by Lane Hart
Bryan, my ex, looked amazing in a suit. He just graduated from law school and is studying for the bar exam. After that, he’ll wear suits every day and probably sleep with every woman he sees. So what if I still stalk him on Facebook and know that he’s back in town while he studies this summer? It’s not like I drove past his parents’ house all creepy to try and see him. Well, I haven’t done that more than twice.
Bummed, reminiscing about the loss of my future husband and our happily ever after together, I duck into the office through the front door instead of the back like usual when I have a car to leave in the parking lot.
“Good morning!” Clarissa, our peppy, blonde secretary says in a singsong voice, sounding way too chipper for a fucking Monday morning.
“Take it down a notch, Julie Andrews,” I grumble as I walk past her desk and down the hall to the office I share with John Scholtz, my eccentric boss, who is the senior partner of the firm, Scholtz, Bell & Daniels. The man has been practicing criminal law since around the time my parents were born. He has a serious case of ADHD with an array of hobbies that often pull him out of the office for weeks at a time. Every once in a while he’ll get a wild hair up his ass and want to do actual legal work, but he’s a procrastinator, so that usually only happens about a day before a case is due in court. Since it’s only eight-thirty, and he doesn’t ever make an appearance before eleven or twelve, if he even decides to grace us with his presence today, I put my purse away in my little desk that faces the wall before fixing a cup of coffee in the office kitchen and sitting down at my boss’s computer to check emails, etcetera, like usual.
Thirty minutes later, and I’ve done all the work that can be done, well, until my boss decides to come swooping in and sends me off on a wild goose chase. So what do I do? Check my personal emails. Pay some bills online. Spin around in the big, leather computer chair. And then, when nothing else comes to me, I decide to go find a willing coworker to gossip with.
Clarissa is too peppy and busy answering the ringing phone since Mondays are always swamped with people getting arrested over the weekend for doing stupid shit. My boss doesn’t get many calls because he’s very select in the clients he takes. They have to be rich enough to afford his fees because of his bazillion years of experience in the courtroom and his connections, and he must be willing to devote time to their cases. At most, he takes maybe a new client a month.
My options for office gossip are, therefore, Rebecca, who works for Clark Bell, a young up-and-coming criminal attorney, who mostly deals with small potatoes misdemeanors; or Mallory, who works for Winston Daniels, a middle-aged personal injury attorney. Since Clark has probably already left for calendar call over in court, I head over to Rebecca’s desk.
“What’s up, chica?” I ask when I flop down in the chair across from her pristine desk.
“I hate Mondays,” she says, her shoulders sagging underneath the weight of her baggy, cream blouse before she uses her index finger to push her glasses up her nose. Becca totally has the whole sexy librarian thing going for her. Sure, she has prescription glasses because she’s blind as a bat, but with her long, thick, wavy red waves that I’m totally jealous of and curves that would give a man whiplash, if she ever showed them off, she could be a knockout. The woman needs to wake up and work what her mama gave her. Instead, she’s shy and quiet to the point of awkwardness until she gets to know someone, and she dresses like my frumpy, but loveable, Aunt June.
“Amen, sister. Mondays suck ass,” I agree.
“Do you know how many idiots I’ve talked to today who have court this morning and want to know if Clark will represent them?” she asks, picking up a pen to click and unclick the top incessantly.
“Two?” I guess.
“Four,” she exclaims, tossing the abused pen right over her shoulder. “Four fuckers who had weeks to find an attorney, but waited until the day they have court!”
Did I mention she’s also feisty like most redheads? Again, she hides it well until she gets comfortable around you. Since she’s been here two years, and I was the one who initially helped show her the ropes, we’re tight.
“Those bastards,” I commiserate with her, shaking my head in mock disgust.
“They’re lucky Clark is going for sainthood, willing to continue all their cases today before they pay him a penny. Assholes better get ready to cough up some dough.”
“Damn right,” I agree with an exaggerated zig-zag snap of my fingers.
