In Your Corner

by Sarah Castille

  He leans over and squeezes my shoulder and I have to fight back the urge to flinch.

  “I know becoming a partner means everything to you, and especially to your father. It’s all he’s talked about for years. He’s so pleased you followed in the family footsteps. You’ll make him so proud.” He pauses and affects the sad smile of a poor method actor. “Or…you would have.”

  Clearly Farnsworth isn’t satisfied with stabbing me in the heart with his file of Amanda’s sordid activities. He wants to twist the knife. Twist and twist and twist. What does he hope to achieve? Does he think I’m going to break into tears? Does he think I’ll beg for mercy? Does he really think I’m going to give him what he wants?

  “Is that all, sir?” I make the mistake of standing. Unfortunately, I am now face to face with Farnsworth, our bodies only inches apart. He smells of cheap Bordeaux, Greek cigars, and the $9.95 Shrimp Special the cafeteria offered for dinner. My nose wrinkles. I hate shrimp.

  “No, Amanda. That isn’t all.” His voice lowers to a seductive purr and he twirls a strand of my hair around his fingers. “It would be a shame for all that talent to go to waste.” He strokes a thick finger along my cheek and a violent shudder wracks my body.

  “Hands off.” I slap his hand away and his eyes narrow.

  “You’re a clever girl, Amanda. I don’t think I need to spell it out for you. I have something you want, and you have something I want. We can both achieve our goals and enjoy ourselves while we do.”

  “Not a chance.”

  His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I may be twice your age, but I know how to please a woman. And I know for a fact you know how to please a man. We could have something special together. Something…”

  Taking a deep breath, I sidestep around the chair. “I’m not playing this game.”

  His cold smile chills my blood. “I have an entire file that says you do play this game. You play this game with strangers. You play this game with doctors. And right now, you’re going to play this game with me. Can you imagine what your father would say if he saw that file? His abject and bitter disappointment? I don’t know what would be worse for him—finding out his daughter is the biggest slut in San Francisco or knowing she’ll never make partner in any law firm in the state.”

  In response to my quizzical look, he laughs. “You’re forgetting who I am. I know every judge in every court in California. I know every partner in every major firm. I can blackball you with one phone call. If you turn down my offer, you’ll never work in another Big Law firm in California again. It’ll be back alleys and legal aid clinics for you.”

  As if that is such a bad thing.

  My hands clench into fists and my lip curls. “Bastard. I’m going to drag you through the courts in the biggest sexual harassment lawsuit the state has ever seen.”

  Farnsworth’s eyes glitter and he laughs. “I’m a bastard and you’re a slut. So what? No one’s going to believe you. If you file a lawsuit, I’ll argue that you propositioned me because you were so desperate for partnership you would do anything to get it.”

  I stare at him aghast. “Why would anyone think I was that desperate? I’m one of the best associates in the firm. You said so yourself. Why would people think I would throw it all way?”

  Farnsworth shrugs. “Who knows? Lack of self-confidence? Self-destructive tendencies? It doesn’t matter. I’ve already laid the groundwork in the event you refuse. You should know by now every case is won before it even begins.”

  My lungs tighten. Outfoxed and outmaneuvered. He’s clearly been planning this for a long time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. And I just gave it to him.

  A whiff of Bordeaux breath assails my nostrils, and I fight the nausea roiling in my gut. I am NOT going to puke on the navy blue, Farnsworth & Tillman embossed carpet.

  “And even if you were foolish enough to pursue a lawsuit,” he continues, “how will you fund it without a job? I have an entire law firm at my disposal. I can have hundreds of associates working twenty-four hours a day to destroy you before you can file your complaint.”

  “Go. To. Hell.” I take a step back and then another. Seemingly unperturbed, Farnsworth slides off his desk and drops his hand to his belt.

  “I’m sure I will one day. But I plan to make the most of my time before I do. And so should you. Look what you have to gain. I can brush that file under the carpet. I can make sure your father and none of the other partners ever see it. And I can talk to the right people and ensure you make it through the partnership selection process. All I want is a taste of that honey you’ve been spreading around.”

  My nose crinkles in disgust and I back right up to the door. I might have lost everything, but I haven’t lost my self-esteem. His choice is no choice at all.

  “I don’t do blackmail,” I snap. “You want to send that file around, then send it and I’ll deal with the fallout. But there is no way on this earth you’re getting anything from me.”

  Greed and lust flicker in his eyes. And anger. A lot of anger. Just like Evil Reid, Farnsworth won’t take no for an answer.

  “There are women in this firm who were grateful for the opportunity I offered them.” His lips curl in a snarl. “You walk out that door and you’ll lose the partnership, your career, your father’s love and pride, and the regard of your friends and colleagues. You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.”

  “I’ll have my self-respect.”

  Farnsworth gives a bitter laugh. “Really? What self-respecting woman takes a new lover every month…or is it every week? The file is so thick, I can’t remember. Wake up, Amanda. Self-respect does not mean running the gauntlet through every dick in the city.”

  His words are aimed to cut, and although this is not a part of myself I ever share, I am not ashamed of the choices I’ve made. I pull on the frosted glass door and throw a derisory glance over my shoulder. “Consider this my notice. I’m done with the firm.”

