“Scor—scoring position,” I try again. “And a sac fly by Rodriguez cashed in the seventh run—Oh my God. Oh God.”
His thumb is torturing me. It’s killing me. He’s strumming my clit so fast and hard I think I might die. I writhe against the counter but he’s got me pinned, his hips holding me in place, arms bracketing me. “Read.”
“I can’t. I can’t. I can—” Shudders roll over me as I come, twisting and grinding on his hand, broken cries muffled as I bury my face in the crook of my arm. I feel wetness on my inner thighs, the huff of Eli’s breath behind my ear as he eases up, stroking me carefully as I calm.
“Well,” he muses thoughtfully. “It looks like somebody’s a liar.”
I’m too weak to argue with him. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Eli.” I step on his foot, still straddling mine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Caitlin. I just wanted to hear the recap.” I moan when I feel his cock at my entrance, forging in carefully. I’m 99 percent certain I can’t come anymore. I’m worn-out. “This okay?” Eli asks, tucking my hair behind my ear in an oddly sweet gesture.
I nod limply.
“Good. Now let’s find out what else you don’t do, shall we?”
Chapter Ten
By the time Eli drops me off at home on Sunday night, I’m thoroughly fucked and completely exhausted. He’d found it impossible to believe I’d never spent an entire rainy weekend doing nothing but lounging around, eating whatever food we could have delivered and screwing our brains out, but it’s true. This may or may not be what the partners intended when they told me to relax, but as I slump against the shower wall and force myself to wash my hair, it occurs to me that I don’t care either way.
My laissez-faire attitude lasts until I stride into the elevator the next morning with a group of second years. Their animated chatter ceases the instant I get on. I ignore them and punch the button for thirty-two; I’m used to conversations dying when I enter a room. Everyone’s too intimidated to speak in front of me, worried about what I’ll say or do, concerned I might try to steal their case. What they’re too naive to realize is that I already have all the good cases; if they have something, it’s because I didn’t want it in the first place.
The second years disembark on thirty-one and as soon as they do I hear snide murmurs of “It’s not who you know, it’s who you do,” and “Thank goodness there’s now a visual aid!” It might be presumptuous to assume the remarks are about me, but I’ve been gossiped about enough to know when I’m the subject of discussion. My suspicions are validated when I step out of the elevator one floor later and a dozen sets of eyes quickly leap from me to any other random point in the room. I scan the carefully neutral faces of secretaries and lawyers, but no one will meet my gaze, and Belinda, the only person who might tell me something, isn’t at her desk.
I pass three male lawyers as I head to my office, and one mutters, “That’s quite the résumé, Dufresne.” The trio snickers but doesn’t stop, and I ignore them, stopping in the break room for a bottle of water, interrupting two lawyers midconversation. I plaster on my politest smile and ask if they know what’s going on. They look at me blankly and I open my water, letting them know I’m not leaving without answers. “Everyone’s talking,” I say casually. “What about?”
They exchange a decidedly less blank look, then one—her name might be Karen—looks back at me. “We saw the...slideshow,” she says flatly.
“Excuse me?”
Another look. “Let’s just say it was very enlightening,” the other lawyer—Jessica?—adds.
“What slideshow?”
They smirk in unison. “Your ‘body of work,’” Karen says snidely. “When you see the pictures organized like this, it’s terribly...revealing.”
Jessica snickers at what I’m sure she thinks is a witty play on words, and something awful washes over me. Horror. Uncertainty. Betrayal. “Where is it?” I demand, my voice preternaturally calm, even as my mind churns up a lurid display of explicit, graphic—vulnerable—images. Because even as my brain tells me I’m being ridiculous, another part, the part that has gotten me to the top of one of the most cutthroat businesses in the world, tells me I’m not. That part reminds me it’s kill or be killed, strike first or not at all. Too good to be true, and not true at all. And I can’t help but think of Eli’s too-tidy apartment, with no personal touches. So perfect and pristine, almost like a showroom. Like a stage. But he wouldn’t...would he?
“Everywhere,” Jessica replies. “You’ll see. Everyone else has.”
“Congratulations, Caitlin,” Karen adds. “You deserve this. Really. See you in the meeting.”
They leave and I pull my phone out of my purse with shaking hands. I try to navigate to Eli’s number, but things are starting to blur. I shove the phone back in the bag and stalk down the hall to my office, ignoring the stares and muttered comments, coming to an abrupt halt when I find an enormous bouquet of blood-red roses waiting on my desk. I pluck the card from between the stems, trying three times to grasp it before it comes free. “To help pass the time,” it reads. No signature.
The card falls to the floor and I leave it there, hurrying around my desk and dropping into my chair before my legs give out. I try to be rational, to tell myself there’s a better explanation than the one I’m assuming. Why? I ask myself. Why would he do this? And where is this freaking slideshow?
I turn on my computer and mutter to myself as I wait for my emails to load. If everyone saw it, it had to have been emailed to the staff directory. But when I scan my messages, there’s nothing there. Was it sent to everyone but me? I watch people milling around outside, and know I can’t ask any of them for answers. The only person who doesn’t completely hate me is Belinda, and that’s because I still owe her Bulls tickets.
