Taking Her

by R. R. Banks

  Not even me. Not that I’m bitter about that or anything.

  I know he loves Bryant like a son – the son he never had, he calls him. And he's been pushing me to get together with him forever. He says nothing would make him happier than to see his best guy and his best girl together. I don't know why he's so invested in marrying me off to Bryant, but he is. And he's sometimes really pushy and overbearing about it.

  My father is almost obsessed with making this relationship between Bryant and me happen – even though I've told him a billion times that I'm not interested and want nothing to do with him. It's just like when he chose my law school for me – he keeps grinding me down, hoping that eventually, he'll wear me down enough that I say screw it and give in, just to get him off my back.

  School was one thing. Stanford was actually on my own personal shortlist. But, this is my life – and he's not paying for it, which means that he can't force me to do anything. I'm glad that he at least seems to understand that much. That hasn't stopped him from making my life a living hell as he tries to play matchmaker, however.

  And maybe it's not entirely. Maybe, I'm a little too harsh, I don't know. But, my father's insistence that I date Bryant – and Bryant's own casual belief that it's only a matter of time – only makes me despise him that much more. Makes me that much more adamant that it's not going to happen. Not in this lifetime. Not ever.

  Bryant drops down onto the corner of my father's desk, giving me that condescending little smile of his, which earns him a glare of outright contempt from me. That stupid little smirk never fails to make me want to smack it off his face. He has a high opinion of himself and really seems to think he's God's gift to mankind.

  To me, he's less like a gift and more of a curse. The albatross around my neck.

  “Thank you,” Hill says, casting a triumphant glance at me. “I'm glad somebody's willin' to listen to me before they brush me off.”

  “Of course,” Bryant says. “That's what we're here for, Mr. Hill.”

  “Jay,” he says again. “Just call me Jay.”

  “As you wish,” Bryant says, his eyes sliding over to me to gauge my reaction.

  I sit there, legs crossed, looking every bit the professional, with my notebook open on my lap and a pen in hand. But, beneath the surface, I'm fuming. My eyes are narrowed, jaw clenched, and a cold anger is rising within me. It's all I can do to remain where I'm sitting and not storm out of the office in a huff.

  I don't though, because I know that will reflect poorly not only on my father's firm but on me personally. And, as I'm still trying to build up my own reputation with the eventual goal of striking out on my own one day, I need to stockpile all the goodwill and capital I can. Make sure not to give them any ammunition to use against me.

  We sit there for the next forty-five minutes, listening to Jay Hill give us a long, rambling, convoluted story about how he was the creative genius behind this band – FUBAR – and how he'd been kicked out just before they made it big and has been deprived of all money owed to him for his work.

  It was a tale of woe for the ages, no doubt about it. Unfortunately for him, it's also complete fiction. Now that I've heard it – in its entirety – I feel comfortable in saying it's all pure and utter bullshit. I don't doubt he knows this Connor Grigson guy, whoever that is. But, I’m also convinced that he was never part of the man's band.

  I'm sure now that they've let him speak his piece, my father and Bryant will see through it as easily as I did and that they'll send him packing. This isn't the kind of thing we want to be involved in. Surely, they can see that. I know my father does some shady things sometimes, but this would be a bridge too far. This is a line I’m certain he won’t cross.

  “That's quite the story,” Bryant finally says, casting a look at my father.

  Exactly what I thought – because it really is nothing but a story. That much is obvious given the fact that he contradicted himself several times while telling it. If we ever brought this up for trial, any halfway decent defense attorney would rip it to shreds. In fact, I'd be willing to bet some law school freshman could tear Hill's story apart.

  I lean back in my seat and wait for Bryant to give Hill the boot, a smug smirk on my face. Bryant and my father exchange a look and it's like there's some silent message passed between them. That sort of secretive, boys club bullshit between them drives me up a wall. As a member of this team, I should be included in the discussions.

