“I don’t know about that Madilyn girl,” Mandy says. “She’s kind of pretty, and she’d be okay if she lost a few pounds and paid a little attention to her hair and wardrobe.”
From my hiding spot in the bathroom stall, I don’t know whether to be grateful that she's “defending” me, or to stay upset that they're talking about me behind my back like this. Even though, to be fair, they have no idea I'm eavesdropping.
“I highly doubt he’s her type,” Tara says, with a smug look on her face.
“Madilyn is definitely a go- getter,” says Candace. “She was in my practicum section.”
“What?” Tara’s facial expression changes to one of disbelief. “Wasn’t she a summer clerk at Roybal Wilson & Maine? I don’t think she even got a summer clerkship offer from Marks or any of the other really good firms.”
“Yeah, but she was on Law Review and she increased her GPA during 3L year when the rest of us were slacking off and partying,” Candace says.
That’s true, I want to interject. And thank you.
I’d done her a solid once by lending her my Criminal Procedure outline before the final exam. She’d claimed she had been sick too many times throughout the semester to take good, complete notes.
I’d heard that for Candace, though, “sick” equaled “hungover.” Many of our classmates had refused to honor her request to borrow outlines, saying she should have spent more time in class and less time partying.
But lending her the outline that had taken me hours each day to put together— on top of the regular class time I faithfully attended— had been no skin off my back, and apparently it had resulted in her having a favorable opinion of me. Or at least, more favorable of an opinion than the other two girls seemed to have of me.
“Well, she’s probably too straight laced for a guy like Asher Marks,” says Tara. “And I disagree that she’s that pretty. She has cankles.”
Cankles.
Do I have cankles?
I look down at my bent, half- asleep ankle.
I can’t tell.
“Yeah, and cankles don’t go away with weight loss,” Mandy laughs. “It’s one of the ways guys can always tell that a woman might blow up again.”
“Once you have cankles, you always have cankles,” Tara agrees.
“Remind me not to eat too much junk food at this orientation,” Mandy says. “I don’t want to get cankles.”
“On that note,” Candace adds, throwing her piles of makeup into her briefcase, “We’d better get going to orientation.”
“I don’t know if cankles are something you can just get,” Tara says, as she follows suit. “I think you’re just born with them. If you have fat genes.”
“I wonder who Asher will sit by in the conference room,” Mandy muses aloud as they finally left the bathroom. “I hear that’s always an indication that she’s the girl he wants.”
“I like a man who instantly knows what he wants…” says Candace, before the door swings shut behind them.
So here we are.
They’re glibly making their way to orientation and I’m still scrunched in a bathroom stall, trying not to cry.
Stand up, I tell myself, and amazingly, I listen. Even though part of me feels like staying hidden in the bathroom all day and not having to deal with the realities of my work life or my personal life.
I march my legs soldier style out of the stall, and then around in a circle, trying to coach them into re-gaining their feeling.
I look at my unadorned face and hair in the bathroom mirror, which had formerly just been graced by the Barbies’ perfectly groomed reflections.
It’s okay, I tell myself.
I don’t want a guy like Asher Marks anyway.
He sounds like a complete asshole who thinks he can do what he wants.
I’m here for one thing and one thing only: to get my career off to the right start.
I may have cankles, but I didn’t get this job for my looks. My brain is all I need.
Those other girls can shove it.
I hold my head up high in the mirror before making my way to the door.
My feet mostly alive now, I try to walk as confidently as I can to the conference room where associate orientation is about to start.
I’ll forget all about the three Barbies and focus on what matters. And even though I still have to deal with Jimmy later, as least I’ve made significant headway in clearing my life of anything that holds me back from that goal.
But, damn it.
Cankles.
Cankles.
Cankles.
That one, cruel word uttered by my newest co-workers still reverberates in my mind.
Nothing is working out the way it’s supposed to today.
I try to think of something different, to drown them out. I remember the goals I had this morning as I got ready for work. New leaf. Fresh start. Excitement. Sex.
These things are still all mine for the taking. Except not together of course—no matter what the Barbies might think is acceptable.
I'll stay focused on my game plan and continue being successful just like I have been over this past year. And they'll be too busy chasing dick to be able to keep up with me.
Watch out, Marks Sanchez & Reed. Here comes an associate who wants to work— not sleep— her way to the top.
Chapter 7 – Madilyn
Still determined to maintain a demeanor of confidence and focus, even if it’s fake, I head into the conference room that doubles as a cafeteria of sorts, where associate orientation is to be held. The room is large, with many tables arranged in dutiful order. A small back room is attached to it and serves as a kitchen of sorts, with a few microwaves, coffee makers and a sink, some cupboards stacked with snacks and mugs bearing the firm’s logo, as well as a couple refrigerators for employees to stash our own food and another one overflowing with goodies.
It’s all set up this way so that that lunch meetings can be held here for a captive audience. And the managing partners make no bones about the fact that they provide associates with free soda, gourmet coffee, snacks and often even lunch so that we have no excuse to leave the office. Their goal is to make it so that we will have more time to bill many hours for them.
