by Amy Faye
In spite of all the signs, all the hints, all the little things. No doubt he wrote them off as quirks, as her being energetic. Until the chrome wore off and underneath he saw that it was something else entirely, a big problem that wasn't going away and wasn't 'fun' or 'exciting.'
Eric didn't ask to deal with it, and he didn't deserve to be put into that position. So as much as I'd like to ask an adult to come fix my problems for me…
I can't. Mom's my problem.
Chapter Fourteen
I'm not made to wait long. I don't like waiting, but I accept it. It's part of my life. Part of my job. I've gotten used to it, for better or worse.
But when things come together, and waiting isn't necessary, it's perfect. The best feeling in the world. And just as soon as I've been guided to my table, there's barely time to get settled into my chair before the young man brings Autumn.
He's terribly professional, so he manages to hide the fact that he's interested in her well. I wonder for a moment if she even notices. I decide that she doesn't. He's probably flown right under her radar—if I pointed it out to her, then she'd either deny it, or at least act surprised.
On the other hand, it's little interactions like that, that drive men's interactions. Surrounding women especially, but in every other way as well.
Instinctively, I know what they want, and it makes me want it more. Nobody needs to make me want my former sister more than I already do. And nobody needs to tell me that I'm barking up the wrong tree.
Every part of this plan is a mistake, from the dating to the payoff. But I'm not worried about that. I've made plenty of mistakes in my time. This is just going to be another one, no different from the last ones.
I turn on my smile as she settles into her chair. "You get your thing taken care of?"
"It's not really something I can take care of. More of an ongoing project."
"Did you make any progress?"
"Talk to me about it in ten years," she says. She looks a little frustrated, though I can't tell with what. It's not me, I figure. If it was, then she wouldn't be trying to hide it. More than likely, she wouldn't have agreed to come at all.
She would have found some excuse to call off the date, even if it was at the last minute, after I'd already sat down at the table. Oh, my cat's sick. Need to go to the vet. I have to wash my hair tonight. I'm not feeling great.
Some other time maybe.
But this was different. She was annoyed by something that had come up and gotten in the way of what she really wanted to do, and I can't imagine that it's a coincidence that the same day she takes off from work early, she's annoyed at something that came up all of a sudden.
"You want to talk about it?"
She looks up from the menu sharply. "Talk about it? Nothing to talk about."
"Okay," I say, my voice not hiding the fact that I know she's full of shit. She can lie to me all she likes. It's not something I'm taking seriously. I knew to expect it.
"What's good here?"
"What's good? They've got a great pizza. Very traditional Italian. Good stuffed pasta. Decent lasagna if you want something more traditional. But I have to tell you, if you were on the menu, I'd take you over any of that."
She looks up at me, an eyebrow raised. Her lips are pressed together to hide the halfway-smirk.
"Oh yeah?"
"That's how it is."
She's not hiding the smile as well any more, or she's given up on trying. "I'll keep that in mind when they ask about dessert."
"We'll get it to go."
"That's good thinking," she says. Her voice sounds smooth.
I don't know if she was planning on accepting my offer from the minute that I asked her to dinner, or if she's just playing along. Or maybe she just made up her mind as I asked, and she hadn't thought about it.
Whatever it is, I have to admit that I like this part of her. It's a lead-in to the parts that I don't like—the reality is that it's all part of a trap, whether she knows it or not.
Some women like to make bad decisions, just to prove that they can. They want the attention, so they get it however possible.
But just as many of them are on a constant roller coaster, and they keep insisting that they'll get off as soon as they can, that they hate the roller coaster and they just want smooth sailing.
Then they keep getting back on, in spite of themselves. As if they really liked the roller coaster all along, no matter how much they might claim otherwise. It's impossible to say which is which, and both insist to being totally ignorant victims of circumstance.
"You know, Eric—"
I look up. She's still looking at her menu, in a strange, hyper-focused way. The way that she scans isn't to read the menu—though she may be reading it. It's also partway putting on a show of looking at the menu. As if the visual is as important as the rest.
"Hm?"
"I couldn't help but notice that your secretary and I look very similar."
"Is that so?"
I hadn't thought about it when I hired her. But when Autumn had walked in, it had all started to make sense. She'd reminded me, on some level, of attractive women. I wanted an attractive secretary.
"Practically identical."
"I think you're imagining things." Let her chew on that a minute.
"You really didn't notice?"
"Well—okay, I guess I see it a little. Passing resemblance. Shannon's a good girl."
"Just a passing resemblance?"
"Well, who knows. There could be big differences."
"Oh yeah?"
"We'll have to get you two together some time and do a side-by-side comparison."
"You don't know what she looks like very well?"
I hear the question she's really asking, even if she's not asking it very clearly.
"Not well at all. Then again, she's married, so—"
It had never stopped Deborah.
"Oh," she says, smiling. "So she's inoculated against your charms, then."
"You could definitely say that," I say, and I smile. "You're not married, are you, Autumn?"