Clark is still wet behind the ears in the world of attorneys. A baby, just a few years out of law school, he hasn’t learned the true evils of the world and our clientele. It’s sweet that he’s so gung-ho, but that won’t last but a few more years before reality shows him differently. And even though he’s cute in a chess club, debate team champion kind of way, short and stocky with messy brown hair and matching eyes, he’s also so dorky that he can put a woman to sleep in less than two minutes flat, and not in the good way. In fact, I’ve wondered for a long time if he and Becca aren’t perfect for each other, but both of them are just too damn introverted and awkward to do anything about it. Whenever I bring it up, she simply hushes me and then immediately turns the shade of a ripe tomato all over.
“So, did you do anything fun this weekend?” Becca asks after she finishes her tirade.
“Reagan dragged me to the freak festival,” I tell her.
“Freak festival?”
“Yeah, the one with knights, fairies and other mystical creatures.”
Becca snickers. “Any fun?”
“Well, we saw a psychic, who Reagan paid a fortune for a hocus love potion. She made me drink it while driving, which instantly caused me to have to pull the car over and upchuck. Oh, and then some bastard knocked my car door off, so I’m ride-less while my car’s in the shop.”
Becca’s mouth is gaping open, right before she covers it and starts to laugh. Why does everyone think my baby getting dismembered is so funny?
“Love potion? Seriously?” she asks with a skeptical tilt of her head.
“Yeah, it tasted like ass,” I tell her, blanching at the memory of the foul liquid on my tongue.
“What tasted like ass?” Mallory asks, when she sneaks up on us, taking the empty seat next to mine.
“Looooveee potion,” Becca tells her with a giggle.
“You drank a love potion?” Mallory asks, when she turns to me with her pierced eyebrow raised in harsh judgment. Sure, she sticks out like a sore thumb around our office of suits and business casual with her jet black hair that has streaks of pink, her facial piercings and the colorful Japanese sleeve tattoos running down her arms that she never covers, even in winter. But she’s smart as shit and works harder than anyone else I know to keep up with Winston’s heavy workload. He’s such an easygoing boss, like all the bosses in our office. Therefore, he’s never once asked her to wear long sleeves, or take out her tongue, nose or brow piercing. Tall and enviously thin, she wears whatever she wants proudly, usually tight jeans and a cut off rock t-shirt to display her belly piercing that men practically fall to their knees to worship. Not picky and liking variety, she’ll usually try anything or anyone once, but only once since she’s the queen of one-night stands.
“I may have drank a sip,” I finally admit.
“Well, did it work?” Mallory asks. “Are guys fawning all over you as soon as you speak like in Love Potion No. 9?”
“It doesn’t work that way, or at least it hasn’t. I’m thinking it’s a dud,” I tell them.
“Shame,” Mallory replies with a smirk. “You so need to get laid.”
“Do not!” I exclaim indignantly.
“Come on, Josie. When was the last time a man pried your prickly legs apart?” Mallory asks, making Becca snort.
“That…that is not the point!” I remark, as I stand from my chair, ready to escape the evasive interrogation.
“On the contrary, I think you’re missing…the point,” Mallory jokes, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
“Okay, pot, have you met kettle?” she shouts in response as I make my retreat.
Back in my office, or my boss’s office, I flop back into his big chair. And after a minute of deliberation on what I should do now, I pick up the phone to call the garage where I left my car and keys because they were still closed when I came to work.
“Andrews’,” a man’s deep voice answers, heavy with a sigh of annoyance. Alrighty then.
“Hi, I dropped off my El Camino this morning, and I was wondering when you might be able to –”
The jerk starts howling like a maniac into my ear, interrupting me. “Ryan…Blake…It’s the chick who lost the door,” I hear his muffled voice say on the other line, before it’s answered with, “A chick drives this old motherfucker? No way!”
“I didn’t lose my door. Some asswipe ripped it off when I pulled over for…for an emergency on the side of the road,” I clarify. “So when will it be ready?”
