Page 5
Lynette
“F ired? What do you mean, fired ?”
Samantha Anderson is one of the senior partners at the firm. Not a name on the wall partner, but she’s been here for fifteen years. She hasn’t made a name for herself the way some have, but she makes a comfortable living. She’s reliable, steadfast, and levelheaded. She might lack that streak of ruthless ambition that characterizes most successful lawyers, but she’s managed to hold on to her humanity in this business, and that’s really saying something.
She’s basically my boss, and I’ve always respected that she’s never sacrificed her morals or her integrity, and she still managed to make partner. She’s kind and compassionate, sometimes to a fault. I’d almost go as far as to call her motherly, but she’s Samantha and never Sam. She’s always professional about her kindness.
She looks at me with pity now, and I can’t bear to see it.
I was called into her office as soon as I got to work, which, seeing as I took Willa to college this morning to get her enrolled, was just after eleven.
I knew exactly why she wanted to see me.
I’d thought about Bullet all weekend in ways I don’t want to admit to, but also professionally. I felt a sense of dread that I just couldn’t shake. The shadow that loomed over me all of yesterday and wormed its way through my mind this morning, transforming into a hard edge of foreboding, seems to be justified.
“You know we have strict policies about representing anyone involved with organized crime or who have gang affiliations.” Samantha might be playing hard-ass right now, but it’s because it’s the only way she can get through this. “You went rogue, and this firm doesn’t appreciate the disrespect and disregard you’ve shown. We have a reputation to uphold. People will look at our firm differently if they think that we’re defending gangsters and mobsters.”
“It’s not— you mean Mr. Aberdeen?”
“I do mean Hamish ‘Bullet’ Aberdeen.”
“No. This isn’t really about him. It’s about—”
Samantha slaps her palm down on her desktop, causing me to jump in the chair I’m perched in right across from her. I’m not sure who the hell put her up to this, or why she has to do it, but I feel sorry for her. Her face hardens. The look of warning she shoots me churns my stomach into a nauseating ice storm.
“Stop and think very carefully about what you’re saying here and in the future. This is a warning. You might not work for us any longer, but if you want to practice law in this state, I would suggest that you proceed with caution. It’s not just our firm that doesn’t take too kindly to having their reputation smeared.”
“I wasn’t—I never smeared anyone.”
“You suggested that certain people could be bought, which implies corruption to the system at the highest level.”
“That’s not what I said!” I don’t know why I’m defending myself. The decision has already been made. I no longer have a job. I suppose it’s the righteous indignation bubbling up inside me that makes me blurt the words.
Samantha’s expression softens slightly, but she quickly wipes away all traces that she might secretly agree with me and know how wrong this is. “No, but it was implied, and implications are just as damaging.”
“Is this for real?” I don’t mean to say that, but the words come out as a moan anyway.
“It’s very real. You’re no longer working here as of right now. You’ll be escorted to your office by security and allowed ten minutes to gather your personal things. All company property must remain company property.”
The situation sinks in, permeating my bones. This is exactly what I was afraid of before I put myself on the line for a man I don’t even know, all because he did my sister one small kindness—in her mind at least—and she begged me.
Why couldn’t I just say no, like I have every other time she’s asked me for something wild? Even so, I would still have a job if only I’d just played the game. I knew what I was doing when I did it.
Judge Ornell Henry Jenkins has been playing this game longer than I’ve been alive. I knew I couldn’t skirt around the warrant he issued with impunity. To the world, he’s an honest judge, but on the other side, the rank underbelly, he’s obviously been corrupt for a while now. This is how he keeps his name free from any shadows of suspicion. He’s no better than a thug himself.
At least Mr. Aberdeen never pretended to be anything he wasn’t.
Jesus, fuck, why am I thinking about him as something verging on honesty? I should be cursing his name in a death chant.
I picture him at the coffee shop, huge body dwarfing that wooden chair, long legs stuffed under the ugly table, circling that crusty coffee ring with a finger that somehow contained more masculinity in a single digit than most men can muster up in their entire being. I can hear his words, softly spoken, not mocking or playful.
“If you get fired, you could always start your own firm and come work for the club.”
He was serious. To him, it was just that easy, but how could he make promises on behalf of an entire organization?
Now that I’m about to be unemployed with a four-thousand-dollar a month mortgage payment, and a sister I’m putting through college, I feel less like scoffing at the idea now than I did on Saturday morning.
Was it really only two days ago? All that damage done, my career summarily executed, in forty-eight hours.
My mother died in under a minute.
There are one thousand four hundred and forty minutes in a day. All it takes is a single one to change everything.
I blink away the sting of tears. Crying right now, when I do it so rarely, would be the most humiliating moment of my life. “Will you give me a reference? For all the years I’ve worked here, all the work I’ve done, all the cases I’ve won and the money I brought into this firm?”
