“He’s weirdly obsessed with facesitting. I swear, the one time I tried to have sex with him without it, he couldn’t get it up.”
“Wow—that is incredibly too much knowledge.”
“Yeah, Ali and I had a good laugh about it.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“It explains what?”
“Oh, Ali—never mind.”
She scrunches her nose in distaste and launches a fist into my shoulder. “Gross!”
“Gross? Did you not just hear yourself? You opened the facesitting door.”
“Well, we’re about to close it, okay.”
“Deal!”
“Ya know, I’m half tempted to talk to Hillary myself,” Irene says.
“We could stand there lookin’ like Brett and Rose, only that’s gross because we’re siblings.”
Irene looks at me, appalled. “No, not like that. I’m a lawyer, remember.”
“Is what they’re doing wrong?”
“Hillary and Chatter, not really because they’re not actually saying anything, they’re interviewing people that are. They haven’t done their due diligence, and a person’s reputation is on the line—and a lot of money, so there’s that angle. Technically, Ali could go after Brett and Rose, but that’s an uphill battle. I could strong-arm Hillary a little. Warn them of the opposing side and demand better coverage than what the Mitchels got.”
“So yer in? We go on air together?”
Irene looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Jake’s gonna hate me after this.”
“You okay with that?”
“No, but I guess I have to be. Ali’s a little shit head, but even she doesn’t deserve this. We just have to make sure we go about it the right way.”
“And how’s that?”
“I don’t know…put you in your firefighter uniform, talk all proper, make you into a true hero. I’ll be by your side in courtroom-professional attire. We’ll stick with the facts, no name calling, no facesitting references. The Mitchels played an emotional game, we’ll play a logical one.”
“Except that won’t work,” I reply.
Irene spikes a brow. “Why won’t it?”
“Because I was plastered all over the papers a year ago when Vicki stole my customers’ data, and you’ve been disbarred for having an affair with a judge.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” she says sarcastically.
We sit in morose silence, the way you do when you’re waiting for a natural disaster to strike. Oddly, Ali Kat Carter is most definitely a natural disaster.
“Fuck it,” Irene finally says.
“Pardon?”
“Fuck it—let’s go on air.”
“Really? Are ya sure?”
