by Kate Meader
Aubrey murmurs, “He thinks we’re together.”
“Guess we still have that look.”
Soap opera super couple. That’s what Max called us back in law school. This golden pair who had the world at our feet and a future so bright we had to wear shades.
I tip the valet. “It’s just a ride, Aubrey.”
She blinks at me, and I witness every thought that goes into the decision, the chasm she has to leap across to put it all aside, the rickety bridge she has to build to start that tentative journey. Wordlessly, she settles into the passenger seat.
It’s only ten minutes from The Drake to her place in Lincoln Park. I mull over how best to use it. As we merge onto Lake Shore Drive, she’s the one to speak first.
“Do you think they’ll make it?”
“One in two chance, right?”
“More than that for Max. He’ll work at it.”
Barely veiled criticism, come on down! I once thought the same until the day I realized that failure might be the only way to keep me sane. She’s right about Max, though. Despite the silver spoon upbringing, he’s overcome a few obstacles through sheer force of will.
“So, what happened to that girl? The one you brought to Max’s cookout?”
She wasn’t you. “Didn’t work out.”
“I’m tough to beat.”
“That you are.”
She chuckles, low and soft, perhaps pleased at how lighthearted the conversation is. Hell, we’re talking about dating other people! Progress, for sure. As long as we’re keeping it at surface level, then we can pretend the past can’t hurt us.
Her amazing legs are bare despite the cool mid-November temps, acres of touchable skin revealed by the upward slide of her dress. My cock stiffens, imagining my hand running up that thigh, in between her legs, spreading her wide as I clamp my palm over that spot where she used to be so needy.
“How’s Marie-Claire?” I ask because talking about her mother is about the only thing that can change the direction of my filthy thoughts.
“Was it so obvious?”
I exit onto Fullerton. “Your shoulders get this certain set to them.”
“She’s her usual high-strung, drive-me-nuts self. Miserable with the effort of divorcing my father and enjoying the drama, too. She’s in party planning mode for Libby and making everyone around her insane.”
Aubrey’s grandmother, Libby, is turning ninety on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, in two weeks.
“Always liked the old bird. She doing okay?”
“She had a fall earlier this year. Broke her hip. It’s really slowed her down.”
“Hard to imagine anything slowing her down.”
“She still doesn’t know. About us.”
My hands grip the wheel.
“It’s just up here on the right,” she says, as if I need direction to where my ex-wife lives. I pull into the alleyway beside her building, an Art Deco–inspired structure that suits Aubrey’s Old World glamour.
“Aubrey.”
Two spots of color tag her cheeks. “She was going through some health issues, and no one wanted to upset her. My parents’ divorce is stressful enough on everyone, and you know how they like to hog the spotlight. I’d planned to tell her about the split in person when I went home last Thanksgiving, but I didn’t make the trip because my cat had to have kidney surgery. Now I have to fill her in, so I’m planning to tell her when I get there.”
This explanation is spilled in a gush.
“I’m surprised your mother hasn’t broken the news considering all the joy she feels that we’re not together anymore.” Marie-Claire always thought I was about two levels below dog shit and not nearly good enough for the daughter of Bostonian aristocracy.
“I insisted that I be the one to break the news. But every time I got on the phone, Libby would ask about you and talk about how much she adored you.” She rolls her eyes at my smirk. “It was just too hard to do it. And now I have to take a train, but—”
“You can’t take the cat on such a long journey.”
“Does everyone know about these Amtrak cat-carrying rules except me?”
It’s not like Aubrey to be so disorganized. “So you have to drive.” I gesture to her sling. “How did that happen again?”
Ignoring my question, she says, “I suppose you’re headed home for the holiday.”
“That’s the plan.”
We used to switch off every year, alternating between ice and fire—and I don’t just mean the different climates. Holidays with the Lincolns come with no judgment. With them, Aubrey could finally relax.
“Just kennel the cat and take the train.”
“Sure,” she says, not because she agrees with me but because she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. That’s how Aubrey decides when a discussion has reached its end.
“Thanks for the ride.”
She exits the car, leaving the scent of her perfume, a man with a hard-on, and the inklings of a plan.
Chapter 3
Grant
“Having sex with the aid of power tools shouldn’t be relevant here, Your Honor.”
I have to give it to Judge Jamieson: she displays not a jot of surprise at my case’s latest turn of events. Instead she redirects from opposing counsel, who just uttered that slightly outrageous statement and bores a no-quarter-given gaze into me.
“Mr. Lincoln, I’m inclined to agree with counsel for the petitioner. I fail to see how the fact that her client indulged in sexual practices of this nature is relevant.”
I prepare to demonstrate exactly how relevant it is. “Your Honor, my client’s wife has presented herself as Pollyanna—”
“Objection, improper characterization,” opposing counsel cuts in.
“As if butter wouldn’t melt—” Before she can object again, I rephrase with, “As a woman with vanilla tastes who would be the last person to create a video of herself being penetrated by a sex toy attached to a chainsaw.” I turn to opposing counsel and speak to her directly. “Yet she has chosen to paint my client as a deviant because he engaged in affairs with multiple partners, to which we’ve already stipulated. Mrs. Dalton, or should I use her professional name, Shannon Hardwood, is not who she says she is.”
