Reasonable Doubt (1-3)

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  “You can sleep in these…” He held them out for me.

  I reached out to take them but he shook his head.

  “Stand up.”

  I slid off the bed and stood in front of him.

  He took his time helping me into the button up shirt—kissing every inch of my exposed skin until he reached the top button, and when he was finished he kissed my lips.

  I expected him to hold out the pants next, but he tossed them across the room. “Get in the bed.”

  Smiling, I slipped underneath the sheets as he hit the lights.

  He joined me in bed seconds later, pulling me against his chest.

  “Are you happy?” he whispered.

  “Yes…”

  “Are you sure? Is there anything else outside of my comfort zone that you’d like me to do for you tonight?”

  “Not tonight, but you could make me breakfast in the morning.”

  “You’re pushing it…”

  “Just in case you change your mind, I would like Belgian waffles, bacon, sliced strawberries, and orange juice.”

  “Unless you want to eat all of those things off of my cock, it’s not happening.” He pinched my ass. “Go to sleep, Aubrey.”

  In the morning, I opened my eyes and realized I was alone in Andrew’s bed. I looked over at where he’d been sleeping and spotted a note on GBH stationery:

  Had to run to the office to meet a new client. I’ll be back to take you home.

  PS—Feel free to take your panty collection home with you.

  —Andrew

  I slipped out of bed, ready to explore more of his condo, but there was a sudden loud knock at the door. I rushed over and twisted the knob, expecting to see Andrew, but it was a man dressed in all black.

  “Um hello?” I tried not to look too confused.

  “Are you Aubrey Everhart?”

  “Yes…”

  “Great.” He handed me a white bag. “Gourmet waffles, bacon, sliced strawberries, and orange juice, right?”

  Denial (n.):

  A statement in the defendant’s answer to a complaint in a lawsuit that an allegation (claim of fact) is not true.

  A few days later…

  Andrew

  I was officially out of my damn mind.

  I was in my bathtub, and Aubrey was sitting on top of me—panting as she came down from another orgasm.

  She was spending the night at my condo for the third time this week, and it was pointless to even pretend like I minded.

  I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but she’d definitely gotten to me. She was infiltrating my every thought, and no matter what I did to try and come back to my senses—to remind myself that this could only be temporary, she slipped deeper into my life.

  “Why are you so quiet tonight?” she asked.

  “I’m not allowed to think?”

  “Not when a naked woman is in your lap.”

  “I was giving her a chance to relax.” I slid my hands underneath her thighs. “What unnecessary bullshit do you want to talk about today?”

  “It’s not unnecessary,” she said. “It’s about your family.”

  “What about my family?”

  “Are they still in New York?”

  I prevented myself from clenching my jaw. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” She raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t know? Are you estranged from them?”

  “No…” I sighed. “I just don’t have any parents.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Then why do I remember you telling me a story about your mom the first month that we met?”

  “What story?”

  “The story about Central Park and ice cream.” She looked into my eyes, as if she were expecting me to say something. “You said she took you to some children’s fair, I think? It was something that happened every Saturday. But the one you remembered most happened when it was raining and she still took you, and you stood in line for an hour just to get a scoop of vanilla.”

  I blinked.

  “Is that story not right? Am I mixing it up with something else?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s right…But I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Oh…” She looked down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I trailed a finger across her lips. “I turned out just fine.”

  “Can I ask you a few more things?”

  “You have a daily question quota starting today.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What do all the “E” and “H” pictures in your hallway stand for?”

  I felt a sudden ache in my chest. “Nothing.”

  “If you hate New York so much and you don’t like talking about your past or what you lost six years ago, why do you have so many mementos hanging on your walls?”

  “Aubrey…”

  “Okay, forget that question. And the Latin quote across your heart? What does it mean?”

  “Lie about one thing, lie about it all.” I kissed her lips before she could ask me anything else. I was starting to wonder why she hadn’t wanted to be a damn journalist instead of a ballerina.

  “It’s your turn,” she said softly. “You can ask me questions now.”

  “I’d rather fuck you again.” I lifted her with me as I stood up and helped her out of the bath tub.

  We both dried off and went into my bedroom. Just as I was pulling her against me, my doorbell rang.

  I sighed. “Dinner’s early.” I slipped into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt and headed to the door with my credit card.

  The second I opened it, I was confronted with the sight of the last person on earth I wanted to see. Ava.

  “Don’t you dare fucking slam it on me this time,” she hissed. “We need to talk.”

  “We don’t need to talk about shit.” I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not wanted here?’

  “As many times as it’ll take you to actually believe it, which you don’t.” She scoffed. “Ask me why I came to Durham to see you, Mr. Hamilton. Appease me and I’ll finally go the hell away.”

  “You’re going the hell away regardless,” I said flatly. “I really don’t give a fuck why you came here.”