I feel nauseous and dizzy as I retrieve my phone and focus on the screen, pulling up Eli’s name and punching in a terse message. I know it would be better to start the conversation more casually, but my rational side is turned off, and all I feel is panic, betrayal and fury. What was it my dad used to say? “Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed?” I let my guard down for one fucking weekend and this is the result. I hit Send hard enough to hurt my thumb, the message disappearing into the ether. Who did you tell?
I turn so my back is to the office and stare outside at the neighboring buildings. The morning sun reflects off their shiny facades, but I’m too stressed to admire the view. My father’s words come back to me, “It’s lonely at the top.” Well. It sure as fuck is when there’s a “slideshow” of you floating around, and no one will let you see it.
I jump when my phone beeps with a response from Eli. About what?
Why is there a slideshow?
Of what?
Just tell me why.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I picture him yukking it up with Todd and his khaki-wearing friends, snickering over pictures of me reading the sports page while he fucks me from behind. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Right? I don’t want to jump to conclusions but the sickly sweet smell of the flowers is making my stomach churn.
You betrayed me, I type.
A long pause, then: Caitlin. What the fuck are you talking about
A tear sneaks out and trickles down the side of my nose, hovering on my top lip. I call up my reserves of strength and indignation to stem the waterworks that so desperately want to be let loose, and wipe it away. You took pictures of me this weekend, I write. And you shared them with the office. Just tell me why.
Another pause. Where are they?
A chill washes over me when he responds to my question with a question, and not an explanation. Why would you do this?
Let me see the pictures.
Did someone ask you to
do it? Was it all a setup? Whose apartment was that?
I do nothing but stare at my phone and watch the seconds tick by. Twenty-five minutes later it vibrates in my hand with a new message from Eli. Meet me in the stairwell.
A split second later, another message: Now.
I can barely breathe, but I force myself to drag in gulps of air until my hands stop shaking. Or shake less, at least. I snatch up two tissues and shove them in my jacket pocket. Heads turn as I walk purposefully to the fire door in the far corner of the office. My black heels click ominously across the floor, and the bravado of smug coworkers dissipates in the face of my determination. It’s no secret none of them really like me, but because there was no way to know how long I’d be here, it had been in their best interests to stifle their contempt. With the LA move now on the horizon, they’re more open in their dislike, even as I give them cases they don’t deserve and will probably fuck up.
“Caitlin,” Belinda calls when I pass her desk.
“Not now.”
“The Monday meeting is about—”
“This won’t take long.” I never stop moving, using my shoulder to force open the heavy metal door marked Stairs. Until the partners had implemented their stupid summer hours, I’d never had occasion to come in here. This is my second time, and Eli Grant has had a hand in both.
Speaking of which.
He’s standing half a flight down on the landing, hands jammed into his pockets. His cheeks are pink and he looks coldly furious when I storm down the steps. “You figure it out yet?” he asks.
I grip the banister so hard my knuckles turn white, ignore his question and ask, “Why?” with a voice that almost doesn’t tremble.
His dark gaze rakes over me from head to toe, expression never changing. “What do you think happened?”
“Why is there a slideshow?” I snap, wincing inwardly at my shrill tone. I cannot let him know this hurts. I can’t let any of them see. They’ll enjoy it too much, and I’ll never give them the satisfaction. I gag a little when he tugs his phone out of his pocket and casually scrolls through the screens, then holds it out for me to see. I try to take it but he holds on, forcing me to stand next to him as I look.
And frown.
“What is this?”
“Your slideshow.” His voice is entirely devoid of emotion, but I’m too confused to care. It’s an email with an attachment that opens up a slideshow composed mainly of photos of various men I’ve dated or am rumored to have dated. There are several politicians, a few professors, two judges, half a dozen professional athletes, Lee Haines, and Alex Ripley, a retired lawyer who now tours the country giving sold-out speaking engagements.
The photos scroll by with snide captions like “Tight end...or not” next to a football player I met at a charity dinner, and “How to Get an A” next to a Northwestern professor I went out with a few times. The most perplexing caption is Ripley’s. I’ve never met the man and his caption reads “Practice makes perfect.”
“So now you know,” Eli says, putting away the phone.
I stare at him. “Where did this come from?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
I back up at the sudden vehemence in his tone. “I don’t—I’m not sure—”
He takes a step toward me, then two back. “You couldn’t have asked someone, Caitlin? You couldn’t have asked any of the hundred lawyers in there what the slideshow was? You had to jump to conclusions and ask me why I’d documented our weekend? And then shared it with the people we work with?”
“The flowers...”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “What flowers?”
“Someone sent me flowers. The note said, To help pass the time. And your apartment was so clean, like a set—”
His laughter holds no trace of humor. “Oh, this keeps getting better! Now I’m not just some asshole who takes pictures of women, but I built a whole set so I could film the thing and share it with everybody?”
