We work in silence until my stomach growls loudly. It’s nearly nine o’clock. I’ve had one hot dog and a bagel all day. I’m lightheaded and fried.
“We can stop here,” he says abruptly, rising from his chair and reaching for his suit jacket.
I roll my neck, wincing at the pop. I stand up, swaying slightly. “Okay. Have a good night.”
I turn toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “Home. It’s late.”
“We have reservations at Cennet. You can wear what you have on. My car is waiting downstairs.”
What the fuck?
I look out into the bullpen. It’s empty. The computers are dark. We are alone.
“Griffin, no. You can’t order me around like this after hours. You’re nothing like the man I met at the bar. I just want to get through this week, and then you and I can go our separate ways. I am not your beck-and-call girl.”
Cennet is one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Getting a table there is harder than getting a pardon from the President.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says, buttoning his jacket. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and predatory. “What you decide tonight will inform how we proceed for the rest of your employment.”
Ugh. Not more of his ultimatums.
“Are you giving me a choice?” I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Always,” he offers a grin, and it’s the first genuine one I’ve seen since the club. “But you’re going to want to hear this.”
9
GRIFFIN
The ultimatum came from Kevin Paxton, the managing partner of Paxton, Gill, and Associates.
I am slated to finally graduate from the associate ranks. But in order to be a partner, I need to bring in another law firm to justify my equity buy-in, and I need to "clean up my act."
That is code for:Get married.
We need more firepower if we want to remain the most powerful firm in the city. Currently, Carl Besheir’s firm is nipping at our heels. Per our usual strategy, we plan to acquire a smaller, boutique firm to absorb their talent and client list. I am the one leading the acquisition. I am the one bringing the rain.
But Kevin sees a problem.
“You know I want to take you on,” Kevin started earlier today in his plush corner office. “You’re our best lawyer, Griffin. Better than Tom. Better than me, frankly. But the problem lies in your conduct. Human Resources has cited you too many times. Word gets around.”
He scolded me like a father would, mostly because he’s seventy and thinks the world still operates on 1950s morality.
“Every one of those relationships was consensual, Kevin. No one said I forced or even coerced them.” I was livid.
“I know that. I’m aware you’re a handsome man who does well with women. But you’re a forty-eight-year-old unmarried man who dips his pen in the company ink far too often. We can’t have that liability. I’m telling you now: if you date anyonefrom the office again, you’re going to be terminated. That is why I suggest you get married. Clean up your image. Find a nice civilian.”
It’s the same lecture every year. He tells me I can’t be a partner because of my bedpost notches.
“Fine,” I said, dismissive.
“This time it’s real, Griffin. If you want to be a partner, you need to show the board you're capable of stability.” He leaned forward. “It needs to happensoon, or we’ll find someone else.”
He put a heavy emphasis onsomeone else.