  “Not even if it’s to sign the divorce papers?”

  “You could’ve sent that shit in the mail.” I gritted my teeth. “And since I’m sure you’re running out of loopholes for contesting it, I’m willing to wait until all your options run out. I’m sure your lawyers will drop you as soon as they find out what type of client you are.”

  “All I’m asking for is ten thousand a month.”

  “Go ask the man who was fucking you in our bedroom while I was at work.” I glared at her, livid. “Or better yet, ask the judge you only “fucked for a favor,” or hey, if you’re up to it, fuck my former best friend. Sleeping with him always seemed to make you feel better, right?”

  “You weren’t Mr. Perfect either.”

  “I never fucking cheated on you, and I never lied to you.”

  Silence.

  “Five thousand a month,” she said.

  “Go fuck yourself, Ava.”

  “You know I never give up,” she said, her eyes widened as I stepped back inside my apartment. “I always get what I want.”

  “So do I.” I slammed the door in her face, feeling my heart palpitating, feeling the onset of ugly memories all over again.

  Rain. New York. Heartbreak.

  Complete and utter heartbreak.

  Seeing Ava in person again—hearing her manipulative voice and feeling those familiar pangs in my chest, immediately made me realize that I couldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Aubrey was already asking questions, trying to dig her way into my life as much as she could—thinking that if she stayed around long enough that we would work out together. But I knew that would never happen, not after seeing Ava and knowing just how far she would go to ruin me all over again.

&
nbsp; I was officially done with this monogamous game we’d been playing for the past couple weeks. It was quite fun—different, but since Aubrey could never be mine and I could never be hers, it was quite fucking pointless, too.

  I headed back into my bedroom and saw Aubrey smiling as she settled into the bed.

  “Where’s the dinner?” she asked tilting her head to the side. “Did you leave it at the door?”

  “No.” I shook my head and started packing up her things, stuffing them all into her purse.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You can’t stay the night.”

  “Okay…” She stood up. “Did something just happen? Do you want to talk about—”

  “I don’t want to talk about anything else with you.” I hissed. “I just want to take you the hell home.”

  “What?” She looked confused. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you—”

  “Make sure you get all of your shit out of my bathroom. You won’t be coming back here again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need to start fucking someone else.” I picked up her headband. “I think I’ve spent more than enough time with you, don’t you think?”

  “Andrew…” Her face fell. “Where is all of this coming from?”

  “The same place it was always coming from. You lied to me once, you’ll lie again.”

  “I thought we were over that.”

  “Maybe you were, but I wasn’t.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you need to get all of your things so I can take you home, and from here on out, you are my intern and I am your boss. You will forever be Miss Everhart to me, and to you I’ll be Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Andrew…”

  “Mr. Fucking. Hamilton.”

  She rushed over to me and snatched her things, letting a few tears escape her eyes. “Fuck you. FUCK. YOU. This is the last time you’ll ever pull this hot and cold shit on me.” She stormed out of my apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  I sighed and felt an immediate pang of guilt in my chest, but I knew it was the right thing to do. It was either cut this bullshit off now, or be responsible for breaking her heart later.

  I stepped onto the balcony and lit a cigar—looking up at the moonless sky. Even though I felt bad for ending things so abruptly, for putting her out with no explanation, I needed to get back to who the hell I was and fast before I fucked up and put my heart on the line again…

  Closing Argument (n.):

  The final argument by an attorney on behalf of his/her client after all evidence has been produced for both sides.

  Six years ago

  New York

  Andrew (Well… Back then, you would’ve called me “Liam A. Henderson”)

  There’s something about this city that makes me believe again. It’s the hopefulness in the air, the flashing lights that shine brighter than anywhere else, and the dreamers who fill the streets day after day—unwilling to give up on their failures until they finally win. There’s no other city like it, and there’s nothing more alluring outside these state lines—nothing that will ever make me leave.

  As the sun sets in the distance, I wrap my arm around my wife’s waist. We’re standing against the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge—smiling because I just added another high profile client to my firm.

  “You think one day the papers will actually tell the truth about your first case?” She looked up at me with her light green eyes. “Or do you think they’ll keep brushing it under the rug?”

  “Brushing it under the rug.” I sigh. “I highly doubt the government wants people knowing that a kid straight out of law school uncovered a conspiracy. It’s an insult to their organization.”

  “So, you’re fine being reduced to a random Jeopardy question that’ll happen ten years from now? ‘I’ll take lawyers who never got credit for two hundred, Alex.’ You’re fine with that?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” I kiss her forehead. “I didn’t need the papers to print my name to get clients. People knew, that’s how they found me.”

