by Sam Crescent
He is being sued for sexual misconduct in the workplace on seven different occasions with at least as many women, and we are expected to get him off. I personally think he’s gotten off enough plenty, but that’s none of my paralegal business.
Across the table from me is the dynamic duo: Paul Turner and Sawyer Blake. Blake is leaning forward on his elbows, chewing on a pen cap and pointedly not looking at me. Paul Turner looks like maybe he wandered out of a retirement home and doesn’t know what year it is. From outside the glass walls of the room, I can see people watching us. This case is high profile.
Before last month, this meeting would have been held with Paul Turner and Howard Blake, but after the late Mr. Blake had an unexpected heart attack, his son was forced to take over. The twenty-nine-year-old playboy with a reputation for partying his way through law school can’t be anywhere near ready, but here he is, just the same. Despite my stupid misstep earlier, anger flares in my gut.
Must be nice to simply walk into the most prestigious corporate firm on the east coast while people like me have to claw our way up the ladder.
“So, Mr. Leighton,” Blake begins, “why don’t you tell us the story from the beginning? Miss Graham will be taking notes for us.”
At the mention of my last name, I feel color climbing up my neck under the collar of my dress. He knows my full name. So much for being forgettable. A quick glance from those blue eyes across the table forces a nod out of me, and I cast my own gaze down at the empty legal pad between my hands.
Leighton shrugs and scoffs. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Blake cocks his head to one side, half-smiling. “The truth will come out eventually,” he says. “So let’s start off honestly, and maybe we can keep you out of jail.”
Leighton’s expression changes almost imperceptibly, but it’s immediately clear that we are on thin ice.
“There is,” Blake continues, “such a thing as client confidentiality, if that sort of thing matters to you.”
Blake is still wearing that faint smile, and I find myself impressed. How he can poke and prod at such a powerful man is beyond me. I find Stephen Leighton to be absolutely repugnant, but I wouldn’t be ballsy enough to give him any indication of that. Besides, working on this high-profile of a case is going to look good on my resume, even if the client is a scumbag.
Leighton leans back and adopts a nasty snarl. “Look, it wasn’t anything you haven’t done with your interns.”
With the memory of him leaning over me in the elevator so fresh in my mind, I feel heat rush into my ears as Blake cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m going to bet that’s not true,” Blake murmurs, clicking a pen absently. “But do bless us with the details.”
“Well, Jamie—not that she deserved it—I just complimented her, you know? Told her when she looked nice.”
“And what exactly did you say, son?” Turner chimes in, proving that—against all odds—he is still sentient.
“I said,” Leighton hisses, crossing his arms angrily, “that her tits looked great, and she got all hot and bothered about it.”
“Is that all?” Turner follows up.
“No.” Leighton clenches and unclenches his jaw. “She wore these sweaters, you know, the low-cut ones? And she was letting herself hang out of the damn thing. She bent over my desk, and I just sort of … ran my hand up the back of her thigh.”
“You grabbed her,” Turner suggests neutrally.
“Yes.”
“And that’s all?” Blake asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Yes,” Leighton says. “Well, that’s all for Jamie.”
****
When I drag myself over the threshold of my and Jason’s apartment, I am bone-tired, cranky, and hungry. The effort of keeping a smile in my face during the morning meeting with the most disgusting man I’ve ever met—after embarrassing myself by insulting a partner of the firm I work for—was practically more than I could take. But I made it, and now I get to relax.
I relax so much, in fact, that I only realize I fell asleep once the loud unlocking of our front door rouses me from my nap. Jason comes through the door and drops his keys in the bowl. He wears athletic shorts and a tank top, cut off such that his thick arms are showcased above all else, though he’s generally fit all over. Well-muscled shoulders, broad back, not much body fat—that’s Jason. He lives at the gym. We went together once, but his lack of patience in my … softer form, paired with his grunting like a wildebeest every time he dropped a massive dumbbell, was enough to convince me to never go again.
“Hey.” I sit up, rubbing my eyes.
“Hey,” he replies, turning his attention to my rumpled form on the couch. Then, he goes utterly still. “You wore that to work?”
I look down at my now-wrinkled black dress, hem ridden up to my mid-thigh during my nap, and jerk it down to my knee where it would normally fall.
“It’s not that short.” Despite knowing perfectly well that this dress is completely appropriate for work, I feel hot blood rush to my face as my voice pitches to a whine. I hate when he does this.
“Who’re you trying to show off for, Vi? That fucking intern? The one I saw at the front desk?”
“No, Jase, I don’t even know that guy’s name.” I pause, trying to steady my hammering heart. I’m telling the truth, so why do I sound so crazy? I start over, calmer this time. “It comes to my knees, see? It’s knee-length.”
I stand to demonstrate, terrified of any patch of fabric clinging to my skin even though there is none. I smile weakly as he appraises me with raking eyes.
“Whatever.” He chucks his duffle bag to the ground viciously, and I feel myself wince.
“I won’t wear it anymore,” I blurt, mentally tabulating how many other dresses I’ve tossed to the bottom of my closet to appease him.
