by Eva Luxe
I'd just looked at her, before finally finding the nerve to confess a secret even worse than the fact that I'm still a virgin.
"I… don't exactly know how to do that, either," I'd finally said.
"What?" she'd exclaimed, her eyes growing wide. "You don't masturbate?"
"It's not that I never have," I'd told her. "I just… haven't had the best luck so I don't get what it's all about."
"Girl, you've got to be kidding me," she'd said, standing up.
She went over to her bedside table, pulled something out of a drawer, and came back.
"Here," she said, handing me a silver, egg-shaped contraction wrapped in plastic. "Don't ever say I never gave you anything."
"What is this?"
I'd held the egg in my hand, realizing that I had an idea what it was, but feeling rather embarrassed.
"It's a magic bullet," she'd said. "Your own personal vibrator. Don't worry— I haven't used it. I just ordered a new one from Simple Pleasures because I wore my old one out. That’s how much I masturbate. And it’ll be hard not to have another one for a little while. But for you, I can wait and order a new one."
"Oh, my God," I'd said, blushing. "I can't believe you just have these things laying around."
"Whatever," she'd said, rolling her eyes at my innocence, as usual. "There are entire sex toy parties based off these things now. I'm hardly the only woman in America with a vibrator— or six— in my bedside stand."
"Six?"
"Riley," she'd told me, shaking her head. "Just try it. You'll love it. I promise."
So here I am. After way too much wine and too little sleep, I'd woken up at Brynn's house at five a.m. and bolted home. I hate trying to sleep after I've had too much to drink— I always wake up early and can never go back to sleep.
After lying down in my own bed and trying to fall back asleep for a while, I gave up. There's still half an hour before I have to start getting ready for work, so I take the "magic bullet" out of my purse and stare at it.
This is really it. My first orgasm. Here it comes.
I lie back on my pillow and spread my legs. I hit the "on" switch and put the vibrator up to my clit.
Mmmmm. That does feel good…
It hums against me, cold and metallic as it works its magic. I suppose it’s aptly named. I still feel silly getting so up close and personal with an inanimate object. I decide to think about Charles.
But I can't. After trying to picture him, all I can think of is the text he’d sent me last night, which had let me know once again exactly how unimportant I am to him. Not to mention the fact that he’d never followed up with another text.
How I wish I could be with a different guy— one who appreciates me and who wants me to be pleasured. Not just someone who is with me because his dad wants him to be. Because he's used to life being handed to him on a silver platter and to doing whatever Daddy wants, to make Daddy happy and his own life easier.
I can't think about that right now, though. I have an orgasm to accomplish.
Instead, I try to conjure up images of celebrities I think are hot. Muscular, toned guys— strong and courageous and not afraid to take risks. The exact opposite of Charles.
Finally, I feel a tingling down below. It feels like a small current of electricity. I draw my breath in, waiting for something more.
But nothing else comes.
I stop the vibrator.
Was that it?
Damn it. I don’t even know.
I was expecting erupting fireworks, but that was just a little fizz.
I should keep going. Try again.
I know that if Brynn was here she'd be saying, "Don't give up. You deserve this."
But it's time to get ready for work. At least I felt something. It was a step in the right direction.
I wash the vibrator and open the drawer of my bathroom sink to put it away. I place it inside an old makeup bag that has a bright red and turquoise elephant print on it, and then, just for good measure, I cover it up with a tin box that holds barrettes. If for some reason any guest ever needs to use this bathroom, hopefully they’ll never find my dirty little secret.
I'll have to try it again another time. Maybe it's one of those things I'll get better at with practice.
For now, it's time to go to work, and see Charles, and start dealing with things I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with.
The tough guys I was thinking of just a moment ago are only for fantasy. My real life awaits.
Chapter 2 – Riley
When I get to work, Charles is nowhere to be found. I try to nonchalantly meander on over to his office to look for him, but a fellow associate named Trina stops me before I can even get there.
"Looking for Charles?" she asks, grinning.
Damn it.
She is so not the person I want to see right now. She's always had a crush on Charles and I'm sure she's taking great pleasure in the fact that I'm unsuccessfully trying to track him down.
"I just needed to talk to him about a case," I say quickly, defensively, as if I had indeed seen or at least spoken to my boyfriend last night as planned, and just need to talk business this morning.
"I see," she says, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow to show she doesn't believe me. "Well, I doubt he'll be in any time before noon. We had quite the night last night."
"You—?"
I trail off, trying not to sound surprised.
What is she talking about?
"Oh yeah, after the Westin Invitational— it's a shame you don't golf, by the way; it's a great way for female associates to be able to woo clients just like the male associates do, and there are some real hotties on the course as well— we took some clients to Closed Door."
She laughs, as if she had just told me that she and my boyfriend had taken clients shopping at Walmart, rather than to the seediest strip club in town.
"Oh, he didn't tell you?" she asks, with pity, reading the look on my face.