The beautiful gray eyes of opposing counsel almost roll out of her head.
“So, she has a hobby. Do you have a problem with what my client does in her spare time? Or perhaps you think the fact that she’s a woman means her sexual preferences should be judged more harshly than those of a man?”
“Oh, I have no problem with what your client does in her spare time.”
Aubrey addresses the bench. “Then I’d ask the court to rule against admitting this video file into evidence, as it’s only evidence of a woman engaging in…”
The entire court appears to lean in.
“The achievement of sexual satisfaction, a right of women everywhere.”
I snort. Judge Jamieson shoots me her usual hard-ass glare.
“Apologies, Your Honor. Whether or not there’s a constitutional right to sexual satisfaction is not settled law.”
The judge clears her throat and dryly replies, “Indeed. While Ms. Gates’s lofty assertion of female rights in this area is all well and good, that’s not the purview of this court. What is in my remit is the relevance of this video and Mrs. Dalton’s proclivities to this divorce proceeding. If you’re just pitting one client’s sexual behavior or misbehavior against another’s, that won’t fly.”
Opposing counsel’s smirk morphs into a self-satisfied smile.
“Anything else regarding the video, Mr. Lincoln?” the judge asks.
“Actually, yes, Your Honor. As I said, I have no problem with Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, enga
ging in activities that bring her immense satisfaction.” I turn my head slightly toward Aubrey. “But I do have a problem when a respondent makes money on the achievement of said sexual satisfaction and chooses not to include that in her financial statements.”
Those eyes flash silver. Gotcha, Bean.
While I’d love to spend the day staring at her, maybe even thinking of all the ways I could make her eyes turn to molten mercury, make that curvy body thrum, make that voice whimper and scream in pleasure, now is not the time.
I return my attention to the judge, who clearly doesn’t appreciate my exclusion of her from the process. When Aubrey and I are going at it hammer and tongs in a courtroom, it’s not unusual for us to forget the world around us.
“Your Honor, Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, did not declare her income from her ‘hobby’ to the IRS.”
“You have evidence of this income?”
“I do, Your Honor. Along with my client’s most recent tax return with a status of married filing jointly.” I pass copies of the report from my forensic accountant to the clerk. One goes to Aubrey, another to the judge. “As you can see, Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hard—”
“We know her name, Mr. Lincoln,” Aubrey cuts in, clearly pissed as she scans the report.
“Ms. Hardwood has earned close to eighty thousand dollars from her adult streaming channel in the last year. Income she chose not to declare to the IRS or on financial disclosures required during the discovery process.”
“Lying bitch whore!” That’s my client.
“Pencil dick bastard!” And that would be Aubrey’s.
The judge lifts her gaze briefly from the report. “Control your clients, counsel.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” we both mumble as we respectively soothe the former lovebirds.
While we wait for the judge to finish reading, I slide a glance to Aubrey. She’s gripping the side of the desk, white-knuckling it so hard her bones might pop through her skin. Aubrey works for Kendall, one of the bigger firms in Chicago, and they have a bevy of forensic accountants and researchers at their disposal. Somehow she didn’t find this out about her client, though I’ll admit Mrs. Dalton aka Shannon Hardwood did a fairly decent job of hiding it in an offshore account. Just not good enough to get past my guy.
“Counsel, approach.”
I strut to the bar, the clack of Aubrey’s heels finding a rhythm with my pulse. She needs those heels so she doesn’t look like a munchkin gazing up at the judge. I’m almost tempted to give her a leg up, but if I offered, she’d probably stomp one of those stilettos through my foot.
“This doesn’t look good for your client’s alimony claim, Ms. Gates,” Judge Jamieson muses. “It also has implications for the division of assets.”
“Your Honor, we’d like time to examine the report and run an investigation of our own.”
“Is your client denying she had undeclared income from her business?”
“No, Your Honor, but we’d like to assess…”
I remain silent as the judge and Aubrey hash out whether this kills the case or is merely a bump in the road. Mostly, I do this because I love to listen to Bean making an argument. Even now, with her back against the wall, her client exposed, and her case in tatters, her skills are a marvel to behold. I almost feel bad that she’s in this position, but not enough to cut her some slack.
Her scent fills my lungs and unfailingly makes my cock twitch and my heart rate quicken. She looks her usual put-together self—that sleek fall of dark hair, the perfect red pout to her lips, the navy pinstriped suit she wears as armor—but there’s no missing the half-moons under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well. Insomnia was always a problem for her; my fingers, mouth, and cock were invariably the cure.
But I can’t help her now.
We don’t sleep in the same bed anymore. We don’t live in the same house. Somehow our once-perfect lives fell apart, and the only time I see her is when she represents the ex of one of my clients or at the odd social run-in like Max’s wedding this past weekend.
I live for these days.