He gives me a long look, the anger draining out of his eyes. I relax. This is good. He isn’t mad any more.
“I just don’t want any of those perverts eye-fucking you all day,” he explains, stepping forward and clamping his hand on my waist. “You know it’s because I love you, right?”
“Of course.” I smile again, and it almost feels genuine. He returns it and plants a kiss on my mouth, a long one. “I’ll donate it to Goodwill.”
“Perfect,” he murmurs against my throat.
It’s crazy, but I find myself hoping he doesn’t notice how fast my pulse is racing.
****
The next morning, Mr. Paul Turner calls in sick. For all intents and purposes, it seems he still hasn’t quite shed his mortal coil, however, so we continue work on the case in his absence. The problem is, this means a lot of one-on-one time with Sawyer Blake, and I’m not sure I’m emotionally capable of that level of embarrassment yet. It’s only been twenty-four hours, and I can’t stop thinking about my idiocy.
We sit in his late father’s office, he behind his desk with feet propped on the surface, me folded into a small armchair in the corner, going over notes from yesterday’s meeting. Just as before, he isn’t dressed the way a corporate lawyer should dress. He wears dress shoes, yes, but black jeans and a button-up constitute the rest of the outfit, and the button up is rolled to his elbows. Despite his being woefully underdressed, and likely just as under-experienced, he is leaning back in his chair as if he has all the time in the world and no one could take it from him.
“Thoughts?” He taps a pencil against his lips, turning to me and breaking the ten-minute silence.
“Uh, well … the first woman didn’t file an HR form until after the third woman came forward, and the second woman never officially filed any kind of paperwork.” I sigh, knowing I’m grasping at straws. There is no way to sugarcoat this piece of crap guy. He did it. He did it all.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna hold up,” Blake says. “We need to do better.”
I inhale sharply, rigid in Howard Blake’s recliner. “Why did you put me on this case?”
“What?” His brow furrows.
“Punishment?” He laughs outright and puts his feet on the floor, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. “No, Violet, this was not a punishment. I put you on the case for the reasons in the email. You’re honest, and you’re smart. I read your file yesterday morning. And if you think I have such a weak ego as to be insulted by you calling me a ‘daddy’s boy,’ you have a lot to learn.”
I eye him skeptically. “You’re not at all resentful about it, not even a little?”
He chuckles. “It stung a bit, for a second. And then I got over it.” He narrows blue eyes at me playfully. “I suggest you do the same so we can get to work.”
I swallow hard, trying desperately not to feel offended by his suggesting I’m more hung up on the faux pas than he is, but I suspect he’s right. So I inhale slowly, steadying myself, and smile.
“And one more thing,” he interjects before I have a chance to speak. “You’re right about Leighton. He is disgusting. He is the worst type of person. But he is our client, and we can’t drop him because he did the things everyone said he did. We need to put those feelings, no matter how legitimate, aside if we have any chance here.”
I nod curtly. “Understood. Maybe legal precedent is a better place to begin. God knows plenty of other sexual abusers have gotten off without a hitch on worse cases. I’ll compile a list of cases, analyze their defense, and have a full outline ready for you tomorrow morning.”
A slow smile spread across Sawyer Blake’s face, and I feel a glow of pride.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs, rising from his chair and opening the door for me. Just as my fingers trail the doorframe on the way out, he bends down and whispers something in my ear, his warm breath so close it gives me goosebumps.
“I lied, earlier,” he murmurs into my hair. “I put you on the case because I need someone to call me on my shit.”
Chapter Three
No matter how many dry, awful briefs I tear through in the law library, no matter how much I try to focus my attention on the gut-turning face of Stephen Leighton, I think of nothing but Sawyer Blake’s breath on my neck.
“I need someone to call me on my shit,” he said, a smirk in his voice.
He hadn’t touched me, hadn’t even said anything remotely off-color, and yet…
I can’t stop thinking about how he might look naked. Is that body as lean without the button up? What would those wide hands feel like sliding up and down each side of my spine?
Numbly, I drop the thick stack of legal briefs on the table and make a right turn out of the library. I can’t work like this, and there is only one way I can think of to release the tension.
Why did my name sound so different on his lips?
I speed-walk down the empty hallway, and turn left and try to the knob of an old janitor’s closet. It’s unlocked, so I step inside and close the door.
He is everything I hate—a privileged rich kid who walked into a job and never had to fight for anything in his life.
I twist the lock, heart racing.
He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Oh God, that mouth.
Restraining the vague, admonishing thoughts in the back of my mind, I hike up my skirt—calf-length today—and let my fingers explore between my thighs, my eyes floating closed. Sawyer Blake’s blue eyes and black curls wrap around my mind … the pen cap between his teeth, the perpetual smirk, the swagger he takes with him to every room he enters. I bite my lip.
With a jolt, I feel my phone vibrate in the pocket of skirt. Withdrawing it to check the caller, I see Jason’s name and a little thumbnail of his face light up the screen. Slowly, deliberately, I press the red button and deny his call.
By the time I return to the job at hand, my panties are soaked through. I close my eyes.