  Farnsworth tightens his belt and narrows his eyes. “You may be done with the firm, but the firm is not done with you.”

  ***

  A week goes by.

  At least I think it’s been a week. Time has no meaning in the pit of despair or at the bottom of a vodka bottle. At least it’s finally dark outside, more fitting with my mood, and I don’t have to pull the covers over my head to evade the evil reach of the sun through the cracks in my curtains.

  I tried to be good. I really did. After the shock of losing Jake, for a while I dated only parent-approved doctors, lawyers, and accountants. I stayed away from all but the most conservative clubs and bars. I tried to be who my parents wanted me to be. Uptight. Monogamous.

  But it didn’t work. I couldn’t resist my attraction to the “unsavory” characters they had so despised when I was in high school—gritty, rough, and dangerous. The opposite of me. Apparently, however, even the scaled-down version of my reprobate behavior was enough to fill a blue file and give Farnsworth all the wrong ideas.

  With a defeated sigh, I throw the covers off the bed, grab my cell, and flip to Drake’s number. Since I no longer have any hope of garnering my parents’ approval, I might as well embrace my chosen lifestyle. Go big or go home.

  “Long time no sex.” I don’t even give Drake a chance to say hello.

  Drake’s sharp inhale is clearly audible when I use his favorite line on him.

  “Amanda. Where have you been? What happened last Friday night? You weren’t at work. You haven’t returned my calls all week…”

  Talk. Talk. Talk. I don’t want talking. I want oblivion, kinky style, and Drake is the man to deliver. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I interrupt his monologue of worry by giving him the basic facts: Jake, Farnsworth, quitting. No need to tell him about the blue file or the harassment. Some things are better kept under wraps, especially from busybodies like Drake.

  “So
, you want to come over?” I try for a light, breezy tone that belies my desperate need for mindless fucking.

  Clearly, it isn’t enough because Drake’s voice drops to a horrified whisper. “You quit your job?”

  Tongue loosened after drinking too much vodka, the words that have been bottled up inside me all week spill out. “Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, I made a rash decision and threw my career away, ironically, for what I believed to be self-respect. However, upon further reflection, I have determined that I do not, in fact, have any self-respect and so I called you.”

  “I feel honored,” he says dryly.

  “So do you have some time free tonight? I believe I left you hanging last Friday and I want to make it up to you.”

  Drake chokes. “Do you really…?”

  “I do really. Desperately. I need it hard and I need it fast and I need it without any emotional strings. I’m embracing who I am and I want to get started right away.”

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Drake chastises me with the tone one would use on a wayward child. “Sex isn’t always the solution. And you’re not thinking clearly. This is an opportunity and not a reason to run away. You have a chance to remake your life, choose a new path. We can talk…”

  My head falls back on the pillow and I groan, cutting him off. “Are you coming over or not?”

  Drake sighs. “Actually, I’ve just been paged and I’m en route to the hospital. How about I come to your place after I’m done? We’ll talk.”

  There’s that word again. Talk. Drake and I don’t talk. We have sex. That’s what friends with benefits do. And I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to lose myself in the void of mindless physical pleasure.

  I make my disapproval audible with a soft grunt. Drake snorts a laugh.

  “You’ve been drinking. All the more reason to stay home and let the doctor take care of you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Might not be until the early hours of the morning though. Just don’t go out and do anything stupid. You don’t sound like yourself, and this is the kind of situation that often leads people to self-destructive behavior.”

  “Sure.”

  After he hangs up, I stare at the clock and the half-empty bottle of vodka. Then I call a cab.

  ***

  “So, where are we going tonight?”

  The cab driver pulls away from the curb and into the endless traffic of the Marina District as he glances at me through the rearview mirror. With his soft, round face, brown hair fading to gray, and twinkly blue eyes, he looks like a family movie dad.

  “Hellhole. It’s a bar in Ghost Town, you know, in West Oakland.” I want to get drunk since my earlier buzz has worn off, and I want to get laid, and I plan to take home the first decent guy who wants nothing more than to show me a good time, no strings attached. And there is no better collection of commitment-phobes than in Hellhole. Rough, gritty, but not particularly dangerous since I know the staff well, Hellhole is only a few blocks away from Redemption but suits my mood to a tee.

  “A nice girl like you shouldn’t be going to a place like that.”

  Ha ha. Little does he know the girl in his cab is anything but nice and not-nice girls belong in not-nice places. “It’s not that bad. When I lived in Oakland, I used to go there for drinks with my friends. They spin the best metal and thrash.” And right now I’m in the mood for some down and dirty.

  “You sure? It’s changed over the last coupla years. Gone downhill. And it’s a half hour drive over the bridge on a good day. Ten o’clock on a Saturday night means you’re looking at at least forty-five minutes through traffic.”

  I fall back in my seat with a groan. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  We drive through the city for no more than five minutes before he starts again. “I have a daughter around your age. If I found out she was going to Hellhole, I’d be down there in two seconds to drag her home. And then I’d have something to say.”