“Sorry, toots, but doors don’t magically reattach themselves. And with all the dings and scrapes, it’s gonna have to be repainted. But seeing as it’s old as fuck, I don’t think we can match it. You’ll probably need to take it to a body shop and have them redo the whole fucking thing.”
“Watch your mouth,” I tell him sternly, even if it is hypocritical since I’m the first one to hurl the f-bomb when I get pissed, which is pretty much daily. Thankfully, my boss is also a fan of the word. But this guy on the phone has some seriously shitty customer service skills.
“Or what?” the man asks. “You gonna bend me over your knee and spank me?” Hoots and hollers erupt in the background while I gasp at the clear sexual undertones of his statement, affronted and, yes, mildly turned on. I blame it entirely on my long drought since I don’t even know what this man looks like. He’s probably hideous.
“Look you…you, prick,” I stammer, trying to find my words after he leaves me flustered. “Are you gonna fix my door or not?”
“Calm your tits, woman,” he says, making me scoff. Who does this asshole think he is?
“Calm. My. Tits?” I repeat slowly so he can hear and understand that I’m clearly offended. There’s a hot flush spreading rapidly across my face, and I feel feverish with rage.
“Yeah, calm your tits. You left your cell, house and work numbers, along with your email address on the drop box envelope. We’ll call when it’s ready. Probably gonna be another day, maybe two.”
“What am I supposed to do until then?” I mutter, mostly to myself, but the prick answers.
“Not my problem,” he replies before he hangs up on me.
I stare at the receiver still in my hand, unable to comprehend what the hell just took place. For a few minutes, I debate whether or not I should go get my car and take it somewhere else, but quickly decide against it. It’s Monday, and every shop in town is probably jam-packed with weekend breakdowns. If it’s not ready in two days, I’ll go get it from the jerk, report his rude, sexist comments to his manager and take my baby somewhere else. Until then, I guess I’ll have to hitch rides.
Sighing in defeat, I decide to waste more time surfing the web. When my boss still hasn’t rolled in at noon, I walk downtown with my co-workers to the State Street Grill. It’s one of about two restaurants us girls can afford. The rest of downtown caters to the rich businessmen and their clients, offering entrees at a minimum of forty dollars a pop. Burgers and fries it is!
“So, tell us about this looovvvee potion,” Mallory prompts after the four of us order our food and sit down at one of the empty round tables to wait for it to cook.
“Besides the fact it tasted like rotten eggs?” I offer.
“Seriously, I’m curious, too,” Becca says while adjusting her glasses.
“This is a for real love potion?” Clarissa asks, practically bouncing in her seat. I swear the girl is either on crack or ingests gallons of caffeine a day.
“It’s not real,” I reply, and all three of the women visibly deflate, even Mallory, which is surprising since she’s always up to her neck in dick. Or more accurately, down her neck… “Some psychic sham of a woman reeled in Reagan to pay two hundred bucks for the stuff. She told us you have to drink it, screw your soulmate, and then pass on the foul shit to another desperate soul.”
“So it only attracts one man?” Mallory asks.
“I guess, supposedly. Madam Tess said that after you fuck your soulmate you won’t be able to unsee the other, or whatever,” I tell them with a shrug of indifference. At once, all three sets of eyes start wandering around the restaurant.
“Ohhh, maybe it’s him,” Becca whispers, nodding to a giant of a man, slender with curly dark hair standing in line to order. The four of us are staring at him when his head swivels around. His eyebrows slant inward as he faces forward again, probably wondering what’s wrong with us.
“Super smooth, ladies,” I tease.
“Mmm-mm, check out Mr. Pinstripes,” Mallory says with a slight head nod to a table off to our right. Of course all of our heads turn, but at least we don’t get caught ogling this fine fellow while he inhales his burger.
“It doesn’t work,” I tell them confidently, convinced Bryan was the only soulmate I’ll have in this lifetime. One and done. “Besides, even if it did, I, ah, I threw it up a few seconds later on the side of the highway.”
“Ew,” Clarissa remarks with her nose wrinkled.