I run my fingers over the stubble of Sawyer’s jaw, I let him kiss my neck, nip my earlobe, lift me onto his desk… He parts my legs, drops to his knees, and buries his face between my thighs.
A little whimper ekes out of me as my leg jerks; I grab hold of the shelf to my left and ride the glorious little spasms until I am weak at the knees.
Leaving the closet, flushed and slightly breathless, I realize something. Jason was wrong about the perverts in my office; there is only one, and she just marched out of the janitor’s closet on the third floor, ready to ace the Leighton case.
****
Despite my seemingly perfect plan, the Leighton case is not exactly simple. At the end of every avenue I explore with Turner and Blake, one of them raises an issue I hadn’t thought of, and in some cases, I suspect they’re simply playing devil’s advocate. But the fact of the matter is, we are far from ready for the proceedings.
Every day at five PM, Paul Turner shuffles his way to the new elevator—not The Devil’s Asshole—and by 5:15, he is in the backseat of his Lincoln, his driver is taking him home while Sawyer Blake and I sweat into legal briefs and grind our teeth. And finally, well after my regular hours one Thursday night, I stumble upon yet another possibility.
“Have we considered the possibility of settling?”
“Obviously, yes,” Sawyer says tiredly. “It was our first move. The women won’t even meet with us.”
“Well who could blame them?” I rub my eyes. “But what if I met with them?”
Blake gives me a look, but whether it’s the late hour delirium or a different kind of misguided confidence driving me forward, I am emboldened.
“Seriously. Coming from a woman, it could be different. I’m not a partner, so they’ll trust me more. It might work.”
“Maybe.” He stares into space, pen cap finding its way between his lips. “It could work.”
“So let me do it. Let me reach out to them.” Despite the immorality of what I’m suggesting, there is a thrill in the pit of my stomach. It’s the tradeoff of becoming a lawyer; winning doesn’t always mean doing the right thing. But who’s to say that giving these women a buttload of money out of Leighton’s pocket and keeping him out of jail isn’t the closest thing to a win-win we can all get?
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “All right, do it. It can’t hurt. If they say no to you, too, then we go to court.” With a half-smile and head cocked to the left, he goes on. “See, this is why we keep you around.”
“That and my remarkable ability to ‘call you on your shit’,” I point out dryly.
He exhales a soft laugh. “Yes, that too.”
“So.” I bite my lip, feigning casual disinterest. “Time to go home?”
He looks up, and I grin guiltily. “Had enough of me?” he asks.
“I’ve had enough of staring at the same paperwork for hours,” I clarify. “I don’t think I can actually read in English anymore.”
“Fair enough.” With the grace of a wildcat, he rises, swings his jacket over a shoulder, and makes for the door. Like always, he holds it ajar until I slip through the opening into the darkened hallway.
It’s strange, being at work when everyone else is at home. I glance at the digital clock mounted on Paul Turner’s office wall. It reads 8:30 PM.
Shit. Jason’s going to be pissed … again.
Blake catches sight of the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just…” I wrestle with the idea of lying and decide to go with the truth instead. “My boyfriend is a little possessive.”
“Boyfriend,” he repeats, stiffening slightly.
“Yeah.” I sigh as we step into the elevator. “He means well, but he just can’t handle the idea of me having a life outside of him.”
The bitterness in my voice surprises me. For a moment, the only sound is of our shoes—my kitten heels clicking against the tiled floor and Blake’s softer footfalls beside me. We really are alone.
“Want to take The Devil’s Asshole for old time’
s sake?” he asks after a moment.
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
Grinning, he hangs a left turn toward the front of the building and the newer elevator. Even with his attempt at a joke, the air between us doesn’t feel easy and casual anymore. I’m hyper-aware of the late time, the empty office building, and the fact that I awkwardly mentioned my boyfriend and killed the triumph over deciding to meet with the plaintiffs.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at my feet as Blake punches the elevator button with his thumb. “I brought up Jason, and now it’s weird. Just pretend it never happened.”
The elevator dings and twin stainless-steel doors glide open effortlessly, spilling soft yellow light onto Sawyer Blake’s shoulders. I couldn’t see him well before, but I can see him now. And he looks pissed.
With restraint, he inhales. “Violet Graham, if you ever apologize for dating an asshole again, I’m going to fire you.”
“Jason’s not—”
“Allow me to quote someone. ‘I have never met him, but I don’t have to.’” He steps onto the elevator, keeping his palm pressed to the doorway to keep the threshold open.
The déjà vu is almost too much. Sawyer Blake is standing in an elevator, albeit a far different caliber elevator from the one we met inside, and throwing my words back in my face.
“I haven’t met him,” I had said of Sawyer Blake, “but I don’t have to.”
I bite off any defense I had of Jason and step coolly into the elevator. For the first four floors’ descent, we are both silent, stifled by the tension. The energy radiating off the lithe body beside me is seething. It’s over; I’ve lost any headway I’ve made with my boss by opening my stupid big mouth.
Before I can stop myself, I’m saying it again. “I’m sorry.”