  “What sort of damages are you looking for?” Bryant asks. “In your mind, what is fair compensation for what you've been screwed out of all these years?”

  I feel my stomach fall into my shoes as I turn and look at him. He can't be serious. There is no case here. None, whatsoever.

  “I – uhh – I dunno,” Hill says, sounding surprised to be talking figures – as he should be. “I guess, given the success of the band and all, a million?”

  Sitting there looking at my father and Bryant, Hill looks like a dog who's waiting to be smacked for piddling on the carpet – or in his case, asking for some outrageous sum of money. Bryant and my father though, merely exchange another look – and another silent bit of communication, which burns my butt to no end.

  “Actually, Mr. Hi – Jay, sorry,” Bryant says. “Jay. As the aggrieved party, you are entitled to your fair share of the profits you were so obviously, and wrongly, frozen out of. You deserve fair compensation.”

  I sit there, completely flabbergasted. As good of a lawyer as Bryant is, he knows this case isn't a winner. Hill's eyes grow a little wider and an ugly little smile crosses his face. I can see the greed taking root inside of him.

  “I – I think a million bucks seems pretty fair,” Hill stammers, clearly seeing the dollar signs in his head already – and how much smack he can buy with it.

  Bryant consults his tablet, typing in a few things, and starts reading from something. I crane my neck but can't see what it is he's looking at. A few moments later, he looks up from his tablet and gives Hill a little bit of a grin.

  “I see here, FUBAR had several albums that went multi-platinum,” he says.

  Hill nods. “Sounds right. Yeah.”

  “So, stadium tours, record sales, merchandise,” Bryant says. “Oh, and let's not forget royalties all these years. I'd say you missed out on quite a bit of money, Jay. Quite a bit.”

  Hill nods, but cocks his head, seemingly unsure what Bryant is getting at. I already know, and my stomach is turning because of it.

  “Yeah, I know,” Hill says. “They made piles of money on my work.”

  Yeah right. This guy looks like he can barely string together coherent sentences, let alone write multi-platinum selling albums.

  “Indeed,” Bryant says. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Damn right it doesn’t.”

  Don't do it. Don't even go there, Bryant.

  “I think that your former bandmates need to be –”

  “Bandmate,” Hill corrects him. “Ronnie OD'ed. He's dead. Connor's the only one left.”

  “Fine,” Bryant replies, obviously irritated by the correction. “Bandmate then. This Connor, should be taught a lesson in loyalty. One that he'll really feel.”

  Hill is nodding, and I can see the excitement building in his eyes. Bryant is firing him up. Building up his expectations. Which is a dangerous thing to do with any client, let alone a junkie client.

  “W – well, what do you think then?” Hill asks, his eagerness for a big payday coloring his voice. “To make him really feel it?”

  Bryant and my father exchange another look and I'm on the verge of either standing up and slapping them both, or just walking out of the office altogether. In the end though, I do nothing. Say nothing. Even though I know I should, I never do. I just sit there, eyes wide, my mouth hanging open, like an idiot.

  “I'm thinking one hundred million,” Bryant says. “He should feel that.”

  My mouth falls open even further and my eyes grow so wide, I'm afraid they're going to p
op out and fall to the floor. My expression is, I'm sure, mirroring the one on Hill's face.

  “Bryant –”

  He cuts me off with a dismissive wave, but my shock still manages to overwhelm my anger. He can't possibly be serious. He has to be trolling Hill or something, right?

  “A hundred mil?” Hill asks, a note of awe in his voice.

  Bryant shrugs. “We likely won't get a hundred million, I'll be upfront with you about that,” he says. “But, we can certainly argue for a better settlement at that figure than we could have at just one million.”

  My head is spinning, and I don't really know what to think, let alone say. I know it's a common tactic to negotiate a better settlement with a client. You highball them, they lowball you, and you eventually meet somewhere in the middle. Obviously, that middle will be higher with a one-hundred-million-dollar figure attached to a lawsuit than it would a one-million-dollar lawsuit.