Don’t get me wrong. It hurts to be around my ex-wife. It hurts knowing she exists in my world but on the periphery. Yet not seeing her at all cuts deeper.
I look up, realizing the judge is talking to me. “Mr. Lincoln?”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Settle this outside of my court?”
My heart hardens, and duty to my client kicks in. “My client would prefer we finish this now. Mrs. Dalton aka Shannon Hardwood has clearly endeavored to deceive my client and this court by not revealing a substantial source of income. The claim of alimony should be denied.”
“I’m inclined to agree, Mr. Lincoln, but your stunt in dropping this video on the court today without providing it to opposing counsel first is a smidge too flashy for my liking. I love a little excitement as much as the next girl, but not at the expense of process. I’ll adjourn to give you both a chance to work this out to everyone’s satisfaction.” She shoos us both away.
“Lucky,” I murmur, so only Aubrey can hear.
“Prick,” she sweet-talks right back.
I smile through gritted teeth. “She’s not getting a cent, Aubrey, but we’ll throw in a little somethin’ to sugar the deal.”
She stops at the table I’ve just turned on her, hand on hip, silver eyes wild. Her breasts heave, a sign she’s furious—or turned on. In the past, when we sparred from opposite sides, the sex we had afterward was the best of our lives. Sometimes we didn’t even make it out of the courthouse. Those sinks in the ladies’ restroom are the perfect height, and her panties provided just the right amount of friction against my cock as I slid inside her. My favorite place to be.
“What’ll you give?” she asks, a little breathlessly.
I lean in and brush my lips against her ear. She shivers, and I imagine she has to clamp her lips closed to rein in a moan.
I know, wishful thinking. Aubrey doesn’t think of me that way. Not anymore.
“She can keep the power tools.”
Aubrey
She can keep the power tools. Hilarious!
With anyone else, I’d have a little chuckle and wag my finger, but not when Grant is the source. I can’t believe we flubbed that background check—we, meaning Kendall, the supposedly top-notch firm I work for. Heads are going to roll.
Kendall occupies two floors of a Chicago downtown skyscraper, employs close to a hundred lawyers, and has a stellar reputation. Grant’s outfit, where he partners with Max and Lucas, is in the same building, five floors below. They’re small and personal and deal only with family law, primarily divorce. Kendall is more like L.A. Law, dabbling in everything, and I’m the Arnie Becker of the outfit, leading the family law group. Youngest managing associate, too.
Not that my mother cares.
At thirty years old, I should be past this desperate need for my mother’s approval. While she vaguely approves that I’m a lawyer, she hates my choice of specialization. There’s something unseemly about family law—divorce in particular. It requires people to air their dirty laundry, and that’s a big no-no as far as the Gateses are concerned. Better I should be dealing with corporate entities. (I could tell my mother that the Supreme Court has decided corporations are people, too, but she would think I was being a smart-ass.)
Stepping into the courthouse elevator, I try not to think of the phone conversation—though “conversation” is a misnomer, given its one-sidedness—I had with my mother after Max’s wedding, but it’s hard to ignore the cultured voice that’s always played the devil on my shoulder.
“Mason will be at the party, Aubrey. He just bought a house on the Cape.”
“And you’re telling me this because…”
“He’s single again.” My mother lowere
d her voice. “And looking.”
He could look down his pants and admire his tiny dick for all I care.
“I’m not really on the prowl for Victim Number Two yet.”
She tutted. “It would help to smooth over the inevitable questions about the…mistake you made getting married to someone…like Grant, chérie.”
I suppressed a growl over her dig at my ex. “I didn’t say you had to keep my divorce a dirty secret. Just don’t tell Libby, who never leaves the tower anyway, until I can tell her myself.” My grandmother was practically a recluse. “And no matchmaking. I’m home for Gran.”
I still find it hard to believe my mother has somehow kept the sordid secret of my divorce from her Bostonian pearls-clutching social circle. I’m about to bring great shame on the family—or greater than I have up until now. I’ve always been the dirty secret of the Gateses, blessed to have the name but not exactly deserving of it.
Instead of thinking too hard on this, I let my mind wander to Grant. For the first time in ages, he featured in my fantasies over the weekend.
This shouldn’t be a total surprise, but I haven’t felt like a sexual being in a long time. Too many bad memories, and the only person I wanted to think of that way was the one who I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. But watching those strong hands of his grip the steering wheel, hearing that buttery drawl slip like silk sheets over my body, just being near him—it opened something in me that I’d been keeping under lock and key.
So, to avoid thoughts of my mother, I think about fucking my ex.
“Ms. Gates.”
Damn, the man himself has to appear and ruin a perfectly fine fantasy. He looks like the Terminator in Tom Ford. I can assure you that he didn’t dress so well before I met him. He didn’t even use chopsticks.
“Mr. Lincoln.”
“Oh, hold up, please!” Just before the elevator doors close, Serena Gleason, one of my colleagues at Kendall, joins us inside. She flashes a grin. “Aubrey, heard you got your ass handed to you by—Grant! Didn’t see you there.” Unlikely, given that the man is about as impossible to miss as a redwood.