Reminding myself to focus on my job and not on my ex or my co- workers, I pick up a hoagie and a Coke and try to figure out where to sit. Damn. I don't see Mystery Man among those milling around. I eye the long, rectangular tables and their occupants, hating have to make decisions such as these.
The Barbies from the bathroom are already here, sitting together on one end of a table. Now that I’m able to see their entire bodies, it’s obvious that they look like twigs compared to me. It’s probably because they spend all their time discussing my alleged cankles instead of eating.
Beside them is a male associate who looks rather nerdy and boring. It seems obvious that he always hangs out with the Barbies, as if he's trying to either have sex with them and/or copy the legal pleadings that they write. Or maybe his social and career ambitions align and he hopes to do a bit of both.
Continuing to look around the room for any other options as to where to sit, I remind myself that I need to network with the partners. But I don’t know too many of them yet, and I feel awkward standing around in my tight- fitting business suit squinting at their unfamiliar faces. So I sit down beside Monique, the friendly office manager, who’s about the only woman in the room bigger than I am.
“Hi Madilyn,” she says to me, waiving a manicured hand.
Then she turns back to a real estate lawyer on her left, with whom she is discussing dogs.
“They still like to go for a jaunt in the mornings, but they’re getting old.”
She faces me again and says, “Madilyn, you have a dog, don't you?”
“Yes,” I answer, “She’s a…”
Someone sits down to my right, and I briefly glance at him.
Oh my God.
It’s Mystery Man.
He has excellent po
sture, sitting up straight and looking important. Now that I see what other lawyers around here are wearing I can tell that the outfit I thought was so rebellious is really just the office wardrobe for male lawyers whose schedules are cleared of court for the day.
So Mystery Man must be a lawyer after all and some kind of a senior partner to boot. But still, he wears his clothes differently— better— than the rest of them. He has a debonair air about him that seems to say he doesn’t give a fuck.
"…rottie mix,” I finish.
“I have Shepherds too,” Mystery Man suddenly announces.
I turn back towards him and smile.
He’s staring at me.
“That’s nice,” I reply, trying to place him from somewhere other than today.
His face is handsome and chiseled, sun-exposed but still youthful despite his age. There’s no doubt he’s sexy, and powerful. Although the same could be said of almost any senior partner at this firm, he stands out head and shoulders above them all— not only because of his height but also because of the aura he exudes.
“In fact, I have two Shepherds and a Rottweiler,” he says, warmly.
He’s obviously a dog lover, as am I.
“No way,” I say, dropping my professional demeanor as I become excited about the similarities. “Mine is actually a Rottie/ Shepherd mix.”
He beams, and I suddenly realize that all the Barbies are staring at me with their mouths wide open.
Then I realize who I’m talking to.
Asher Marks is sitting beside me. And he’s acting like we’re old friends.
I momentarily freeze, but as soon as I snap back to reality, I can’t help but sneak a peek back over at the Barbies. Their perfectly lipsticked mouths are still hanging open, as they stare at me in obvious disbelief.
“I’m Asher Marks,” he says, extending a hand for me to shake.
“I…” know, I want to say.
I know. I’ve heard so much about you. Most of it just a few minutes ago, as I was hiding in a bathroom stall.
But I catch myself just in time.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Marks. I’m Madilyn St. Clair.”
“I know,” he says, not bothering to catch himself like I did.
He stares straight at me, as if he’s reading my mind.
“I know who you are,” he repeats.
The chill from this morning returns to me. I remind myself to use good posture and try to sit up straight like him. I feel super uncomfortable and wish I had either gone shopping for a bigger suit or lost a good ten pounds before I started this job. I'm still trying to squeeze into suits from my summer clerking job during law school— when I was thinner— and denying that it's time to upgrade to a bigger size.
Asher continues staring into my eyes, clearly not as concerned with my wardrobe issues as I am. The way he looks at me makes me feel a lot sexier than I feel.
“You're the new associate, and you clerked at Roybal Wilson & Maine last summer. Our firm wasn’t smart enough to snatch you up the first time around. But once I saw your resume during your 3L year, I made sure to rectify the situation.
“You…?” I begin, yet trail off yet again.
Asher Marks saw my resume?
He’s the reason I have this job?
“Well, thank you,” is all I can think of to say.
“Don’t thank me,” he says. “It’s for the good of the firm. We need associates like you around here. I think you’ll do very well.”
I nod my head and look up as Cameron Sanchez, one of the named partners at the firm, approaches the head of the table and starts the meeting. It appears that the purpose is to introduce the new associates, and that means me. I can’t allow myself to slip into fantasy land.
As Mr. Sanchez starts talking, I’m conscious of Asher Marks by my side— and of the fact that the Barbies keep whispering and pointing— but I try not to act as flustered as I feel. There are people to listen to and look at and try to impress, which is my job as a junior associate and so I turn to the task at hand.