“I—”
“I was fucking good to you, Caitlin. You know I was. I treated you well all weekend. Not like the woman everybody hates, but you. You.” It can’t be easy to imbue a single syllable with this much disgust, but Eli manages it, and I can’t hide my wince.
“I’m sorry. I panicked.” I try to touch his arm but he pulls away.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re so fucking full of yourself. You’re the most selfish woman I’ve ever met. I can’t believe I thought—” He shakes his head.
“Thought what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Caitlin.” He brandishes the phone like an example. “That I could be part of your long list of conquests.”
“They’re not all—”
“I’m done.”
“Eli, wait. Don’t leave before—”
He stops, halfway to the next floor, and looks back at me. “For the record, I didn’t take any pictures. I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t send you flowers. And it’s safe to assume I never will.”
He storms out on the next level and I slump against the wall, feeling somehow worse than when I’d come in. I try to understand what happens to me when I’m with Eli, why I can’t argue back the way I’ve done a thousand times in court, winning unwinnable cases, convincing people to see things my way. But when I’m faced with Eli—whether he’s happy or angry or somewhere in between—I can’t seem to make a solid case for myself.
And then it comes to me: Eli’s the only person who treats me like an actual person. My coworkers, opposing counsel, everyone I interact with sees only Caitlin Dufresne, the best in the game. Caitlin Dufresne, steals cases. Caitlin Dufresne, sleeps with higher-ups for professional advantages. Eli either didn’t know or didn’t care about any of that. He wasn’t thinking about anything but me when we were together. And now he doesn’t need to believe the rumors. Doesn’t need to hear the whispers. He’s formed his own opinion, based on only the things I’ve said and done, and he hates me.
And I really can’t blame him.
* * *
The conference room is its own brand of organized chaos. The meeting has yet to begin but the din of a dozen separate conversations fades when I step through the door. Instantly my eyes lock on Alex Ripley. I’ve never been to one of his lectures, but he’s well-known and his photos do him justice. He’s a handsome early fifties, looking every bit the part of a stuffy English professor in his brown jacket and elbow patches, starched white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, no tie.
I return his smile for a number of reasons. One, it’s polite, and he’s the guest of honor. Two, fuck everyone in this room and their backbiting and whispers. Practice makes perfect? Fine. If petty little slideshows are what they want to excel at, let them. I have better things to do.
“Caitlin.” I look away from Ripley when Haines approaches, touching my elbow briefly to indicate I should follow him into the hall, away from prying eyes.
“I didn’t know we had a guest,” I say when we’re alone.
Haines looks equal parts uncomfortable and angry, and, as usual, he gets right to the point. “I saw the email.”
I nod. I haven’t done anything wrong, but it’s still hard to meet his gaze. And it’s a little awkward to know that he watched a slideshow of men I’m rumored to have slept with, his photo among them.
But he surprises me when he offers a gruff, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re what?”
He firms his jaw. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who put together that slideshow, but we’ll find out. I know people are talking about it. If they give you a hard time, let me know and I’ll deal with them.”
Right on cue, Karen and Jessica step into the hall, look around, and spot me with Haines. He glances over his shoulder and jerks his chin to indicate they should return to the conference room, but not before I
see their terrified stares. They think I’m ratting them out, those losers. Ha.
“Nothing so far.”
He knows I’m lying, but doesn’t press. “I didn’t know about your...history with Alex Ripley, or I would have given you notice of his arrival. It was only decided on Friday, and since you were unable to access your email, you couldn’t have seen the memo.”
“We don’t have a history. I’ve never met him.”
“You—Oh. I just thought...”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Lee.”
“Guys?” Don Sterling sticks his head into the hall. “We’re ready.”
Haines studies me. “You’re okay with this?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll find the source, and they’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
“I appreciate that.” But I don’t, not really. I only care about who didn’t do this, and it’s too late to do much about it.
“It’s already been pulled off the server,” Haines adds, holding open the door to the conference room for me to enter first.
“That was fast.”
“IT called ten minutes ago and said they’d found and deleted the messages. It’s still on a few personal computers, I’m sure, but not for much longer.”
“Thank you.”
I find an empty seat at the end of the long table, and squeeze in alongside thirty other senior associates and the partners. I’m opposite Ripley, who shoots me another smile. I return it absently, replaying the morning’s timeline. I arrived at the office at seven, and learned of the pictures within ten minutes. Texted Eli. We met in the stairwell shortly before eight. The twenty-five minute gap in our conversation was him coming to the office and following up on my accusations. Then he’d figured out what the hell I was talking about, solved the problem, come upstairs, explained things and dumped me.
I tune back in to hear Sterling introduce Ripley. Professor Emeritus at Yale and author of seven bestselling law books, he now tours the country conducting sold-out speaking engagements, discussing various points of law. He usually has a prominent lawyer from each city he visits join him for the session, and people would kill to be the one he invites. I glance around the room. Louis Wexler was involved in a major win for the energy lobbyists last year; I’d expect him to be Ripley’s pick, but he’s not even here.
In Her Defense Page 11