“And while my driver side door was open, a car came by and took it slam off the frame.”
“You mean, the car door came off your car?” Mallory asks, barely able to contain her snickering.
“Uh-huh,” I tell them, and it’s answered with silence for about ten seconds before they all start laughing. So loudly, in fact, everyone in the entire restaurant turns to stare at the cackle of hyenas around me. How appropriate that a group of hyenas are, in fact, called a cackle since that’s what they’re doing. “Hush, it’s not funny,” I chide them. “No telling how much it’ll cost to get it fixed, and the douche at the shop said it might take days.”
“Sorry, Josie. It’s just…picturing it…so funny,” Becca says, followed by more giggles.
“You ladies suck,” I tell them when I thankfully hear my order number called. I jump up from my seat to go retrieve my food.
“Number seven?” I ask when I get to the pick-up counter.
“Have a good afternoon,” a cute, really cute guy with chin-length blond hair and a dazzling smile says when he hands me my tray.
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling back at him, wondering…ugh, stop that you dimwit, I chide myself before turning around to take my seat with the hyenas again.
The rest of lunch is relatively quiet as we all dig into our food, needing to hurry up and get back to the office because it’ll likely burn down without us workhorses there.
“Hey, boss,” I say in greeting when I walk back into the office and see John standing in the middle of it. Today he’s wearing his tan, fly-fishing overalls and matching vest that holds all of his supplies, complete with tall, black waterproof waders. “Going fishing?” I ask the obvious question with a smile on my face since that means my afternoon is free.
“Hey, Jos. Yeah, if I can just find my damn tackle box. Have you seen it around here?”
Walking over to the seven-foot-tall bookshelves that sit in the corner, I go up on my tiptoes to reach the plastic container and pull it down.
“Here you go,” I say in offering.
“Well, fuck,” he says as he lifts it from my hands. “How did it get up there?”
“You brought it in a few weeks ago so we could reorder a few things online. And then when they came in the mail, you put everything away and sat it up on the shelf so you wouldn’t lose it,” I remind him. At seventy, this is pretty much our everyday conversation. He loses something; I find it.
“Oh yeah,” he mumbles with a scratch to his thinning white hair. �
��Well then, unless you can tell me a reason I can’t take the afternoon off, I’m gone.”
“Nope, you’re free to go,” I gladly respond. “Richardson has his plea tomorrow morning, continued from last month, but the file’s already been prepared from before. And you’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon with the Griffins who wanted a face-to-face update on why their piece of shit son is still in jail for his assault inflicting serious injury, but other than that you’re clear.”
“Got it,” he says with a nod on the way out the door. “You’re the best, kid.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” I tease and hear his answering chuckle from down the hallway. Honestly, the man does pay me twice what I’m worth and more than any other paralegal probably in the city. I’m damn good at my job when he gives me actual legal work, which is rare, but happens. If it does, I step up and get things done. Otherwise, I sit back, relax, and hang out in case my boss calls needing something or one of our clients get antsy and I have to talk them down.
By four o’clock, I’ve read every article on the celebrity news sites, played five games of solitaire and read half a book on the Kindle app. If I had my car, I would consider leaving early, but I don’t. So, I’m stuck here until five when one of the girls can give me a ride home. Which is just awesome.
…
The next day, I actually have work to do, because in a rare form of assholerly, the judge denies our plea and demands we get ready for trial in a case that John had negotiated a great deal for our weed dealer with the prosecutor. Which is stupid since they ought to just legalize the damn drug, but whatever. The judge leaves us scrambling to call witnesses, get them to the right courtroom, and copy and label all of our exhibits within an hour. I have to cancel John’s appointment with the pissy parents who are not thrilled with having to reschedule for one measly day, and then I have to listen to them bitch about it for five minutes before they finally concede. Once that’s taken care of, I go over to court to observe and help out with the trial. Also, there’s a part of me, albeit a small, practically miniscule part that was hoping to meet “the one” during my many runs back and forth from the courthouse. No such luck. Guess I’ll be single for nine more long years.