  But, they know as well as I do that Hill has no grounds for a case. Unless he can provide conclusive proof that he is, in fact, the songwriter, no judge or jury would ever award him that kind of money. I know that. Bryant knows that. And my father knows that.

  Which means they're going to try to shake down this Connor Grigson guy for as much as they can squeeze him for. I bite my tongue and close my notebook. I start to rise, but the withering look my father casts at me freezes me in place. His face darkens, and a scowl touches the corners of his lips. My body, well-conditioned to it by now, sits back down, seemingly of its own volition.

  “T – that sounds amazing,” Hill says. “A hundred million dollars.”

  “Like I said,” Bryant goes on. “We likely aren't going to be able to settle for that amount. That figure will be lower. And, of course, there is our fee to consider when taking on a case like this –”

  “What's your cut?” Hill asks abruptly.

  “Thirty-eight percent,” Bryant replies smoothly.

  “Thirty-eight percent?” Hill asks, his greed starting to get the best of him. “That seems like a lot, don't it?”

  Bryant shrugs. “To be fair, we will be the ones doing all of the work, Mr. Hill,” he says, his voice a little colder. “We don't get paid for the work we put into it unless we're able to negotiate a settlement. The risk is ours to take. Given that, I think thirty-eight percent is more than reasonable.”

  Hill rakes a hand through his greasy hair, and says nothing for a long moment. It's as if he's having some internal debate with himself. Finally, he nods.

  “Twenty-five percent,” he says. “That seems reasonable.”

  “This is not a negotiation, Mr. Hill,” Bryant says. “That is our standard rate. Now, if you don't believe that's fair or reasonable, you're welcome to find another firm to represent you.”

  At this point, I'm hoping Hill picks up and leaves. Hoping he finds some other less reputable firm to handle his outlandish case. I know that since Bryant has put that number in his head, he's going to demand whoever takes his case to push for that.

  Bryant has dollar signs in his eyes every bit as much as Hill does. He's just a lot subtler about it. Money is what drives Bryant – and my father, as well, if I'm honest. It's a mindset I just don't get. I mean, yeah, I want to be comfortable and make a good living. I can't deny that. But, I'm also not about working in the gray areas of the legal system to screw people out of their hard-earned cash to fund my lifestyle.

  This is not something I want to be a part of. This is not why I became a lawyer.

  “Thirty percent,” Hill says. “Now, I think that's more than –”

  Bryant gets to his feet. “Good day, Mr. Hill,” he says. “I'll have my assistant see you out.”

  Hill holds his hands up. “Now, wait,” he says. “Let's talk this out.”

  “I told you,” Bryant says, his voice hard, his gaze even harder, “this is not a negotiation. Thirty-eight percent is our standard rate. Take it or leave it. The choice is yours.”

  Hill lets out a long breath and runs a hand over his face. I can see the debate in his eyes and I can only shake my head. This is beyond ridiculous. They're going to make a farce out of the legal system.

  “Remember,” my father finally chimes in. “Sixty-two percent – which is what your cut would be – of any settlement we are able to secure is a lot better than one hundred percent of nothing.”

  “And I can tell you with some certainty,” Bryant adds, really putting the high-pressure sales tactic on, “that no other firm would be able to get you what we can. We have a proven track record of very favorable settlements for our clients.”

  Hill lets out another long breath and finally nods, causing the knots in my stomach to tighten. I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on – which earns me a disapproving look from my father.

  “Fine,” Hill says. “Thirty-eight percent. Still feels like I'm getting screwed in all this somehow.”

  “Great,” Bryant replies dryly. “Why don't you give us a few days to put together all of the necessary paperwork and then we'll have you back in to sign everything so we can get started.”

  “Yeah. Good,” Hill says. “Okay.”