Samantha shakes her head, honest regret flashing in her bright green eyes. “I’m sorry. We won’t be able to do that.” She hardens herself, withdrawing right in front of me. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now.”
Is this how Hamish saw me, my cold professional stoicism painting me as something less than human because that’s how I need to be seen in order to survive in this industry, and probably in the world as well? It’s wretched, being on the other end of it. Being judged and sentenced when I’ve done nothing wrong. The irony burns my cheeks like they’ve just been pressed and held to a red-hot stove.
The injustice scorches me again as I stand, but it’s the wasted time that wraps its thick fingers around my neck and squeezes until I can’t breathe. All the fourteen-hour days, the working weekends, the unpaid time, the research, the constant worrying about cases even when I was at home—it all dumps down on me like a tree overloaded with snow. One small bump and the avalanche buries you alive.
I try for my usual blasé, but when I reach for that mask to slap it in place, all I find is a brittle, empty facade, cracked right down the middle.
It’s so tempting to be childish and nasty after I was humbled in here for doing nothing more than my job, but I offer a fleeting smile that I hope serves as a giant middle finger. “Thanks.”
It’s the one-word responses that drive people insane.
Samantha doesn’t allow further emotion to show. “Please go and gather your things now,” she reiterates.
I smooth down my skirt and run my hands over my blue cashmere sweater. There’s already a security guard at the door. I don’t recognize him. We normally don’t have one up here, but there are several on the main floor of the building. I know all their names, as well as all the names of every paralegal and receptionist who works here. The building is twelve stories, one of the largest legal firms in Seattle. I might work in criminal law, but there are other floors reserved just for corporate and family law.
As I walk to the elevator to take it down to my office, the security guard hovering just behind me, it takes everything I have to hold myself together. It drills through my chest that my whole life has become this carefully constructed shell, and now it’s all crashed down. It hits me what that aura was that seemed to surround Hamish. I couldn’t place it, but it just about bowls me over now.
There was nothing pretentious about Aberdeen. He was so perfectly at home in his own skin and in the life he’s chosen for himself. While it would drive me insane to be seen as a villain or a criminal, he just laughed it off when I suggested he wasn’t on the right side of the heroic spectrum.
He’s so big and deadly looking. I judged him harshly, but he still wasn’t unkind. Around here, people might give off the vibes that they can be trusted, that they’re good, that they believe in the law, but beneath that, they’re slippery and snaky.
I’m shaking by the time I enter my office. Former office , as the token white file box sitting there taunts. I have my few personal belongings packed up in five minutes. I don’t need to linger.
On the main floor, carrying the white box, which is pathetically only a quarter full, I hand in my security badge at the front desk.
Old Jonus, with his wild head of frizzy white hair and his thick glasses, gives me a mournful look. I wonder if he knew to expect me down here. Probably. He’s worked at this desk for twenty-three years. How many people has he seen come and go in that time?
“Take care, Jonus,” I whisper, meaning it, my gut cramping and hot pinpricks stabbing at the backs of my eyes.
“You too, Lynette.” He glances around the near empty lobby, lowers his voice, and winks at me. “You’re a cat. You’ll land on your feet and be up and running, clawing and hissing right back in no time.”
I wish I had his confidence in my abilities, but at the moment, I feel more like a kicked puppy than a feral feline.
“Thank you.” I reach across the desk and squeeze his gnarled hand. “Thank you so much for everything over the years.”
“You’re the only person who ever brings me homemade treats. Most people just go for stale doughnuts, bringing them down here because they don’t want to throw them in the garbage. Your baking meant more than just cookies and squares.”
Fuck . I need to get out of here before I start bawling.
It’s a small mercy that there aren’t many people in the lobby to witness my humiliation, but I’ll never live down the shame if I start weeping.
I force a shaky smile before I turn and leave this building forever. Even if I do find work at another firm, there’s zero chance of me ever stepping foot in here again. If I was forced at gunpoint, I’d still try and send someone else.
***
Instead of heading straight home, I sat in my car for hours contemplating my future and coming up blank. Finally, I put off the inevitable and turn the key in the ignition. The commute back to my small bungalow can vary depending on the hour. I’m usually at my desk by six or seven, which means I get to skip the daunting morning traffic, and I don’t leave until late, never earlier than seven, but sometimes eight or nine. The only time I ever get caught up in really bad traffic jams is when I have to leave anywhere near the lunch hour.
I’m back at the house by three. I leave the box in the trunk of my car and head in through the back door. The front one opens right up into the living room, which is awkward, and with the house being so small, we usually only use the back door.
The mouthwatering aroma of beef in rich sauce fills my nose.
I find a hastily scrawled note on a paper in the shape of a dead fish on the counter. Willa buys the strangest things. If it’s weird, she’ll probably like it. I pick it up and squint to decipher her nearly illegible handwriting.
