by Taylor Shade
Once we have our venti coffees in hand, we shuffle back across the street in the sunny November cold.
Back to the boring Dawson briefs.
TWENTY-TWO
Sloane
By noon, I’m desperate. I’m almost crashing into the floor, way behind in my work. I was supposed to have gone through three stacks of briefs but I’m only at the one and three-quarters mark. I’m going to get fired at this rate.
After Tim announces lunchtime, I turn to Kayla and say, “Hey, is that offer from earlier still on?”
“Oh, you bet,” she says. “Let’s go outside. Want to try that Indian cart that everyone’s raving about?”
“Sure,” I say as I check my phone again.
Hm, another voicemail from the same number.
WTF? I don’t even listen to the message this time. I’ll handle it at five. Can’t deal with it right now.
We make our way out onto the street and to a mobile food truck selling Indian food. As we walk, Kayla grabs my hand and presses something into my palm. My fingers curl around two pills.
Shit, I can’t do this. I don’t do drugs. Well, okay, I have done some drugs. I mean, come on, who hasn’t? But I don’t want to get into any bad habits. I drop the pills into my long black overcoat, cursing myself for asking her for them.
At the Indian cart, Kayla turns to me and smiles. She has a nice mouth with thick full lips. She’s Asian, but not completely. New York accent, so she grew up here. I bet one of her parents is Caucasian and the other is... Thai? Indonesian? Pacific Islander? I don’t want to pry, I don’t know her well enough yet. But if I had even the slightest lesbian tendencies, which I don’t, I’d want to kiss her.
Wow, I’m having weird thoughts today!
“So?” she says.
“So what?” I say.
“Did your boyfriend call? The hot new one who scares you because he’s a god among mortals?”
I blush and laugh. “No.”
Two guys fall into line behind us having a conversation about legal ethics. I think I’ve seen them in the associate pool at Concord Hamilton Dandridge.
“Oh, you wouldn’t even tell me,” says Kayla. “God, I’m so jealous. Drake Concord.”
Both guys behind us stop talking. We both notice. I shoot Kayla a shut-the-fuck-up look. She puts two fingers over her mouth in apology.
The line moves swiftly.
“Did you hear about the private eye that was killed?” says one of the guys behind us.
“No,” says the other.
“He lived in my building. Makes me nervous. I knew him. Reminded me of Sam Spade. He even wore a hat like in old movies.”
“Oh, is that the Sam Ronson guy I saw on the news?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I inhale sharply.
“Yeah, he was coming home and apparently someone just shot him right at the door to my building. The whole area was taped off while the crime scene people came and took pictures and shit.”
“Fuck, dude. No way. That’s scary.”
I can’t believe this. Did he just say Sam Ronson? That was the Homeland Security guy who hired me to photocopy the Meridian file from Concord Hamilton Dandridge.
Could it be the same Sam Ronson? That’s not a too-weird name. I bet there are several Sam Ronsons in New York.
But that would explain why I’m getting a disconnected message when I call Ronson. And the two messages from some woman who calls herself Trish.
Oh my God.
I knew this was a bad deal. I knew it!
Shit, should I be afraid? Poor Ronson. Is he really dead? I hope he didn’t suffer. He seemed like a nice man.
Shut up, Sloane! You don’t even know that this is the same man! Get the facts first before you jump to any conclusions!
I take out my phone, go to the browser and Google “Sam Ronson.”
I put my hand up to my mouth and gasp.
It is him! There’s a picture of him in an article in the Daily News. That’s the guy! Shot and killed outside his apartment.
Shit.
“Next!” shouts one of the Indian guys serving food.
Kayla orders the Chicken Tikka Masala wrap. I get the Chicken Vindaloo wrap, even though I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
We take our food back to the firm because it’s too cold to eat outside.
A handful of the other girls are seated in the break room. Kayla and I sit down with ours. My heart is beating out of my chest as I try to process what I overheard. I unwrap my food from its foil, but I can’t even think about eating until I do something.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Kayla. “Keep an eye on my bag?”
She nods, a mouthful of chicken in her mouth. I get up and walk around the firm. Several associates eye me as I wander, looking for a quiet spot.
Shit, people are everywhere. Even all three conference rooms are being used.
I pass by the vast corner office with the words Drake Concord - Senior Partner stenciled on the glass door. His secretary’s desk is empty. Nobody else is in sight.
Should I?
The man has violated my body in nearly every way possible, so I think I have the right to go in his office, don’t I?
Well, no, maybe not. Oh, fuck it. I’m going in. Just hope nobody sees me.
As I open the door and slip inside, a flush spreads through my body. My mouth goes dry and my skin tingles.
The spectacular room smells of leather with hints of pine. And something else... something manly.
This man has some sort of strange power over me. He’s not even here and he’s making me horny, almost like the remnants of his presence are enough to trigger arousal.
His desk is sleek and masculine, positioned perpendicular to the grand windows with a stunning view. Placed on the low wood-paneled shelf built into the lower half of the windows are a series of pictures in frames. I walk over to them.