  Hill is bouncing his leg up and down and fidgeting in his seat. I can tell he's jonesing for a fix in a bad way. Yeah, great choice in clients.

  “Listen,” he says. “Anyway I can get an advance on that settlement? Just a little bit?”

  Bryant looks at him, a small frown on his face. “I'm afraid we can't do that,” he says. “We're not guaranteed anything at this point.”

  Hill frowns and his face darkens. Clearly, he came in here hoping for a quick payoff. Like he could lay out his case – as fraudulent as it may be – and we'd just hand over a pile of cash. This guy is even dumber than I first thought.

  “Is there anything you can do to help me out right now?” Hill asks, his tone growing more desperate. “I – I just need a little cash to get me through.”

  Bryant sighs and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. Pulling out a fifty-dollar bill, he hands it to Hill who looks at it with disdain – clearly wanting more – but snatches it out of Bryant's hand quickly anyway. I guess something is better than nothing.

  Hill gets to his feet and stands there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself.

  “Give us a few days and we'll have you back to fill out some paperwork,” Bryant says. “We need to do a little research and devise a few strategies that we'll discuss with you then.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Hill says. “Good.”

  “Zoe, will you please see Mr. Hill out?”

  I look at him for a long moment, irritation and disgust rising within me. Ordinarily, I'd be mad about being dismissed like a secretary, but I'm so flat-out disgusted by my father and Bryant right now, I'm glad to get away from them.

  I turn to Hill. “Follow me.”

  As I watch my father and Bryant huddle together, whispering in hushed tones as we leave the office, my blood is boiling, and outrage is flowing through me. I lead Hill out of my father's office and walk him down to the elevators in the lobby, not saying a word to the man the entire time.

  Chapter Three

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. One hundred million,” I say. “I cannot believe what they're doing.”

  I'm sitting with my best friend Isabella in a booth at the Velvet Orchid, a lounge in downtown San Francisco, about a week after our first meeting with Jay Hill. Since then, I've been up to my eyeballs in research – though, as usual, they've kept me out of the loop on almost everything important.

  The Orchid is a lounge that's popular with professionals, and for some reason unknown to me, hipsters as well. The Orchid is a place where you can have a drink and carry on a conversation without the risk of some drunken frat boy trying to grope you.

  Izzy has been my best friend since law school. She works in a prestigious firm here in the city, which is only about an hour and a half drive or so from where I
am in Napa Valley. We get a lot of clients who come in from the city, and to me, it makes sense to have our office located here. But, for whatever reason, my father prefers to run his firm from there.

  I don't get to see Izzy as often as I'd like – we're usually both running around like chickens with our heads cut off – but we make sure to carve out time for each other whenever possible. I will usually come into the city on a Friday – and not wanting to cramp my bestie's love life – I grab a room at a nice little boutique hotel and make a weekend of it with her. It's something I need for my own mental well-being.

  “You could always quit,” she says. “I can definitely get you an interview at my firm, you know.”

  I let out a long breath and take a swallow of my drink. “I wish it was that easy.”

  “It's only as complicated as you make it,” she replies.

  “He's my dad.”

  “And from everything you've told me, he's also a controlling, overbearing asshole.”

  I give her a rueful grin. “Yeah, he's that too.”

  Izzy takes a sip of her martini, studying me closely, and not for the first time, I find myself wishing I had her life. She grew up in a household free to be herself. To make her own decisions. She didn't have to live under the thumb of an authoritarian father. She was encouraged to find her own way and be her own person – to find her passion and calling in life.

  She doesn't know what it's like to be me. Doesn't know what it's like to have a father who essentially controls everything about your life. Nor does she understand the way growing up like that can screw with your mind. The kind of hold it can have on you.

  What she doesn't understand is how much easier it is to tell me I should quit and walk away than it is for me to actually do it. I know I should. Everything in my brain tells me so. But when I start trying to talk myself into it, the guilt rises, and my heart begins to undo everything my brain has been working so hard to accomplish.