by Trisha Wolfe
Best she does before this gets ugly. “Yes, Julia. Thank you.”
She closes the door behind her, and Wells and Mason linger near the front of my desk. “No celebration?” Mason asks.
I nod toward the wet bar. “Help yourself.”
I watch each of my partners in turn, waiting to see who makes the next move.
Gannet and I have found great amusement in moving around Mason and Wells like pawns on our board. It’s his move now, and I’m curious to see where he strikes.
“You know, since Bates does enjoy a more varied palette of play, why don’t we just invite him into The Firm?” Gannet says, his sharp gaze right on target: me. “As a means to try to curb his insatiable appetite, I mean. Could keep the good doctor out of court for a while.”
Check.
As his lawyer—as Bates is my personal client—I’m required to believe in his innocence. Just the hint of his possible guilt creates an ethical dilemma for me.
Whether I trust in my client’s innocence or not is irrelevant, however. I was hired to defend him, and I do. But the mere suggestion of bringing an alleged rapist into The Firm arouses a suspicion which makes me question my closing argument.
Although I was able to convince a jury to acquit, providing them with reasonable doubt of his guilt, I admit that I, myself, am not convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt of his innocence.
And I would never allow a rapist into The Firm.
Well played, Gannet.
There’s only one available move I can make against his threat. “If you’re feeling so charitable, Gannet, you could offer Bates one of your own toys,” I say. “How about Lila? She likes it rough.”
His nostrils flare—but it’s not checkmate yet.
Mason steps between us, blocking his impending counter. First pawn in place.
“Curbing his appetite?” Mason questions, glancing around the room. “Why would we want to do that? That would cut into billable hours.” His boisterous laugh sears what’s left of my patience.
I can’t decide whether Mason is a true sadist, or if he’s just that fucking greedy. Either way, my temper blazes, and I’m out of my seat and storming toward him before I can rein in my anger.
“You find rape victims amusing?” I stare down at him.
Mason cocks his chin, not backing down. “Not amusing,” he says, “just inconsequential. About as inconsequential as you found them to be during the trial.” He smiles. “Great closing argument, by the way. Turning the victims into whores. You made me a believer.”
I match his smile, then land a punch to his face.
“Mother fuck—” Mason holds his nose, red seeping between the slats of his fingers. “Since when do you care about any cunt? You won’t even take a sub.” His squinted eyes drill through me as I take deep breaths, my hand still locked in a fist.
I want to hit him again. Only I’m not sure if it’s because he’s an asshole or because he’s right. Being good at my job means, sometimes, I have to defame a victim. It’s the part I loathe, but it doesn’t make me a misogynist—just a damn good lawyer. And my reasons for never taking a sub are my own.
I direct my gaze at Wells. “And your stance?”
“Seeing that going against you results in violence, and the fact that I rather like my blood inside my body, I suppose I vote in your favor, your lordship.” His dark eyes are unsettling, a smile there that doesn’t quite match his severe features. “Besides,” he says, seating himself on the couch. “I have a date with a very enticing vixen at The Lair tonight. It wouldn’t be wise to show up with unsightly bruises.”
Lately, his appetite is getting a little too out of control. I make a mental note to see that he’s keeping to the rules before I turn toward Gannet. “Seems we’re at a draw.”
Gannet sinks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, lifting his chin. “We both know there’s never a draw.”
This is true. Whenever a farce results in an even vote, no one shakes hands and walks away. I decide the verdict. I’m the judge, jury, and executioner.
“Malcolm Bates will not become a member of The Firm,” I declare.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Gannet relaxes some. “It was worth a try.” He grins.
I give him a curious look. Gannet wouldn’t bow out so easily—not when he thought the matter important enough to bring before all the partners. This was a fishing expedition. He’s gotten his answer…but what was the question?