Drake Concord with Donald Trump. Drake Concord with Mayor Michael Bloomberg. Drake Concord with President Barack Obama. Drake Concord with President George W. Bush. Drake Concord with Mike Rowe, the Dirty Jobs guy, standing in front of a large group of kids cutting a ribbon.
Electrical impulses are awash now, streaming sensations all around me. I remind myself that this is not the reason I came in here. I was just looking for some privacy.
My phone beeps and I look at it.
Oh God, it’s him. He’s sent me a text:
Drake: Do you like the view?
Holy shit! Holy goddamned shit! Can he see me?
I text him back.
Me: From where?
Drake: I can see you.
Me: How?
Drake: Camera alerted me intruder in office.
Drake: Intruders must be punished.
Punished. Oh God, yes. Please punish me. My ass is still sore, but I so want to feel the sweet sting of pain again, raising the skin on my cheeks.
A fire is lit now between my thighs. My presence in the empty chamber where he works is enough to arouse me, but knowing that he’s watching me is even more tantalizing.
I look around for a camera, but I don’t see one. My phone beeps.
Drake: Close the blinds to the hallway.
I look over at the floor-to-ceiling glass by the door and notice that there is a Venetian blind. I walk over to it.
Drake: Acknowledge me when I give you a command.
Me: Yes counsel.
Drake: That’s better.
I pull the blind down, fighting with it a little. Then I twist the bar so the blinds rotate. Nobody can see in now.
Drake: Lock the door.
Me: Yes counsel.
I lock the door.
Drake: Now go to the center of the room.
Me: Yes counsel.
I walk to the center of the plush office between a seating area with a couch and to chairs separated from the desk area. As I do so, I scan again for the location of the camera.
Drake: On your knees.
<
br /> Me: Yes counsel.
I drop to my knees.
Drake: Now masturbate. I want to watch how you please yourself.
Oh God! Is this real? Am I really doing this?
I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. He’s not even here. And yet I feel compelled to follow his commands... even by text!
I don’t know me anymore. All I know is that I’m experiencing something that makes all of the rest of my life seem dull by comparison.
I will do as he instructs. I think I will always do as he instructs if it makes me feel this good.
I look directly ahead at the top of the MetLife building in the early afternoon sunshine. I reach down under my skirt and cup my pussy. Then I reach up over the band and shove my hand down, lightly stroking my lips with my ring and little fingers while my thumb presses on my clit.
My phone beeps.
Drake: Good girl. Now come for me. Permission granted.
Oh God, this is so hot. But I have a question. I pick up my phone and text.
Me: Where is the camera so I can look at you?
Drake: Behind the desk.
Me: Can you hear me?
Drake: No.
I put the phone down, turn, and face the desk. The only thing behind it is a bookcase. The camera must be hidden in there.
Okay, he wants a show. I’ll give him a show.
I put my hand back under my skirt and resume stroking myself.
Almost immediately a gush meets my fingers. I slide it all around as I rub my breasts with my other hand, swaying my body to silent music.
I feel like a stripper even though I have all my clothes on. I’m performing for him, pursing my lips and smiling into the camera.
I try to look as naughty as I know how, swishing my arm around my body as I press onto my clit and stroke my folds.
My body quivers and I feel a charged tingle all over as I feel an orgasm coming on.
Drake: Very good.
I stroke my left hand through my hair and swing my head back, jutting my hips forward in sync with the movements of my right hand.
A sound interrupts me. A swish that stops me cold. I look over at the door, where an envelope has appeared, thrust under the door.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s just mail. Nobody can see in. I’m safe.
The very fact that somebody was just outside the door adds a thrill to what I’m doing. I’m such a dirty girl. Such a dirty filthy girl.
Yes I am!
I resume stroking myself and begin to moan softly. My orgasm builds up again.
I put a finger inside my sore yet hungry pussy, curling it up to my spot. At the same time, I draw hard-pressed little circles onto my clit.
I swing my hips harder, adding wide circles into the mix. I put my elbow up behind my neck, turning my head to my right while licking my lips and looking seductively into the camera.
Then I explode, an orgasm cascading through me. I make three little yelps as I come, my pussy clenching around my finger as waves of pleasure crash outward from my clit.
My breathing, fast and heavy, slows down. I open my eyes and smile into the camera.
My phone beeps. I look down at it.
Drake: Good girl.
Drake: Now taste yourself.
I take my fingers out of my panties and lick myself off them. I make a show of it, sucking my fingers and sticking my tongue way outside my mouth.
Drake: Very good girl. You will be rewarded.
I pick up my phone.
Me: Yes, counsel.
Drake: Now go back to work.
Me: Yes, counsel.
I get up, straighten my clothes, and fix my hair. I look around for a mirror, but don’t see one.
Then I remember. The reason I came in here in the first place was to make a private phone call. First I check my voicemail again.