From the way she’s smirking at me, I can tell she suspected I didn’t know, and that she’s happy to have her suspicions confirmed.
"I—"
I begin, but I don't really have anything to say. I'm completely taken off guard.
"It's okay," she says, her lip pouting as if trying to be friendly. "I know a lot of— girlfriends— is that what you still are to him?— aren't into the strip club scene so he probably didn't want to hurt your feelings and tell you. I left at about midnight because I had to finish up the Colvert case briefing but he was still partying hard with a few of the clients and a lot of the dancers. That's why I'm betting he won't be in any time soon. Not that he has to— being the boss' son and all, you know?"
"Thanks for letting me know," I tell her, as if I'm truly grateful when clearly I'm not.
I'm about to tell her I have a lot to do this morning anyway, so I'll just catch him this afternoon. But suddenly it hits me. I'm sick of taking crap from other people about my "relationship" with Charles.
"I'm sure his dad will be happy to hear that you guys were keeping the clients entertained," I tell her, with a grin as fake as the one she was just flashing at me.
"Oh, I don't think there's any reason to fill him in on that," she says, with a nervous giggle.
Jack Holt likes when his son entertains clients but there’s no doubt he wouldn’t approve of the strip club aspect of last night’s entertainment. He’s notorious for saying his son lacks judgment and decency sometimes. Trina and I both know that Jack would not be happy to hear about their exploits last night.
As if on cue, Jack’s secretary Cindy rounds the corner. Jack Holt has assistants that will track down anyone he needs, at any time, but when Cindy—who has been with him for over twenty years and is his main secretary who can’t usually be bothered to do such dirty work— is looking for an associate, we know it’s serious business.
"Oh, there you are, Riley," she says, shaking her head nervously. "Mr. Holt has been looking for you. He would like to talk to you in
Conference Room B."
Trina looks scared, so I wink at her, as if to tell her I'll be filling in Mr. Holt on everything.
Secretly, though, I'm just as scared as Cindy looks. Cindy coming to get me can only mean that Jack wants to do my evaluation today, and from the nervous look on Cindy’s face, I can tell it won't be completely smooth sailing.
Today just keeps going from bad to worse.
Chapter 3 – Riley
I take a deep breath and then knock on the door of the conference room and Mr. Holt nods at me.
"Come in, Riley," he says, as if I've wasted his time by having his secretary look for me, when I didn't even know I was supposed to be here.
I was aware that there was a round of associate evaluations coming up but I didn't know when exactly mine would be. The partners like to do it this way, to keep us guessing. They’ve definitely achieved that purpose.
“Good morning, Mr. Holt,” I say to him, but he just nods at me without answering.
I look around, remembering when I first interviewed for this job in this very conference room. And how I was so excited when I found out I had gotten it. I was so naïve back then, thinking it would be a picnic, when sometimes it's more like Hell.
I’m supposedly an up and coming lawyer at this law firm of Holt, Mason and Davis. My goal has been to make partner within the next couple of years. And I think I’ve achieved my goal so far, since I’m not only on the partnership track but according to my bi-annual evaluations, I’m doing sprints around all my fellow associates.
Except for Charles, of course. But he doesn’t have to make much of an effort, considering that he’s Jack Holt's son.
Now that I realize the stringent requirements that exist for everyone except Charles, I'm beginning to wonder if my career is really as secure as I used to think it was. It doesn't seem as if interviewing and getting the job is cutting it anymore. Instead, all associates are subject to strict evaluations and "suggestions" for improvement.
I'm beginning to wonder if I can ever possibly keep up with all the hoops they make associates jump through, or if they even have any intention of making us partners. Maybe their goal is to just find reasons we're not good enough so they can string us along as billable hour drones for seven years before cutting us loose to go work at some second-rate insurance defense firm.
"I'm going to keep this performance evaluation short and sweet, Riley," Mr. Holt says, as soon as I sit down, without bothering with any kind of standard pleasantries first. “Your billable hours are great, your work is solid, your networking is as expected."
I nod, glad that all my hard work is being recognized.
“But your pro bono hours are not on track with the other associates’, and the only misgivings expressed by any partner have related to your fit here with the firm," he continues, making me feel crestfallen.
“My fit?” I ask, squirming in the oversized leather chair in the large conference room that is occupied only by Mr. Holt and myself.
I want to ask how I'm supposed to find time to do pro bono hours— volunteering to represent clients for free— when I've already billed more hours than any other associate. But I assume he expects me to figure that out on my own.
And I'm intrigued— although dismayed— by his use of the word “fit.” I need to fit in at the firm; I need to make it work. My parents had spent a lot of money on law school and would be furious at me if they knew I don’t make partner because I don't “fit in.”
“There’s another thing. As you know, Riley, this firm has a strong and proud military tradition,” Mr. Holt continues. “And you’re the only associate who doesn’t have some tie with the military.”