He starts toward my bookshelf—a whole wall adorned with books on the law. My prized possessions. And in the center, the one possession I keep most guarded. “I wonder,” he says, eyeing the jeweled box, “if the reason you’re so against Bates joining The Firm has anything to do with a certain submission from Miss Wilde.”
His bloody nose forgotten, Mason turns wide eyes on me. “The little morsel who entered the internship a year ago? Ah, I’d forgotten about her.” His gaze narrows on me. “Interesting.”
“I didn’t forget about her,” Wells says, sloshing dark liquor around his tumbler. “I’ve kept a close watch on that one, waiting for the moment Julia decided she was ready.” He peeks up at me. “That is why you never terminated her, correct? Her prospects?”
“We all know how much you enjoy your chess clichés,” Gannet says, turning toward me. “So, are you finally going to promote your little paralegal pawn into a queen?”
“I say we play a real game of chess for her,” Wells states, nodding to the elegant glass chessboard I keep on display. “Make it interesting.”
“I hardly see her as chess worthy,” Mason quips, his tone nasally from his swollen nose. “I don’t even find her worthy of The Firm – but I wouldn’t mind giving her a proper fuck.”
“Enough.”
Silence rings through the room, the deep boom of my voice effectively muzzling their mouths. As all eyes land on me, it’s now clear this was Gannet’s play all along. There’s been dissension brewing in the ranks for months, and this is his attempt at sussing out where loyalties lie.
“No one is to touch her,” I say, making eye contact with each of them. “Same rule applies now as it did before. I say when a girl is ready – and she’s not. She’ll never be permitted into The Firm.”
Gannet is the first to speak up. “Careful there, your kingship. It’s not polite to dangle forbidden fruit.”
And therein lies the truth. As our eyes stay locked, waiting for the other to waver first, I understand what’s at stake. The forbidden fruit of that which you cannot have—that which most men desire.
Power.
The board is cleared and reset, and the second my named partner lowers his gaze, I declare my opening move. A risky move, as it reveals a vulnerability. But that’s what he’s fishing for; a vulnerability, a weakness.
“If Alexis Wilde is to be considered, she’ll be assessed by me. And only me,” I state.
In a gambit, a small sacrifice is made in order to make a game. I just have to decide what—or who—I’m willing to sacrifice.
“We’re done here,” I say, returning to my desk and officially ending this meeting.
As the office clears out, Wells pauses near. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Gannet. Now obsession,” he says, a bright glint in his eyes. “She’s the dangerous bitch you should fear.” He sends me a wink as he exits.
My jaw clenches at the slam of the door. I hate that he’s right.
I move toward the jeweled box and open the lid. Taking out the silver necklace, I decide some sacrifices are necessary. If one of them needs me to have a weakness so they can make a play for the power seat, I’ll provide them with a weakness.
In that regard, chess is a little like magic. You just have to use the proper misdirection.
3
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
Alexis
There’s a moment in life, a pivotal moment, when you’re presented with a choice that will forever change your course. There’s no Backspace option. No Delete or Return. You’re thrust
forward, the hands of fate shoving you toward a cliff, and in that split second where you’re forced to decide whether to leap or fall, a single thought breaks through:
I’m not ready.
Honestly, since my parents’ funeral, I haven’t experienced anything so alarming or dramatic. Passionate circumstances such as those are reserved for the outgoing and spontaneous. Which is why, for certain reasons, I’ve chosen to conduct my life in the exact opposite.
In all fairness, I’m a weakling. For years I sought to be the perfect example of strength, because I needed to be…because who wants to be weak? I vote in favor of feminism when it comes right down to it, but this is not about the battle of the sexes. This is about the battle of wills. And I’m the girl who can never say no when approached for a favor.
Regardless if I’ve been conditioned this way, that’s the true Are You Mousy? test. You’re either the type of person who stands up for herself and says no, or you’re the type who cringes while giving the offender with a smile a yes, of course I’ll stay up late and help my roommate work on her project instead of finishing my own.
