by Mia Faye
As a little surprise, I’ve attached a sample of my novel “In His Office” for you on the next pages. Enjoy!
Sample: In His Office
1
Robert
“Where is she?”
I stand over the office receptionist, and I am aware that I am towering over her. She is short and seated, a tiny little ball of nervous energy. She looks up at me like she would a skyscraper. I smile inwardly. A fearsome reputation is built on such moments. The kind of reputation I am exceedingly proud to have.
“Sir?” the receptionist mumbles, almost inaudibly.
“My assistant. Where is she?”
I wave in the general direction of her desk, but I don’t look away from the receptionist. The color is rising steadily in her cheeks. She is also sinking slowly into her chair, lower and lower, and part of me is tempted to stand there just long enough to see if she’ll eventually slide completely off it.
“I don’t know, sir,” she says. “I think I saw her head out a few minutes ago, but I don’t know where to.”
I continue to stare at her, my eyebrows furrowed, letting my displeasure wash over her. It wasn’t really her job to keep an eye on my assistant I remind myself after some time. Leave the poor woman alone.
“Very well,” I tell her. “When she does show up, please tell her to come to my office right away.”
The receptionist nods, the relief on her face is evident. I think I hear her sigh as I turn and walk away from her desk. Eyes follow me as I make my way back to my office. As they always do. Conversations trail off, smiles are wiped from faces, and there is a false, unnatural silence at every station I pass. Good. Still terrified of me.
Back at my desk, I pull out the Mandel files and begin to rifle through them. This is going to be a tricky case. Possibly the trickiest one with which I have ever had to deal. But then again, all my cases have been tricky. Back in the day, when I was just starting out before I had an unbeaten record to worry about, all I wanted was to win every single case, dominate every battle in the courtroom. And as the wins started to stack up, the pressure grew exponentially. Now, every time I get a new case, the worry is there, in the back of my mind. What if this is the one I can’t crack?
Usually, I shrug it off fairly easily. No case is unwinnable I like to tell myself. But this isn’t like the other cases. This time, I’m going up against the might of the greatest manufacturing company in the country. The pressure is the highest it’s ever been. I cannot afford to slip up on this one, which is why I don’t understand why that damn assistant chose today, of all days, to vanish from the office. She should be here. We should be discussing the strategy I had her draw up, talking about the details of the case. Instead, I’m twiddling my thumbs as I wait for her. No. I won’t have it.
The more I wait, the more agitated I get. After checking the clock for the hundredth time, I get fed up and slam the folder shut. I push my chair back and stand up. I pace the length of my office for a minute, then turn to the door, intending to go back to the receptionist and grill her some more. But I don’t have to. I look up to see my assistant half-walking, half-running toward the office. Her shoes make tiny little clopping sounds that echo down the hall as she approaches. Her arms are laden with several bags, which she deposits at her desk outside before rushing into my office.
Her expression is several variations of terrified. No doubt she has heard that I was looking for her, and she knows how bad it is that she wasn’t there. It is literally her job. And one of a long list of absolutely inflexible rules I drummed into her head when I hired her. No matter what, be there when I need you.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hardy,” she says, wringing her hands anxiously. She stares at me with pleading eyes, imploring, willing me to let it slide, just this once. As if that is possible.
“Do you remember what I told you during your interview?” I ask her, my voice way calmer than I actually feel.
“Uh, yes, sir.” She sounds unsure.
“What did I say about your ass?”
“That you own it, sir.”
“And?”
“That I should be here if and when you need me. Before you think you’re going to.” Ah, good. She remembered the exact wording.
“So. Where were you?” I ask her.
“I … uh … I’m … I had some personal business …”
“During working hours?”
“I’m really sorry, sir—”
“You already said that.”
She looks like she is about to cry. Her eyes are wide, and she is blinking a bit too fast. Her lips are trembling too. She mouths wordlessly, clearly at a loss on what to say.
“Clearly, you have more important things to attend to,” I say. “I would hate to get between you and whatever it is that was so urgent you needed to leave the office in the middle of the day. Without telling me. Perhaps I should free up your schedule, so you won’t have to run back and forth like this.”
“No! Please, Mr. Hardy … I’m so— uh, I apologize. It was a mistake; it won’t happen again–”
“How long have you been here, Miss Woods?”
“Two weeks, sir.”
“Shame. You lasted longer than most.”
The current record is four weeks and five days.
She registers the use of the past tense, and I can see the dilemma on her face, wondering whether there is still something she can say to salvage the situation or whether it is a lost cause.
“Did you write this?” I reach over to my desk and pick up a thin sheaf of documents, then wave them at her.
“What is that?” she asks, forgetting for a minute to look scared and going for confused instead.
“I have no idea what it is,” I say. “At first, I thought it was the brief I asked you to write this morning, the summary on all the cases we’ve handled involving embezzlement. But when I went through it, I realized it cannot possibly be that. No, this, if it is anything other than a plagiarized, grammatically abhorrent jumble of words, must be your final plea to me to put you out of your misery. And alas. I think I must.”