I think about it and realize he's right: many of the partners had served in the military before going to law school, and many of the associates are in the Reserves. There are lawyers who had gone to West Point, the Air Force Academy, who had been in JAG before being hired by the firm, and who regularly volunteer at the VA, helping with disability cases or access to health care.
Except for your son, I want to point out to Mr. Holt, because Charles is the only other associate with absolutely no connection to the military. But he doesn't count.
Mr. Holt rarely speaks of my relationship with Charles at work, but when he does, it's to repeat his favorite line that he’s glad his son hooked himself to a rising star: that I'm good for Charles and can keep him on track. I know he says similar things to Charles in private, and I know that's one of the main reasons that Charles and I are still together.
The unspoken assumption is that the normal rules of associate standards don't apply to Charles. He's expected to go to happy hours and golf tournaments with the partners and important firm clients, not slave away as a billable hour slave like the rest of us. And apparently, he doesn't need to have any military connection, although everyone else, including me, needs to meet that requirement.
It's not fair, but such is life.
If Mr. Holt says I need to have some connection to the military, and that I need to volunteer more pro bono hours to be a good fit for the firm, then that's exactly what I'll do. He's clearly signaling that I should kill two birds with one stone and volunteer in some capacity that helps the military.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Holt," I tell him, always the eager-to-please associate. "And I'll get right on it. Don't worry."
"I'm glad to hear that, Riley," he says, half smiling at me and then looking at his watch, clearly ready for the next victim— I mean, associate— who will take my seat for their performance evaluation. He picks up my file and bangs it lightly on the conference room table.
"I'll have my secretary add a note to your file that we've discussed these matters and you're rectifying the situation. I appreciate your diligence and obedience. I just wish I could say the same about my son. But he's been better with your influence, so hopefully you'll keep rubbing off on him."
There goes my plan to talk to Charles about breaking up yet again, I think, as I stand up to leave.
I nod at Mr. Holt.
"Thank you for the evaluation, and have a great day."
"Cindy?" he calls out, before I've even opened the door.
I guess he's so busy trying to tell his secretary that he's ready for the next evaluation that he can't even bid me a good day in return.
That's okay, though, because my day has already been ruined, and nothing Mr. Holt can say at this point will make it any better.
Chapter 4 – Jensen
"Mom? Mom!"
What the fuck?
How can this guy think he can treat my mom like this?
"Hey, you," I call to the guy, whose hair is long and greasy on the bottom and non-existent on top. "Knock it off."
"Or what?" he spits at me.
He’s cowering over her, pausing but not stopping his quest to exert his dominance over her not just emotionally but physically as well.
He's clearly drunk or high or just out of his mind because he's crazy. Who knows, with the kind of guys my mom likes to bring home with her.
Fuck.
How do I get myself into these situations?
One minute I'm balls deep in a blonde hottie I'd picked up at a bar, going at it like there's no tomorrow, making her moan, groan and call my name over and over and over. It's what I do— make women come.
But then the next minute, I'm face to face with one of the losers my mom likes to date. I guess that's also what I do, whether I like to admit it or not— clean up my mom's messes for her.
"Or I'll have to knock it off for you," I tell him.
He's not stopping, so I have to carry through on my word.
I’ve always been a man of my fucking word. I try not to make many promises, and to always keep those promises that I do make.
Before I know it, I'm in a rage, throwing fists, arms, kicking legs, feet— anything to get him to stop. And to make it clear how little I appreciate some loser who comes in and roughs up my mom.
"Jensen," my mo
m cries out, but I ignore her.
If she didn't want me to handle this, she never should have called me.
I’m surprised— but glad— that she managed to do it before things escalated too much. But now that she’s called me, she can’t expect me to just ignore her pleas for help because she changed her mind on a whim, or doesn’t want to upset this current Loser of the Week that she’s dating.
She should know by now that I'm not someone who idly sits around doing nothing. If someone I love— and yes, it's a strong word for my mom but I do love her; she's my mother, after all— needs help, I spring into action.
It's what I do. What I've always done. It's how I've done so well as a SEAL. I don't have awards for valor for nothing.
I keep going, pounding on the poor guy probably a bit longer than I have to, but he deserves it and plus, it feels cathartic. I get out the rage of my past, my present, my future. All of the ugliness I usually try to push aside comes crashing down on me and pushes itself out in a wave of ignition.
When the poor suck is lying in a fetal position on the ground, I finally stop and take a breath.
He’ll be all right, but I hope I’ve taught him a lesson.
"Jensen, I didn't mean for you to do that," Mom says, wringing her hands frantically. "Do you think I should call for help?"
"Do whatever you think is best for you," I tell her. "You always do anyway."
She looks at me, crying, and then turns to help him.
She always does that too. Chooses the loser over me.
I think about adding something else, but I don't. I just shake my head and walk back out the door, muttering to myself instead of out loud to her.
And maybe you should think about not doing things you don't mean to do, before you actually do them.
Chapter 5 – Riley
“Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”
An inmate in an orange jumpsuit presses up against the gate of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.