I’d like to believe that when faced with a life-altering decision, if such a one somehow found me hiding in a bathroom stall, I’d make a logical leap to the right choice.
I’m practical that way.
But that’s the thing about pivotal moments: you usually don’t see them coming.
“She’s just…awkward.”
My hands halt mid-air right before the stall door. My body stills. The restroom stall seems to close in around me, the off-white Formica pressing in as a hum fills my ears. The silence stretches out, my breath too loud in my own head.
I stop breathing.
A splash of water hitting the marble basin, then the crank of the towel dispenser. “I like her, I mean. She seems nice, but that’s just it. No one really knows her. She’s so to herself. You see how she doesn’t talk to anyone? It’s like…she thinks she’s better than us.”
“I think she’s got major issues,” another woman—Chelsea—says. “I heard her brother’s been in and out of rehab for years, and she has all this family drama. So I think she’s just putting up a front.”
“Still,” Sophie says, and I press closer to the door. “That’s even more reason not to come across stuck up like that.”
I’ve known these women—well, not known them, known them; not on a personal level—for almost a year. Even though I knew I’d never be invited out bar hopping or to bridal showers, I thought we were close. As close as colleagues can be, anyway.
I should’ve realized—I should’ve seen it coming. When Julia made a spectacle about my submission, it put a target on my back. I’ve always been more of a lone wolf, but I would give the shirt off my back to help anyone. They know this about me. I help Chelsea almost every day with her computer dilemmas. She is terrible with any and all tech, and I never once made her feel stupid for not understanding networks.
“Should we invite her to sit with us?” Sophie asks, a tiny whine in her voice. “She might end up being our boss.”
Chelsea makes a pfft sound. “She hasn’t been here long enough. Anyway, even if that somehow happens, I won’t kiss her ass. I came to this party to have a good time. A little stress relief if I can get laid. I don’t want all her issues dragging me down.”
“Good point.”
“Besides, have you heard her talk about dating anyone, ever?” Sophie must respond, because Chelsea goes on. “Exactly. She’s a freak. She’s either a lesbian, has some STD, or is having the worst drought ever. So she can keep that tainted, bad luck cooch far away from me.” She laughs, and the other women in the bathroom join her.
The sounds of the party bleed into the bathroom, then I hear the door close, drowning out the thumping bass.
For a moment, I just stand here. Fighting back the burn of tears. I will not cry.
How high school is this? How stupid? I try to laugh it off, but there’s no sound to my voice, only the sharp intake of breath as I try to stifle a sob. I swallow the ache clogging my throat, blink a few times.
Finally, taking a deep breath, I unlatch the door and walk out to the empty bathroom. This really shouldn’t affect me. It’s always been like this. There’s just something about me that puts others off…and I swear, if I could figure out what it is… But I’ve been trying to figure it out my whole life.
In high school, it was the mean girls. The girls who ran in cliques and couldn’t dye their hair without first getting approval from the queen bee. Now, nothing’s really changed. Those same girls are just older. Smile to your face, give you a fake hug, then leave you in the dust as they flee being contaminated by “the awkward girl”.
Introvertitis.
It’s not contagious, but I get the same looks terminally ill people do. The “we pity you but please don’t touch me” look. Introversion is not a disease. But it’s plagued me my whole life just the same.
I run my hand over my dark waves, and even though I try not to, I look in the mirror. I’m pretty. And that’s not vain to admit. I’m no model, but growing up, you know if you’re pretty or not. I’m not drop-dead gorgeous. No, because those women are the ones other girls flock to. They’re so high up the ladder that everyone clings to them just to have some of their spotlight cast around them.
I’m just pretty enough to be hated. I’m a safe sort of pretty to shun. No real backlash if I’m ostracized. Also, I work damn hard. While Sophie and Chelsea and the other women in the office are bar hopping, I’m at home working on cases. And that also makes me a freak.