“I don’t … I didn’t …”
“You’re fired, Miss Woods.”
This is usually when they start to cry. Or beg. Or get angry and launch into insults. If I’m lucky, they would have been working on a ‘fuck you’ speech, and this is about the time they usually decide to let loose with the expletives. What else is there to lose?
To her credit, Miss Woods— and I can’t seem to remember her first name— doesn’t do any of that. She purses her lips and stares blankly at me for several minutes. Then her whole body just deflates, and she shrinks in resignation. No fight in her. No attempt to bargain or threaten.
And that is how I know I made the right decision. I need someone with a tougher exterior and the ability to fight for what they want. Miss Woods has her good qualities; she is very good with clients, and she has mastered my schedule almost to a tee. But she will never stand up to me or anyone. She has never gone above and beyond for the job, preferring to stick to the strictest margins of her job description. She isn’t a fighter. Frankly, I’m surprised she’s worked for me this long.
“I, uh … thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Hardy,” she manages to say. Her voice is shaky and low. I can bet she’s putting on a brave face, trying to hold onto her dignity, but that she’s going to break down as soon as she’s out of my sight. I feel a brief urge to say something kind to her, to try and soften the blow in any way I can. But the urge is gone in a second. It would be unprofessional. Robert Hardy does not have time for hand-holding.
“Please clean out your desk by tomorrow morning,” I tell her. “Susan down in HR will sort out your final check. Oh, and I’m going to need my keys, please.”
Once, I forgot to take my keys back, and a former PA snuck back into my office and shredded all my documents, then left me a big pile of actual shit on the carpet. I’m not making that mistake again.
Miss Woods looks absolutely m
orose as she drops the keys on my desk. I watch her quietly as she goes back to her desk. I hear the dull sounds of her dropping things into a box, packing her belongings. Her process is slow, methodical, almost like she’s hoping I will change my mind in the process. Like I’ll see her packing away her stapler, be overcome with guilt and nostalgia for all the documents she stapled for me, and then call her back and let her off with a warning. Well, she is sadly mistaken. I am many things, but I am not nostalgic.
And now I need to find another Personal Assistant. Again. I am beginning to lose count.
The phone rings, sudden and shrill, and I reach for it absently.
“Bobby fucking Hardy!”
I know that voice. I would recognize it anywhere, and it makes my skin crawl.
Even on the phone, Daniel Goldman sounds like a complete asshole. He is smug and assured, and he speaks with a slow, almost Southern drawl that is dripping with unearned confidence. In all the years I have known him, he has never once been to the South. It’s just something he decided he would start doing, probably because he thought it would give him character. It did not.
“What do you want, Goldman?” I ask, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. I can hear the smile in his voice, and I don’t like it. It’s never good news when Daniel Goldman is happy about something, and it’s especially bad news if he’s calling me about it.
“Oh, you still don’t know?” he says, still chortling. Gloating. Dangling the bait in front of me.
“I don’t have time for this. Don’t know what?”
“Hmm. Now I almost wish I didn’t call, just so I can see the look on your face when you show up for the deposition and see me sitting across from your client. But then I couldn’t live with myself if you found out some other way …”
“Why would you …” Then it dawns on me, the thought sudden and unwelcome, and the realization is like having an icy bucket of water upended over my head. “Mendel hired you? You’re prosecuting the case?”
“Ding ding ding! They want to win, so yeah. I advised them to go with someone who would guarantee them a win, and they did just that.”
“And since when is that person you?” I say, my lip curling.
“Funny, they asked me the exact same thing. And you know what I told them? Simple. There’s only one man who has gone up against you and won.”
“You didn’t win, Goldman. The client settled. Out of court.”
“I had you beat, and you know it.”
“You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.”
“That’s okay, Bob. I don’t need that little win by technicality. I’ll let you have it because I know how much your silly unbeaten record means to you. But I’m coming for you this time, buddy. And I can tell you for free before we even go to court; we will not be offering or accepting a settlement at any point in the case.”
“Well, it’s good to know you’re still deluded, Goldman. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.” I slam the phone down a little harder than I had intended.
Things have just gotten trickier than they ever were.
Daniel Goldman. Shit.
The man who I identified on good days as my arch-nemesis, and on worse days as my mortal enemy. The biggest asshole I knew and, as much as I hate to admit it, one of the best trial attorneys in the country. I have not been preparing to go up against him. Whatever strategy I was considering was automatically going out of the window.
Battling Daniel requires a different approach. The legal side of things is important, and the man is a brilliant lawyer. But that isn’t where the battle is going to be won. With Daniel, the key is to keep his attention off the actual case, in whichever way possible. Over the years, we have faced off a few times, and that simple strategy worked almost every time. I have to distract him. But how?
This is exactly the kind of thing one needs an assistant for. If only the bastard had called before I dismissed my latest assistant. But no. This is the wrong case for Miss Woods. She wouldn’t survive a second against the pressure Daniel is capable of exerting. I need a fresh face, someone new enough that Daniel won’t see them coming, and yet competent enough to handle the rigor of working a case.