"Your charms work fine on me," she says, not looking up. "You can bet on that."
Chapter Fifteen
'Coming up for drinks' is the oldest line in the world. I don't know if there was a time that you just went up and had a couple of drinks and went home, but if there was, that time is long-since passed.
It's a polite way of asking if someone wants to fuck. I don't know how I would answer if he asked me directly. I think I'd about die of embarrassment, first. Then I'd agree that I did.
Asking if I'd like to come up and have a drink in his apartment, on the other hand? No need for embarrassment. Just pretend that it doesn't mean 'do you want to fuck,' and go on up. Then it can be a big surprise when the kissing starts. Or at least, you can act like it is, which is the exact same thing.
The truth is, though, I did know. So when I step into his apartment, he flicks the lights on, and I settle into his couch, the only question on my mind is how long we're going to keep up the charade.
He steps into the kitchen and out of sight. I can hear the sound of glasses being filled from the couch. And then he comes back in.
The apartment reminds me of him, in different ways. It's a lived-in space. You could walk in and tell a lot about Eric from the place. It tells me a story of the past ten years that I don't know if I could have gotten otherwise. Little things that I wouldn't have asked.
Like how when I knew him, he was all classic rock—Bob Seger and Springsteen. Now he's got records hanging on the walls, still interested in music, but moved towards Miles Davis and Coltrane. It paints a story that you don't get without the apartment and the context.
He sets a drink in my hand. It's dark-colored and when I take some in my mouth it burns as it goes down.
"So how have you enjoyed your first month at the firm," he asks. As if we're just going to have a conversation. It's sweet.
"It's been a great time," I t
ell him. "Lots of eye-opening experiences."
"Good. I would hate to think that you would leave over something without giving me a chance to work on it."
I shake off the idea that he means something by it. I'm reading into the line too much. It's just chit-chat. Pretend-talk until we can get to the real business of why we both know we're here.
He presses in closer to me. Close enough for my mind to start filling in the blanks, for his scent to start filling my head, a haze coming through me. I can feel my chest heaving, and yet I can't stop myself.
Can he tell how badly I want him? His eyes focus on my lips. I pull one in between my teeth and let it out slow. His eyes tell me everything I need to know about how he takes it. The exact way I wanted it to be taken.
He leans in to take my lips with his. My phone buzzes, and for a split second I think about ignoring it. Something tells me that I shouldn't and I pull away.
"I'm sorry," I say. I check the line.
I don't recognize the number, but that feeling won't go away. That feeling of anxiety. Fear, even. Something's off. I answer the call.
"Autumn? It's me." My mother's voice on the other line sounds exactly like it always sounds. Like there's a big emergency and I'm going to have to drop everything. Usually the big emergency is nothing, just like it will be tonight.
"I don't have time for this. Where are you calling from?"
"Autumn, I've been arrested."
I look at Eric. He heard that, loud and clear. He pulls back and stands up.
I look at the clock on the wall, the records, the entire room that looks startlingly like the brother I'd always lusted after, just grown up.
"Yeah. I'll be right there."
Chapter Sixteen
The edge of arousal still digs in as I settle back into my favorite chair. Looking around, thinking about stereotypes and what you'd expect out of a chair, there's a lovely wing chair that looks like about the most comfortable thing you'll ever sit in.
My favorite is little and shabby and a kind of puke-colored green and it's the one right by the turntable. I'd think that it was just because of its placement, because I have to sit there if I don't want to get up every thirty minutes or so.
But the reality is, I've tried changing the room around and it doesn't work. Something about the green chair just sets me at ease, even though it's small and ugly and I could more than afford to replace it.
I set a record on the player and start it turning, set the needle down, and Ted Greene's guitar fills the room. Ease my head back.
So. Deb's been arrested.
I shouldn't smile. She's the kind of person who engages in that sort of behavior. If she were a client, I'd be frustrated out of my mind. But she's not a client, and in fact, I can't say I'd take her as a client if someone were to ask me.
She's the worst kind—almost certainly guilty, and totally unequipped to deal with what she's done and how to get out of it.
I don't mind a guilty man, not terribly, but at least give me someone who did it because they thought it through for even half an instant.
Deborah's like a child, who thought that it would be fine if she touched the stove. Only, she's got a memory like a goldfish, and three seconds later, what's that orange coil? It looks so wonderful, I think I'll touch it.
She never learns, and she always seems to feel bad just long enough to garner sympathy, but not long enough to learn any real lessons or prevent herself from doing it again. No, if she were to avoid the pain and avoid the injury, then she wouldn't be able to get people's sympathy as easily.
Still, it is good for me, I guess. Good that she's arrested. It opens avenues that I hadn't considered. Maybe I don't have to just go after Autumn and call it good. A feeling of something like relief surges through me. I could definitely do this. All I have to do is want to, and try hard enough.