“Hello,” says the female voice on the new message. Her tone is much different than the first one. She sounds severely panicked this time. “Miss Kenner, this is Trish again from detective Sam Ronson’s office. Please... please... call me. It’s very important. Please!”
She’s almost in tears as the line goes dead.
Shit, that sounded serious.
I find the missed call and press the call icon on my phone. It rings six times and I get a message:
“You’ve reached Patricia Knowles. I’m unable to answer at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!”
Then a beep.
“Trish,” I say, turning to the window and cupping my hand, “this is Sloane Kenner returning your call. Please... um... call me back again, I guess.”
Shit. Why isn’t she picking up? She sounded desperate in the message.
I dial again, but get only the voicemail greeting again. I hang up before it beeps.
Now I’m concerned. There is something very wrong here. I’m involved in something bad. I know it. I sense it. I can feel it.
How stupid am I, really, to have believed Ronson? Homeland security. Shit, I fell for that line of B.S. Damn it, and now he’s dead. Dead. Oh my God, what is going on here?
I decide to visit his office. I go to my browser, type “Sam Ronson” into Google again, and hit maps.
His office is only six blocks from here, over on Broadway. I look at the clock on the wall. Quarter of one. No time to go now. I have to get back to work. I need this job. I need the money.
What I’ll do is walk over there at five when I get out. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Maybe this mysterious Trish will be there. Hopefully she’ll call again, whoever she is.
I compose myself, mentally preparing for another long boring afternoon of highlighting Dawson briefs.
As I walk toward the door, I pick up the envelope shoved under Drake’s door. I’m about to turn around and place it on his desk, but my heart skips a beat when I see the return address.
It’s from Sam Ronson.
I don’t know why I do what I do. It’s instinctual. I press the envelope into my tummy, facing away from the camera I know is still watching me, open the door, and walk out.
“Sloane!” says Kayla when I get back to the break room. “What happened to you?”
“Sorry,” I say as I sit while quickly shoving the envelope into my bag, which is still hanging on the chair where I left it. “My uh... friend called. She’s going through a crisis and needed to talk.”
Thanuja has joined Kayla. Thanuja is eating pasta with a green sauce from a container using chopsticks.
“You didn’t even touch your lunch,” says Kayla.
“I know,” I say. “I’m not really hungry. I’ll just save it for later.”
I put my wrap in the refrigerator. Then I make a coffee and head back with the other girls, returning to our seats in the law library at exactly one o’clock.
TWENTY-THREE
Sloane
As I highlight more stacks of Dawson briefs, a sickening feeling grows ever more intense. It starts in the pit of my stomach, filling all my senses with dread.
I have to read what’s in that envelope! I know I shouldn’t, but something tells me that I need to. A gut feeling. So intense it’s driving me insane.
Tim is the associate supervising us again. He’s frowning into his laptop, typing occasionally.
What if I snuck the envelope out of my bag and onto the table with the briefs? I bet I could open it and read it while continuing to highlight.
Turns out it’s quite easy to get it and bring it out. Tim isn’t half as into supervising us as Matthew Hamilton. He’s thoroughly absorbed in whatever he’s doing.
There it is, next to my stack. An envelope hand-addressed to Sam Ronson’s office on Broadway with a return address of Sam Ronson’s office on Broadway. He mailed a letter to himself? Why would anybody mail a letter to themselves?
I notice something else too. The envelope has been taped up. Somebody opened it and then re-sealed it. And then stuffed it under Drake Concord’s office door.
But wait, yes it is my business. I know this is related to why Sam Ronson hired me. And maybe to why the poor man died.
Not to mention the fact that maybe Drake is in some sort of danger. Or maybe I am.
I slide my finger under the ridge of the envelope and down the right-hand side. It makes a loud tearing sound that nearly fills the quiet library.
Kayla looks up at me as several other eyes, including Tim’s, turn toward me.
I cough and move my chair, trying to cover. I smile at Kayla and Tim. They return to their work.
Guess I’m going to have to take this real slow. I highlight, then tear a tiny bit, then highlight, then tear a tiny bit.
Eventually, the envelope is open. Inside is one piece of yellow legal pad paper. As I draw it out, I see it has handwriting on it.
Ever so slowly, I get it unfolded and place it under the brief I’m highlighting.
I wait a couple of minutes, check the eyes of Tim and Kayla, and then move the brief I’m working on down a little.
At the top of the legal paper are three words:
What I Know
I highlight some, then move it down some more.
After reading the first line, I’m compelled to read the entire thing. I quietly lift it out from under the brief as I devour the handwritten list.
I’m glad I didn’t eat lunch, because my stomach wretches at the words I read. My throat goes tight and a burst of bile heads upwards.
I cough and sputter, quickly stuffing the paper and envelope under the stack of briefs.
All eyes are on me as I run from the room with my hand over my mouth. I barely make it into the ladies’ room and into a stall before I vomit into the toilet.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sloane
“Go!” says Tim. “Seriously, it’ll be okay. I’ll cover for you. Matt Hamilton will never know. You look pale. You should go home, have something to eat, and rest.”