I usually rely on temp agencies to send me applicants for the position of my Personal Assistant. I have become something of a legend there, thanks to the fact that I keep sending their applicants home. The lady who handles my requests once joked that the day she provides me with someone who lasts through the month, she will retire because no career achievement would top that.
Today, though, I won’t be using the agency. I’m not up for the scrutiny and having to explain to some snotty lady over the phone, ‘What happened to the last one?’ knowing she is rolling her eyes and marking another x on my page. Besides, I have grown tired of the same young women they send me. It’s almost like they think I have a type.
I need something different. Someone who doesn’t just do the job because of the paycheck. Someone who actually cares about representing the client and doing whatever it takes to help them. I need someone who can keep up with me, someone who can double as an assistant and a second chair. And I need someone who can dive into the trenches and get their hands dirty because this case is going to demand it.
If they happen to be good-looking and young, then that will be a delightful bonus. A necessary one, considering. People never change, and Daniel Goldman is a sucker for a young, pretty face if I ever saw one.
2
Amelia
I stare at the page without really seeing it. Words jump out at me, some making sense, others just a collection of meaningless letters. I read and reread the same sentence over and over again, understanding it less each time. Eventually, I give up. I snap the book shut and look up at the wall in front of me.
Exam in two weeks.
Even that unfortunate reminder isn’t enough to get me in the mood to study. I have a permanent lump in my throat now, every time I think about the exam. But instead of that fear and panic driving me to my books, it does the exact opposite. I just can’t seem to concentrate. I have no idea why. It’s a vicious cycle; I’m too stressed to study, and not studying makes me stressed.
Ness doesn’t seem to have the same problem. She is sprawled out on the bed on her stomach, her legs dancing in the air this way and that as she taps away at her phone. I envy her freedom, her carefree attitude. Every second that I am not studying, I’m panicking or actively freaking out. But not Ness. You wouldn’t have known we both have to sit for the same exam.
Ness and I have been roommates since the very first day of college. We met on the quad. Cliché, but we bumped into each other and clicked right away, and we were too scared to risk living with anyone else. She is also my best friend, even though we couldn’t be more different.
While I am anxious and obsessive, Ness is perky and outgoing, an endless source of energy. She wants to do it all; go to every party, kiss every guy, dance to every song. Most of the time, this contrast is drastic, like it is with our approaches to studying. There is more to life than school she likes to say. Ness doesn’t believe in killing herself in the name of grades, which is the polar opposite of my own philosophy of panicking constantly about getting good enough grades and passing the bar exam so I can achieve my goals. Not that she doesn’t try; Ness is one of the more naturally brilliant people I know. She can see or hear something only once, and it sticks in her head. It’s another thing about her I am insanely jealous of.
So, naturally, she seems to have forgotten that we have an exam in a few weeks. A very essential exam. I don’t think I’ve seen her crack open a book once.
“Hey, you know the Smith twins?” she asks suddenly, looking up from her phone for the first time in a long while. The implication is not lost on me. Everyone knows the Smiths, yes, but do you?
“Yeah, everyone knows the Smith twins on campus,” I say.
“They’re throwing this end of year party at Delta Hall, and from what pe
ople are saying online, it’s going to be epic.”
I shrug. “What’s your point, Ness?”
“My point? Jesus, Amy. Why are you like this? My point is that we should go!”
“Oh. No, thanks. I have to study …”
“You’ve been studying all day! And all week! At the very least you need a break. Come on. You can’t slouch over that chair every waking hour of your life.”
“You know I hate parties, Ness.” I’m trying to change the topic. The only way to successfully say no to Ness is to throw so many excuses at her she can’t deflect them all.
“This isn’t just any party. It’s probably the last one before we graduate.”
“I’ll celebrate graduating when I pass these fucking exams.”
“Oh my God, woman. Stop. That’s exactly why you should come to this party. You’ve been so worried about the exam you’re not even yourself. Look what it’s doing to you. I bet you didn’t even notice you have chips in your hair.”
I reach up into the unruly mess that’s my hair, and sure enough, my hand comes away with crumbled potato chip dust.
“I’m not listening to your bullshit today,” Ness continues. “You’re coming with me to the party.”
“I probably won’t know anyone there,” I say, my voice small.
“That can only be a good thing. Means you can make some mistakes, and no one will remember it. Plus, I’ll be with you all night, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
“You mean until you get dragged off by some guy and disappear for the rest of the night?”
“I won’t do that, I promise. Although I won’t lie, I’ve been looking to get into that Smith sandwich …”
“Ew, Ness! That’s disgusting!”
“Such a prude. Come on, then. Let’s get you dressed. I don’t even want to think about what monstrosities are in your closet.”
The party is exactly as loud and in your face as I expected. The blare of music hits us even before we get into the hall, and it’s amplified to the nth degree when we step inside. There are more people here than I think I have ever seen in any one place on campus, and that includes lecture theaters. It seems everyone has shown up. The press of bodies is like a wall pushing in on all sides. I regret coming right away.