For an instant, a feeling of relief surges through me. If I am going after Deborah, if she's in play, then I don't have to go after her daughter at all. Autumn's a good worker, an attractive woman.
I could do worse than her. A lot worse.
No, though, I decide. Not going to happen. Fruit of the poisonous tree. I might like her all I can like anyone, but I know how Deb was, when she wanted to be liked. It was all smiles, everyone thought she was great. Nobody would have begun to guess that she was who she was.
Her daughter might be different, but that was exactly how Deborah would do it, too. She's changed now, as she's gotten older. She's calmed down.
Only, you go to anyone who's known her for a long time, and nothing's changed at all. She's just putting up an act for you. Autumn's life seems to be on that roller coaster, and that means that all I'm experiencing right now is the train being in the loading dock.
The minute I get on, and the safety bars come down, we'll get moving again, and then I can either be the one getting hurt, or I can be the one who hurts someone else, but if I'm on the ride, then someone will always get hurt.
It's always tempting to believe that this time will be different. That other people are basically good people. I've been able to use that quite a lot in my life so far, times when the other people around me were too willing to accept, or times when I could skip through small-talk because I can get a quick and easy read on people.
But with Deborah, with the Graysons-Logans-whatevers, I have to keep a very tight leash on that instinct. Because they have a unique way of having every signal showing green lights, and when there's a big pileup in the middle of the intersection, they act all surprised.
My thumb taps out a rhythm to the sound of the music. It's got a calming influence. Always does. And I needed that calming influence, because I've got some mischief on my mind, and I need to either do it, or not do it. The one thing I can't afford is to wait and then move on things too late.
The song ends, and the second one starts up. The music picks up. And I pull my cell out of my pocket, pick a number out of my contacts, and call him up.
It's late, but I know he's up. Probably still at the office, for that matter. He's not going to be going home any time soon, either, if what I hear about him and his wife has any basis in truth.
"Hello?"
"Tom. Hey. It's Eric."
"Eric. It's late, what's up?"
"I need to ask a favor. Real quiet."
"Okay. I'm gonna have to hear what you want, before I just agree."
"Of course, Tom. No—I've just got a client. Friend of his just got picked up, and he wants to know what kind of trouble we're in. I mean, just got picked up, so I'm sure you probably don't have anything on them yet."
"Okay, so what do you need me for?"
"Well, like I said. My guy wants to know what we're in for, so it would be a big favor if you could just give me a call when you get a file for a Deborah Logan. Local PD just picked her up."
"I suppose I could do that, maybe."
"And I need it kept quiet that you're telling me."
"Of course."
"Thanks, man. I owe you."
He hangs up the phone first. I don't mind that. Not in a position to complain about anything much at all, because that's my ticket in. Maybe I involve myself in the case eventually, but first I need the details of the arrest.
I need to know what she's accused of, and what the evidence is. It's a strange position to be in, because I've always worked defense. It's where the money's at.
But now, I'm playing district attorney, because somehow I'm going to make sure that woman sees the inside of a jail by the time I'm done with her.
Chapter Seventeen
I don't know what she expects me to do, exactly. I didn't get her into this mess. She got herself into it, and now she's going to have to get herself out, somehow or other, sooner or later. I can't just be responsible for saving her ass.
It's always on someone else. It's never her problem. Always someone else's. And it's always bigger than it should have been, magnified by her unique powers of getting herself into impossibly bad
situations, and pissing off the wrong people.
When you can help her, then you can help her, but when you can hurt her, oh boy. It's amazing how she can charm her way into almost any situation that will eventually feel, to her, like it's trapping her and making her nuts.
On the other hand, when it's time for all of that trouble to come down on her head, then all of a sudden she becomes impossible to deal with. The entire charming persona shifts into a snake oil salesman and anyone can see through it. And frankly, they're a little offended that she tried such a blatant stunt.
That's how it always is. How it's always been. How she manages it, I'll never know.
I step inside and try to look confident in spite of myself. The police continue to go about their business as if nothing's happened. It's almost as if they have real work to be doing. As if they aren't just waiting on me to come deal with Mom.
"Excuse me, I'm here for a Deborah Logan?"
The lady cop looks up at me. She types something into the computer. "Bail hasn't been set yet. She'll go before a judge in the morning. Come back around ten or eleven."
"I'm her legal counsel."
She takes a second look at my clothing. It doesn't look like legal counsel clothing. It looks like 'just left a date in a hurry' clothing, and that's because that is exactly what it is.
"Can I see some ID?"
I pull out my driver's license.
"And you're licensed to practice law in the state of California?"
"Taking the bar in July, but that's my mom in there."
The woman at the counter looks at the computer screen in front of her a minute, types something, and then looks back at me.
"Alright, go on. Good luck with the exam. Sorry about, you know."
"Yeah, I know,"
She gestures me inside, and another uniformed police officer meets me at the door. He's evidently gotten the gist of what I'm here for, and he takes me in through the busy station, back to the jail, and into one of the cells.