I stand there longer than I mean to. I imagine Ms. Jenkins lurking around the corner, ready to remind me that paralegals are not here for sightseeing, but I can’t move. I stand stock still and force my face neutral, the way my mother taught me for funerals and parole boards.
It’s not until the click of heels approaches that I snap to attention. It’s the other desk girl—the one who hadn’t even glanced at me. She has a delicate, heart-shaped face, golden tresses bound into a bun, and skin so pale she could pass for a ghost in the right light.
“Don’t let them catch you staring at that wall,” she says, voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “They don’t like to talk about their losses.”
I blink. “Oh. I wasn’t—I just?—”
She shrugs. “It’s a hell of a thing, that case. My dad knew one of the jurors. Said he still has nightmares.” She looks me over, head to toe, then grins. “I’m Shay. Welcome to the shark tank.”
“Thanks. I’m?—”
“I know,” she interrupts, tipping an imaginary hat. “It’s on the badge. Don’t let Jenkins catch you eating lunch at your desk, and if you ever want to actually see your paycheck, get on her good side.”
I make a mental note, nodding.
Shay leans closer. “You’re not like the others.”
I smile hesitantly. “Why is that?”
She merely laughs before shrugging, and then glides back to her desk, leaving me with the odd sensation that I’ve just been both sized up and handed a lifeline.
I slide back into my chair and stare out at the city. The hum of ambition is so thick here, you could bottle it. In the glass, I see my reflection again, but this time there’s only one version—me, hungry and terrified and about to break every rule I ever learned.
Let the games begin.
The lunchroom isthree times the size of my college apartment and smells like money even when empty. The floor is glass tiles, the tables are brushed aluminum, and the fridge—oh my god, the fridge—looks like it could shelter a family of four in a tornado. Everything is minimalist and gleaming, right downto the abstract fruit bowl in the center of the table. I suspect the bananas are replaced hourly, lest one develop a bruise and traumatize the paralegals.
I’m alone, which is both a relief and an insult. I fish my sad sandwich out of my bag and sit near the window, where the sun can glare at me in judgment. My hands are still trembling from the morning’s adrenaline. I open my phone, but there’s nothing from Mom, nothing from anyone except one line from my best friend, Jenna: “hope u survive the day lol.”
I set the phone down and reach for my wallet. The photo is tucked inside, in the slot where other people keep their driver’s licenses. It’s battered, the corners curling, but it’s all I have left of my dad. Stanley Williams, age thirty-eight, in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, grinning like he just got away with something. It was taken at a backyard barbecue a year before everything went bad. I can hear his voice just looking at it, can almost smell the singe of burnt hot dogs and chlorine.
I run my thumb over his face, the same sharp cheekbones as mine, and I wonder—not for the first time—what really happened in that courtroom. The news always made it sound so cut-and-dried. “Williams: Cop Killer.” “Execution Concludes Decade-Long Legal Battle.” “Closure for Victims’ Families.”
Except nothing was ever that simple with my dad. He lied for a living, but he never lied to me. I want to believe that.
I press the photo to my lips, a dumb habit, and whisper, “I’m going to figure it out. I swear, Dad.”
The room stays silent. The only witness is a Keurig brewing something bitter on the counter, and I smile ruefully to myself.Did I really think my dad would answer from Heaven? I must be losing it.
But then, my attention’s caught by a gallery of partner portraits in the hallway. I get up and tiptoe out, staring at the framed photos lined along the wall. What is this? Oh my god, it’s as staged and self-serious as a lineup of founding fathers, with portraits of twenty handsome men, taken throughout the decades. And at the very right-most, are Mr. Brent Gibson and Mr. James Grant, current co-heads of the firm. Both are in their mid-forties, staring at the camera with piercing blue eyes.
Gibson’s jaw is brutal, square enough to break concrete, and his stare is pure wolf. Black hair, just enough stubble to be dangerous, and a devilish gleam to those blue eyes. If you told me he did cage fighting on weekends, I’d believe you.
Grant is tall and broad, with a smile that could talk its way into a Swiss bank account. His eyes are icy blue, almost silver, and his skin has that expensive tan you can only get on a yacht. Even in a still photo, you can tell he moves like he owns the floor, or maybe the whole building.
I stare longer than I mean to. Something about their confidence makes my stomach flip, like I’m back in high school while looking illicitly at porn on my phone. Oh my god! I’m going to get caught. My cheeks go hot. I shift slightly and try to pretend I’m not suddenly hyper-aware of the rest of my body as my pussy moistens, nipples going hard.
But it’s not just their looks. I remember the headlines, the way these two dominated every story about the trial. The “Dream Team” who took my father’s case pro bono, who fought the appeal right up to the bitter end. They lost, of course, but that only seemed to add to their legend.
I feel a pulse of something entirely unprofessional between my legs. I imagine what it would be like to walk into a room and have both of them—Gibson with his dominant authority, Grant with his lethal charm—turn their attention on me, the new girl, the daughter of their most notorious client. I clench my knees together and scowl at myself.
Jesus, Marnie. You’re here for answers, not for… whatever the hell this is.
The idea of being the meat in a legal superstar sandwich makes my face burn even hotter. I’ve never even had a threesome, unless you count the two times I accidentally ended up sandwiched between football players during a university hazing event. I try to laugh it off, but the heat between my legs is hotter and wetter than I want to admit.
Stop, the voice in my head admonishes.You’re not here for a hook-up, much less one with the managing partners of the law firm. You’re here for your dad.
With that sobering thought, I stalk back into the staff kitchen and tear open a bag of chips before biting into one with unnecessary force. I need to keep it together, at least until I’ve figured out if Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant are friend or foe. The last thing I want is to get distracted by a jawline or a pair of piercing blue eyes.