I don’t drink. I don’t party. And I don’t run in cliques. What I do do is stand in the corner by myself at company parties and hide in bathroom stalls.
And for what?
Do I really believe Julia is going to make me her equal? From attending one company party? No. I have a feeling Julia is the new queen bee incognito, and I’m just making a fool of myself.
I look over the stupid dress I bought. The black material too tight. The silly black thigh-highs too irritating. This is the very thing I vowed I would not do when I first entered this law firm; I would not conform.
But it was a chance, wasn’t it? The promotion? The money could mean getting my brother the treatment he really, really needs…but then what?
Shaking off the hurt, I situate my bra that keeps my boobs from just popping out of the dress. I ache to be home, buried under the covers, lost in a dramatic novel that will make my problems seem like the petty issues they are.
After I wash my hands and have hidden out in the bathroom for a safe amount of time, I brace myself at the door. When I open it, the beat of 80s pop music blasts my face. A sinking feeling pulls at my heart. Before my mother got sick, she listened to her 80s playlist almost every day. The reminder of her only reaffirms my decision to get out of here. Quickly.
I will my feet to move me forward through the dimly lit conference room which has been transformed into a dance club, complete with churning strobe lights and a DJ.
No one will cop to it—the universal belief that this party is for “company growth”— but every person here knows this is a close-mouth celebration for the firm’s most high profile client.
Malcolm Bates.
Just his name sounds sinister. Alleged rapist. Multiple counts. Many testimonies wiped from his slate, as if they never existed. The women’s lives torn apart and defamed on the stand.
But this is the law. And the law proved Malcolm Bates innocent of the allegations against him.
Our firm’s stance? A rich, powerful man such as Doctor Malcolm Bates must suffer for his status and wealth. His penance for being a successful cardiologist is slander.
I haven’t had the privilege to work on any of his cases, so I’m trying to reserve my judgment, keeping my feelings neutral. High profile clients are out of my depth…unless I somehow manage to impress Julia enough to get the promotion, which will put me working directly under one of the partners.
; I can do the work. I’m good at my job. That’s not what intimidates me—it’s the pressure of supervising the very women who mock me. Overseeing research and trial briefs for our biggest clients. Especially when the one with the most case hours is known to the public as Doctor Date Rape.
A nauseous twinge flutters my stomach. After three years, I’ve gotten accustomed to working cases like his. At first, it was difficult. I didn’t think I could separate myself from the victims. But time has a way of distancing those acute emotions, dulling them into a bearable ache.
Besides, over the years, I’ve had more important things to worry about other than myself.
I make my way toward the back wall set up like a bar. I’ll just cash out. Pay up the two Cokes on my tab, then sneak out the side exit. That’s the plan. The women in my department won’t even notice. Or maybe they’ll be grateful. Awkward Alexis isn’t around to encroach on their attempts to get laid.
I spot them dancing in a group. Chelsea is the most noticeable. She holds her red plastic cup above her head as she sways her enormous hips. I don’t feel so bad thinking it now. Her laugh can be heard over the music, and for the second that our eyes lock, she smiles, but I swear it’s a smirk—like she knows just how uncomfortable I am and all she has to do is say one nice word to me… Then she’s dancing again, ignoring me and shaking her ass at Ronnie, another paralegal in our department.
A pain sears my chest, and I hate that what they think matters. That I just can’t be one of them. How much easier would my life be?
I’m not a ladder climber, though. Like the rest of her flock. A lot of people have started where I am now, and in under a year, they’re above me. I take orders from those I’ve trained. They’re always friendly at the beginning. Then as soon as a promotion pans out, after months of kissing ass and stroking egos, they don’t even remember my name when sending a memo.
At least Chelsea knows that much. Then again, she hasn’t slept her way to the top. Yet.
This whole firm is something right out of the fifties. The pretty ones—that I swear have no paralegal training whatsoever—rise right to the top. They’re groomed and mentored to work with the partners.