Maybe later I’ll think more about Asher— professionally, of course, I chide myself, reminding myself that I can’t be as bad as the Barbies when it comes to mixing work with pleasure— but right now is not the time.
Chapter 8 – Asher
Cameron Sanchez— who I call Ron and who has been with me since I started this firm many years ago— gives his introductory talk about the firm’s history, philosophy and values. I’ve heard this fucking speech many times and it’s not aimed at me. So I keep my attention on Madilyn, who sits beside me taking notes on her laptop.
She’s conscious of my presence. I can feel it. She does a good job of trying to be intent on her note- taking, but she has her tells that let me know that she knows I’m here. She taps her foot now and then before catching herself.
She smooths down her luxurious dark brown hair that I plan to run my fingers through, just as soon as she lets me. And I know she’ll let me. Her hands shake a little bit as she types.
She is everything I love in a woman. Studious, intelligent, confident, yet eager for approval. And sexy as fuck.
I can’t stop staring at her curves. Her black skirt hugs her lovely hips perfectly, just like I plan to. Her blouse reveals just a tiny peak of cleavage but I know she’ll show me more eventually. Her dark brown eyes are inquisitive and curious but they’re also mysteriously beautiful.
When I first sat down next to her, she looked surprised that I know who she is. Then when we started talking she looked even more surprised to find out that I had essentially hired her.
Damn right I do.
Damn right I had.
This is my firm. Some lawyer friends helped me with the logistical details of getting it off the ground and they run the place during my frequent absences— I’m an outdoors guy and can’t stand the confines of a year- round office— but everyone knows that it wouldn’t be a fucking firm without me. None of the partnership shares would be as big.
Nothing gets done without my say so. And no one gets hired without my input.
I wanted to hire Madilyn St. Clair from the moment I saw her resume. I didn’t interview her, but I saw her walk through the office on her way to Ron Sanchez’ office, and I was glad I had listened to my initial gut feeling to bring her in.
I can feel my cock growing hard just from thinking about fucking her. I know everything about her except what she looks like with her naked ass up in the air while I spank it. But that’s about to change.
“And now I’d like to introduce Asher Marks, without whom nothing you see here would be possible,” says Ron, from the front of the conference room. “Asher, I’ll let you take it from here.”
I’m annoyed that my fantasy about Madilyn was interrupted. But I can wait to indulge myself in pleasure until after my business obligations are concluded. My job is calling, and I always do what it takes to answer, even though I’d love to languish in my thoughts of all the things I want to do— and will do— to Madilyn St. Clair.
I stand up and head to the front of the conference room, conscious of some female associates at the far end of one of the tables, who appear to be salivating over me. Candace Smith, Mandy Calderon and Tara Mason.
They were all decent candidates for associates, but none of them are made of the stuff that Madilyn is— intellectually or physically. I don’t want any of them in the same way I want her. Joseph Miller, a mediocre recruit from an out of state law school, sits by them, wanting to do to any of those three girls the same thing that it’s really fucking obvious all of them want me to do to them.
I nod in Joseph’s direction, and he straightens up, a shit eating grin on his face that says, He noticed me.
What I wanted to convey to him with the look I threw him was more along the lines of, Good luck, buddy. They’re all yours.
I pat Ron on the shoulder and he sits down.
“Thank you for that introduction, Cameron,” I say, using his full name that Ron goes by at th
e firm and with everyone other than his close friends like me. “That was too kind.”
I look out at the audience: twenty- five new associates eager to rise to the top. Some of them eager to get there by any means possible, including, for the female population, being mentored by me, and everything that might entail.
I know that some of them— including Candace, Mandy, and Tara— and maybe Joe, too— would want to be my mentee even if it isn’t a surefire path to partnership or lateraling to another good firm. Which it is— because I make sure it always is— but some just consider the career benefits a bonus and what they’re really after are my domineering ways and my larger than average cock.
I know I have a certain reputation. I like it that way. Nothing happens here that I don’t fucking want and like. Everyone knows that.
What I want right now— and for the foreseeable future— is Madilyn St. Clair. And everyone is about to find that out.
Chapter 9 – Asher
I click a button on the laptop in front of me, which starts a slideshow on the projector above my head.
“Welcome to the law firm of Marks, Sanchez & Reed,” I begin. “Here on the screen you can see our first office. We set up shop in the Northeast Heights when we couldn’t afford downtown real estate and when Albuquerque was only half the size it is now.”
I click a button, and our current building appears on the screen. It’s the tallest one in Albuquerque, and the firm name appears across the top of it.
“While this firm bears my name as first and foremost on its letterhead, I couldn’t have gotten here without— as the Beatles say— a little help from my friends.”
I click forward to a photo of me and Ron Sanchez and Jim— whose full name is Jameson— Reed, at a black tie fundraising gala last year. And then to a photo of the three of us twenty years ago, toasting to the news that we had settled a big case and had enough money to move to a new and better office.
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