  “You should be so much bigger than what you are...” She shakes her head, whispering, “Your name should be plastered across every billboard in the city. Fucking assholes…”

  Smiling, I tighten my grip around her waist and start the walk back to our car. Out of all the people that have come in and out of my life, Ava Sanchez has been the one constant.

  She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, and ever since the day I made her mine at our wedding three years ago, I swore that would never change.

  “I was also thinking,” she says as she slips into the passenger seat, “that maybe me, you, and your partner Kevin could go out to a singles’ mixer next weekend.”

  “Why would we go to a singles mixer?”

  “It’s more so for Kevin…He needs to get his own life. I’m tired of him hanging around us all the time. It’s bad enough that we all work at your firm together, but do we have to spend our every waking moment together, too?”

  Laughing, I drive down the city streets and home to the colossal brownstone we share. (It was the first purchase I’d made after winning the “case that never was,” and Ava had insisted that I buy the most expensive one.)

  “Because you fucking deserve it,” she’d said. “And you never treat yourself to anything nice…That’s what I don’t understand about you, Liam. You’re such a nice guy to everyone but yourself…”

  I park our car in front of our home and immediately step out to open her door. As usual, Ava whispers, “I bet she’ll scream for you first,” as I walk her up the steps.

  The second we walk inside, that familiar sweet voice rings out across the room.

  “Daddyyyyy!”

  I let go of Ava’s hand and stoop low so my daughter—Emma Henderson, can run into my arms. She’s the best part of my day, the best part of my life, and seeing her always brings an unbreakable smile to my face.

  I kiss her forehead as she incoherently babbles about her day with the babysitter, and I smile as her blue eyes stare into mine.

  I'm unaware of it now—I’m too blind and happy to see it, but in the months to come, my life will unravel so rapidly and unexpectedly that I'll wish I never existed. The lies that come to the light will be so devastating and crushing that my entire life will crumble around me. But the worst part, the part that will break me, is not knowing that this present moment with my ‘daughter’ will be the last good memory of New York I'll ever have...

  **End of Episode Two**

  Prologue

  Several months ago…

  Andrew

  It was all there in black and white, front and center, no filler.

  Although the facts were skewed and The New York Times had once again neglected to post my photo, the damage to my firm—Henderson & Hart, was now done. And I knew exactly what was about to occur, step by step.

  I’d seen it happen in this city too many times before.

  First, the top clients who’d sworn to always stay by my side would call and say that they “suddenly” found new representation. Then the employees would file letters of resignation—knowing that having a tainted firm on their resumes would hinder their careers. Next, the investors would call—pretending to sympathize as they publicly denounced me in the media and promptly pulled all funding.

  Last, and most unfortunately, I was sure to become another hotshot lawyer who ruined his career before it could even begin.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll be able to get away with stalking Emma?” The private investigator I hired stepped beside me.

  “She’s my fucking daughter. I’m not stalking her.”

  “Five hundred feet.” He lit a cigarette. “That’s how far you’re supposed to be.”

  “Are they treating her right during the week?”

  He sighed and handed me a stack of photos. “Private preschool, early tap-dance lessons, and weekends at the park as you can clearly see.
She’s fine.”

  “Does she still cry at night?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Does she still beg to see me? Does she—”

  I stopped talking once Emma’s blue eyes met mine from the swings. Squealing, she jumped off her seat and ran towards me.

  “Daddyyyy! Dadddyyy!” She shouted, but she was picked up before she made it any closer. She was taken away and put inside a car just as she started to cry.

  Fuck…

  I immediately sat up in bed, realizing that I wasn’t in New York City’s Central Park. I was in Durham, North Carolina, and I was having another nightmare.

  Glancing at the clock on my wall, I saw that it was just past one o’clock. The calendar hanging directly above it only confirmed that I’d been living here for far too long.

  All the research I’d done six years ago—weighing the pros and cons, checking the records of all the top firms, and scouring the make-up of women on Date-Match, was now seemingly invalid: The condo I purchased was a mere remnant of what had been advertised, there was only one firm worthy of my time, and the pool of fuck-worthy women was dwindling by the day.

  Just hours ago, I’d gone on a date with a woman who told me she was a kindergarten teacher with a penchant for the color red and history books. In reality, she was twice my age, color blind, and she just wanted to “remember what some good cock felt like.”

  Frustrated, I slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway—straightening the “E” and “H” frames that hung on the wall while trying not to look too hard.

  I was going to need more than my usual few shots to get through tonight, and I was starting to become extremely annoyed that I hadn’t fucked someone in what felt like forever.

  I poured two shots of bourbon and tossed them down back to back. Before I could pour another, my phone vibrated. An email.

  Alyssa.

  Subject: Performance Quality.

  Dear Thoreau,

  I’m sure that right now you’re in the middle of fucking yet another conquest, and are seconds away from giving her your infamous “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” line, but I was just thinking about something and HAD to email you…