  “If someone told my dad I had gone to Hellhole, he would sit at his desk and start typing a new version of his ‘I’m bitterly disappointed in you’ speech.”

  Lights flicker around us, blurring as we whizz through the streets. I close my eyes to block out the sight of irritatingly happy people. Finally, I begin to relax. Maybe I should have called Makayla, but she would talk me out of indulging my sorrows in meaningless sex, or worse, offer to come along. And the last time that happened, she almost lost Max. I couldn’t do that to her again.

  By the time I open my eyes, the Foster Hoover Historic District aka Ghost Town is in sight. Broken lights. Rundown buildings. Youth gangs lurking in the alleys. We pass Redemption and my chest tightens at the sight of the unassuming metal warehouse with the new Team Redemption logo painted on its side.

  “That’s one of the top MMA fight gyms in the Bay Area.” The cab driver slows the taxi to a crawl. “My son trains there and teaches some of the classes. He’s with the Oakland police. My wife and I are so damn proud of him. Neither of us finished high school.”

  My mood takes an even deeper nosedive. I hate proud parents.

  “What’s his name?” Not that I care because I will never step foot in Redemption again, but curiosity is an insatiable beast. “I used to…hang out there. My best friend is going out with the owner.”

  He glances at me through the rearview mirror. “My boy’s name is Theodore, but we always called him Tag. His ring name is Fuzzy.”

  “Don’t know any Fuzzys. He must have joined after I…stopped going. They’re good guys, though. Like a family.”

  The cab driver pulls the cab over to the curb and turns around. “Why don’t I drop you at Redemption? You can hang with your friends and I can introduce you to my boy. Not that I’m trying to set you up or anything, but…you know…it would be safer than Hellhole.”

  “If I wanted that kind of safety, I would have stayed at home.”

  His look of consternation makes my stomach clench, and for a brief second I’m afraid he won’t take me to the club. But after a few moments, he sucks in his lips, pulls away from the curb, and we leave Redemption behind.

  “Something happen to you?” He throws the question out almost casually, but I can hear his concern in the tightening of his voice. And since I’m slightly inebriated and don’t give a damn who knows how badly I fucked up my life, I give him the same story I gave Drake, leaving out the bit about the blue file.

  He commiserates with me until we reach Hellhole, and then he turns around, worry lines creasing his forehead. “How about I wait outside? I’m almost done with my shift and I’ll be here in case you change your mind. It’s not easy to get a cab out here at this time of night…”

  My heart squeezes in my chest. I’m a stranger and he’s more worried about my safety than my parents ever were. “It’s okay. Really. I know the staff. They’ll help me out.”

  After the warm glow of the cab’s taillights fade into the distance, I knock on the familiar metal door inset in the crumbling brick wall of the building at the corner. Two of the streetlights are burnt out, and with no other businesses visible in the area, the street is dark and deathly still.

  I wait and wait. A cool breeze rustles my coat, sending a chill down my spine and bringing with it a faint whiff of piss and stale beer. Just as I’m second-guessing my decision to come to Hellhole, a viewing slot slides open.

  “You got a membership card?” The rough, leering voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end but not enough to scare me away, despite the fact that I have left my membership card at home.

  “Look at me.” I wave my hand over my white sheath dress—chosen simply because it makes me stand out—the lamb offering herself up for slaughter. “Do I really need a membership?”

  The door creaks open and a bald, burly bouncer steps to the side to let me pass. His face is pierced everywhere a face can be pierced and then in places I woul
dn’t have considered piercing.

  “Cover is forty bucks.” He holds out a hand. Also pierced. I slap a few bills in his palm and he points me down a long, dark, narrow flight of stairs.

  “Welcome to Hell.”

  Chapter 3

  THE DEVIL’S NAME IS BOB

  Hell doesn’t disappoint.

  Decorated in peeling shades of black and red, the dank underground club boasts a cluster of scratched wooden tables, a tiny dance floor, and the delightful aroma of pot, sweat, and stale beer. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the bar, I weave my way through the assorted punkers, bikers, and Goths, slapping away the occasional stray hand and ignoring the lascivious winks.

  The violent ear-smashing riffs of the thrash metal band Evile scream through the cheap speakers, and the tables vibrate against the black painted concrete floor as I cross the empty dance floor. A few greasy metalheads pound their fists in time to the beat. Even rougher than I remember. The cab driver was right. The place has gone downhill.

  “We don’t do girly drinks,” the bartender snarls before I even open my mouth. Big, burly, and bald, he looks like the bouncer’s twin brother but with an overabundance of facial hair and an extra few rolls around the gut.

  “Good thing I don’t drink girly drinks.” I place my white beaded clutch on the bar. “Vodka straight up.”

  He pours. I pay. He pours again. I pay again.

  “Is Dave working tonight? Or Stella?” I don’t recognize any of the staff, readily identifiable as denizens of the underground in their black T-shirts with a red devil logo emblazoned across the front.

  “Don’t know Dave or Stella. The bar has been under new management for the last year. They mighta got booted out when the place changed hands.”

  A scuffle breaks out in the corner, and a tall Goth crashes backward into a table only to be manhandled out the door by one of the bouncers. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “The atmosphere has certainly changed.”