Sorry. You were right about everything. Thank you, and I love you. I figured you’d be back around nine. I’ll be home by ten or a little after. I switched shifts to do the whole college thing this morning. I set this to low, so it should be done right around the time we’re ready to eat.
P.S. It’s red wine broth, but I cheated and bought the tetra container. Just so you’re not disappointed.
Willa
Pain threads its way through me like an invasive species of plant, sending down roots that shouldn’t be there, choking the breath out of my lungs.
I fold over right there in the kitchen, clutching the note to my chest. The house is so quiet and so empty. I’m glad Willa isn’t here right now, because if she was, there’s no way I could fall apart. The hot tears on my cheeks are a luxury I wouldn’t allow myself if she was watching.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to tell her I got fired. I know I wasn’t in the wrong. This wasn’t about me at all—I just got caught in the crosshairs and became collateral damage.
It’s more that I’m the one Willa comes to when there’s something wrong. I’m the fixer. The listener. The one who gives sage advice. I’m stoic and mature. I don’t fall apart because I can’t . If I’ve ever allowed myself to doubt or cry or ache in the past, I’ve done it where my little sister can’t see it.
That’s what mothers do, and even though I’m just Willa’s big sister, I’ve been raising her and looking after her since she was born.
“Fuck.” I set the note down on the counter and lean over the sink, running cold water, cupping it in my hands, and splashing it on my burning face. It sends a chill through me, but it doesn’t banish the anger at the dish of injustice that I was just forced to eat.
“Fuck!” My scream echoes through the kitchen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I grab the thing nearest to me, which happens to be a roll of paper towels, and launch it across the room. It bounces off the wall and falls unceremoniously to the floor, unravelling silently.
It’s so unsatisfying that I kick my three-hundred-dollar pump off my foot, launching it across the kitchen, and kick the sink cupboard, just hard enough to sting and make a good rattle.
“Fuck!” I ball my hands into fists and scream. Not a halfhearted scream either, but a true scream, straight from my belly and that black, boiling pit of hopeless rage. I don’t stop until I’m out of breath.
The meltdown finished, my face heats all over again with embarrassment. I duck down and look out the small kitchen window, but as far as I can tell, no one heard. Most of my neighbors are other professionals and aren’t home at this time of day. I wait, but I don’t hear any sirens rounding the block. No one thought I was being murdered in here and made a call.
I pick up the paper towels, winding them back around the roll. It’s messy, but for once, I don’t give a shit. I plunk it down hard on the counter.
Just to do something with myself, I walk to the living room and stand at the small bay window. It overlooks the little scrap of grass I call a front yard. I keep it carefully manicured, with cheerful flowers in pots on the concrete stairs. It’s almost time for chrysanthemums.
The concrete sidewalk and the driveway are always swept and neat. There aren’t many trees on this block, and my neighbors have them all. I try to tell myself I don’t mind, just like I tried to tell myself that the six-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag that came with this small two-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot house was worth it because of its proximity to downtown.
Something wild and unhinged rattles through me. I throw back my head and laugh, my voice so raspy from the screaming and cursing, that it doesn’t even sound like mine.
I’ve been working for this since I was eighteen. Twelve fucking years. I worked my ass off so that I could get scholarships to offset some of the costs. I went to school, worked, and looked after Willa. I studied so damn hard to pass the bar exam. I gave that firm probably somewhere around thirty thousand hours of my life.
For what?
And why the fuck do I see a set of dancing brown eyes when I close mine? Why do I hear that rich, deep voice telling me that adhering to the rules is a waste of time. That morally gray is so much more fun, and even when it’s not, at least it comes with a small semblance of freedom.
He didn’t even say that.
It’s not even taunting in my head. It’s just nice and deep, with that slight burr on the end, although some very preliminary research revealed that his mom was born in Scotland, so that might explain his slight accent.
In my head, well… he shouldn’t even be in my head.
I find myself retrieving my purse from the kitchen and rummaging around for my phone. Maybe I sensed this was coming down the line, because I took photos of Hamish’s retainer, including his name and cell number.
I’m going to have to call him and tell him not to bother sending payment. It won’t be needed now. It’s best just to get it over and done with. The firm can handle all my other clients. They’ll just reassign someone to them and assure them that, in the end, it will make no difference at all.
It’ll be as easy as that to replace me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, or rather, before I need to talk myself into it all over again, I dial Hamish’s number.
His phone rings and rings. Does he have voicemail? Will I leave a message? I don’t want to leave private details on someone’s phone because you never know who might end up hearing it, but at the same time, the whole, It’s Lynette George, please call me, sounds far too familiar.
Suggestive.
