in something so nefarious. Stuff like this follows you through life like an unwanted stain running down your backside. People smell you coming a mile away and generally don’t want you in their company—more to the point, working for their company. It’s career suicide.
She clears her throat. The first thing I noticed about Kennedy all those years ago was her neck, the admirable length of it, the way it looked hard like marble complete with traces of blue veining. She was bucking her head back, enjoying a good belly laugh, one hazy July afternoon, and I knew I had to meet her. No sooner did that happen than I found out she was jailbait, a seventeen year-old kid who I couldn’t wait to corrupt. She caught up with me one day at the marsh and the rest was mouth-salivating history.
My lips soon found their way to that beautiful marble neck of hers, then to her beautiful face before planting firmly over those full pouty lips. It was a season drenched in kisses both that summer and the next. But I was knee deep in exams, law school was kicking my ass sideways, and I needed to get back to NYU.
I went back the third summer. By then Kennedy was far more stunning, and I didn’t think it was possible. I had no intention of roping her down to a long distance relationship. She wanted it. She might have begged a little, but I knew she had an on again off again boyfriend in the wings. I also knew I could never fully give her the attention she deserved, and I didn’t want to distract her from her own collegiate experience. That, in and of itself, had been my get-out-of-jail-free card. I wasn’t a fan of living with the folks, and I knew I didn’t want to wash dishes or do backbreaking labor for the rest of my life. I knew, at least for me, college would pave the way for a nice life, and I wanted one as far away from my parents as possible.
But now that I’m older, I see things a bit differently. My father was the one to cut me out. And, as disorganized as she might be, I still want my mother in my life. As for Kennedy, I wanted her to have that right as well, college, a good life, a career she’d be happy with. I did manage to keep tabs on her, though. I had Warren, my defunct dropout,rapist(come to find out), of a cousin keep an eye on her. I had given him strict orders to report back to me in the event an engagement should pop up on the horizon. I’d hate to have to go through the trouble of untangling her from wedlock. Divorces are both pricey and ugly in nature. I should know, I have an entire slew of them under my belt. Not personally. As a part of my general practice I’ve dabbled in every sewer just enough to familiarize myself with the stench. The cesspool of divorce happens to hold a particularly rancid odor that I hope to never immerse myself in personally.