This time, when I get hot all over, it’s not rage or mortification. The heat curls in around the edges, making the insides of my thighs and my breasts tingle, while other parts of me throb.
While I’m having a second mini internal breakdown from the knowledge that I’m alive, I’m a woman, and I do indeed have sexual needs, Hamish’s deep voice comes over the line.
“Lynette George.”
It takes me a hot minute to realize it’s not his voicemail. He’s really there. The pounding between my legs intensifies while a cold chill wraps around the back of my neck like his strong palm.
When I got up this morning, this definitely wasn’t how I saw my day going.
Straight to the dumpster with a can of gas and a match.
“Mr. Aberdeen.” I wince, but charge on ahead anyway. “I’m afraid I’m no longer going to be able to represent you. Please don’t send the money for the retainer. You’ll need to hire different legal counsel.”
“Funny,” he responds, his voice like a bucket of cold water upended on my head.
While naked.
Jesus Christ, why does my mind keep going there? Enjoyment, where I should feel outraged at the audacity of this man to laugh at me, which he does in that deep, rumbling chuckle that vibrates through my bones. If I’m outraged at anyone, it’s only at myself.
“Funny how? I’ve just been fired.” I demand, my irritation leaching through, but then again, what does it even matter anymore?
“I was just going to call you. The situation’s changed. Worsened. You were right. Harold wants to make my life—and I suppose the club’s, by extension—hell.”
I press my eyes tightly shut, in that silly way that people do when they’re afraid, or when they don’t want to believe that something is real. If they can’t see it, then it must not exist. “Why? What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“It can’t be nothing if you just said—”
“We can talk about it when you come to the club.”
If I didn’t have a death grip on my phone, I might have dropped it. “When I come to the club?” I parrot in disbelief. “Why would I do that? I just told you—”
“You’re looking for a job, no? The offer still stands. Of course, you’d have to meet with my Prez and our VP. Ultimately, the decision is theirs.”
I force myself to exhale slowly, so that he can’t hear it. If I want to keep being a lawyer, I know this is one of the best offers I’m going to get. No top tier firm in the city is going to have me now. I doubt even the crappy, terrible ones would take me on. I’ve been singled out and marked, like that dreaded letter over a Medieval doorway denoting plague. If I moved to another state, I’d have to take the bar again, which, in itself, isn’t a big deal.
The larger issues?
Uprooting myself from my home city, leaving behind everything familiar, selling my house, disrupting Willa after I just forced her into college here.
My god, what a shit show.
“When?” I don’t even realize I’ve spoken until Hamish’s chuckle rolls through the phone. His laughter isn’t malice, or I told you so. It’s a sound of real mirth, and it hits me hard, stabbing at my midsection and clenching around my lungs like a trap.
“Friday night. Ten or eleven. Your choice.”
Who meets that late on a Friday night? Oh, right. “I thought you wanted me to see the better side of the club.”
“Nah. You can take us for who we are now, or not at all. Something about beggars not being choosers.”
“I got fired because of you!” The acid in my tone is unmistakable, but he doesn’t rise to it.
“It’s their loss. I’ll make it up to you. Oh, and, Lynette George?”
“Christ, can you stop calling me by my whole name?”
“I’ll stop when we’re on a first name basis.”
This time, the sigh unspools loudly into the silence. “What? What were you going to say?”
“Don’t waste money on a hotel room. I’ll make sure there’s one free at the clubhouse.”
I stumble to the couch and sink down, the thought of spending a night in such a place isn’t just abhorrent, it’s honestly terrifying. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drive home after.”
He grunts under his breath in clear disagreement. “Plan to stay the night. You can meet everyone and make up your mind about us. We’ll talk business in the morning.”
“That sounds suspiciously like you won’t let me leave.”
“It might, but I think that you need one night of freedom. One night to vent and let go of your cares and your worries. Have a few drinks, play some pool, smoke some w—”
“I don’t think so, thank you anyway.” How the fuck dare this man tell me what I need and don’t need?
“Fine. But we won’t talk shop until morning. You can have a good time, or you can keep that stick wedged up your lovely behind. It’s your choice. Spend the night. Don’t spend the night, and drive back here all over again in the morning. Shell out of pocket for a useless hotel room. It’s up to you. See you Friday. Oh, and, Lynette George? Being on a first name basis means you call me Bullet.”
The line goes dead, and I drop my phone onto the couch with a muttered curse. I’ve already had several meltdowns. I can’t start screaming again, no matter how incredibly fucking obnoxious and assumingly arrogant this man is. Worst of all? Now I’m at his mercy, just because I had some mercy for him.
Probably not until this weekend is finished and over with.
If I agree to take the last job I’d ever want to work, a job not founded on justice at all, but rather, letting injustice and wickedness prevail, I doubt that there will ever be a minute again where I don’t find my life to be one whole terrible irony.