by Whitney G.
“Well, why not? Do you think one is just going to fall from the sky and land in your lap? Is that it?”
“I had an interview yesterday at Blaine and Associates,” I said, feeling my heart grow heavier by the second, “and I have another one next week at Greenwood, Bach, and Hamilton. I’m also about to audition for the role of a lifetime if you’d like to pretend to give a fuck for five seconds.”
“Excuse me, young lady?”
“You’re not here.” There were tears in my eyes. “You’re not here...Do you know how huge this production is going to be?”
“Are you getting paid? Is the New York Ballet Company running it?”
“That’s not the point. I’ve told you over and over how important this audition is to me. I called and reminded you last night, and it would be really nice if my parents showed up and believed in me for a change.”
“Aubrey...” She sighed. “I do believe in you. I always have, but I’m in the middle of a huge hearing right now and you know that because it’s all over the papers. You also know that becoming a professional ballerina is not a stable career choice, and as much as I would love to leave my high-paying client to watch you tiptoe around on stage—”
“It’s called dancing en pointe.”
“Same thing,” she said. “Regardless, it’s just an audition. I’m sure your father and I won’t be the only parents who couldn’t make it today. Once you graduate from college and get into law school, you’ll see ballet for what it really is—a hobby, and you’ll be grateful that we pushed you into double majoring.”
“Ballet is my dream, mother.”
“It’s a phase, and you’re way past the prime age for becoming a professional last time I checked. Remember how you suddenly up and quit at sixteen? You’ll quit again, and it’ll be for the best. As a matter of fact—”
I hung up.
I didn’t want to listen to another one of her dream-killing speeches, and it angered me that she’d called ballet a “phase” when I’d been dancing since I was six years old. When she and my dad had poured countless dollars into private classes, costumes, and competitions.
The only reason why I’d “quit” at sixteen was because I’d broken my foot and couldn’t audition for any of the dance schools anymore. And the only reason I started to show the faintest interest in law was because I couldn’t do much outside of my rehab sessions except read.
My heart had always belonged in pointe slippers, and that fact would never change.
“Aubrey Everhart?” A man suddenly called my name from the theater door. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re next to take the stage. Got about five minutes.”
“Be right there...” I stuffed my bag into a locker. Before I could close it, my phone rang.
Knowing it was my mother calling to offer a half-assed apology, I tried my best not to scream. “Please spare me your apologies.” I immediately picked up. “They don’t mean anything to me anymore.”
“I was calling to tell you good luck,” a deep voice said.
“Two minutes!” A stagehand glared at me and motioned for me to head onto the stage.
“Thoreau?” I turned my back to the stagehand. “What are you telling me good luck for?”
“You mentioned having some type of audition weeks ago. It’s today, right?”
“Yes, thank you...”
“You don’t sound too excited about your dream right now.”
“How can I be when my own parents don’t believe in it?”
“You’re twenty seven years old.” He scoffed. “Fuck your parents.”
I laughed, guiltily. “I wish it was that simple...”
“It really is. You make your own money, and despite the fact that you don’t really know shit about the law, you seem to be a pretty decent lawyer. Fuck them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to steer that subject away. “I’m shocked you remembered that my audition was today.”
“I didn’t.” He hung up, and I knew he was smiling as he did that.
“Fifteen seconds, Miss Everhart!” The stagehand grabbed my arm and practically pulled me onto the stage.
I smiled at the judges and stood in fifth position—arms over my head, and waited for the first note of Tchaikovsky’s composition to play.
There was a rustling of papers, a few coughs from someone in the audience, and then the music began.
I was supposed to demonstrate an arabesque, a pirouette, and then perform the routine that I’d been rehearsing in class for the past month and a half. I didn’t feel like it, though, and since this was one of my last opportunities to make an impression, I decided to dance how I wanted.
I shut my eyes and completed pirouette after pirouette, fouette turn after fouette turn. I wasn’t even on beat with the music, and I could tell the pianist was confused and trying to keep up with me.
I demonstrated every jump I knew, perfectly landing each one of them, and when the pianist gave up and struck the last note, I returned to fifth position—smiling.
There was no applause, no cheers, nothing. I tried to read the judges’ faces to see if they looked mildly impressed, but they were stoic.
“That will be all, Miss Everhart,” one of them said. “Will Miss Leighton Reynolds please take the stage?”
I murmured “Thank you” before stepping off and rushing out of the theater. I didn’t bother watching the rest of the auditions.
For the remainder of the afternoon, I walked around campus and tried not to cry. When I was sure that no tears would fall, I sent emails to Thoreau; that was the only thing that could possibly make me feel better.
Subject: Thinking...
“One dinner. One night. No repeats.” Do you pick a cheap or expensive restaurant? Do you pay for the dinner and the hotel room? Or do you make the woman split it with you?
—Alyssa.
Subject: Re: Thinking...
Expensive dinner. Five star hotel suite. I pay for everything.
Would you like me to book a few reservations for us so I can show you?
—Thoreau.
Subject: Re: Re: Thinking...
Of course not. And a “few” reservations? What happened to just one?
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Thinking...
I told you I’d make an exception in your case. I invested in a box of paper bags today.
—Thoreau
I laughed and looked at my watch. It was five o’ clock and I was sure the results for the production had been posted hours ago, but I was too scared to look. All I wanted was a chance to be a member of the swan corps, or even an understudy for the lead.
Why did I fuck up that routine? What the hell was I thinking?
After driving myself crazy with questions, I forced myself to make the trek back to the dance theater to look at the final cast posting. When I arrived, there was a huge crowd in front of the sign, and I could hear the usual “I’m in! I’m in!” and “How could they not pick me?” revelations.
I squeezed my way through everyone and squinted at the sheet, looking for my name on the minor cast sheet but it wasn’t there.
It was on the major cast sheet, and right next to the lead role of Odette/Odile, the white and black swan, was my full name in bold.
I burst into tears, jumping up and down in disbelief. I wanted to call my mom and tell her the good news, but my heart suddenly sank at the thought.
I knew that at this very moment, she was probably telling my father that I’d hung up in her face, and that he needed to make sure I knew the strings behind them paying for my education: “If you drop pre-law, we’ll stop writing the checks...Pre-law pays for your classes, ballet doesn’t.”
***
I lifted my aching feet out of a bucket of ice and patted them dry with a towel. I wasn’t sure how I was going to juggle a leading role, classes, and a potential internship, but I didn’t have a choice.
Sighing, I glanced at the calendar on my desk where I’d scribbled
“Interview prep day” in today’s slot.
My upcoming interview with Greenwood, Bach, and Hamilton—one of the most prestigious firms in the state, was more than just an interview. It was a process, and every intern-seeking student knew that landing an internship at that firm could do wonders for a resume.
The firm was so selective that they conducted four rounds of phone interviews, three online tests, and required each applicant to complete several essays before the final interview with the partners.
I’d soared through the phone interviews and the exams, but the essays— regarding hundred paged case files, were something that I hadn’t expected. I’d even thought they’d sent me the wrong packet so I called to say, “I believe my packet was switched with the law-school level intern application.” The secretary simply laughed at me.
She’d said the firm expected all of its interns—law school level and undergraduate level, to fill out the same packet to the best of their ability.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said. “We’re not expecting perfection from you. We just want to see how your mind works.”
I grabbed the case file that was giving me the most trouble and placed it into my lap. Then I went to the GBH firm’s website and familiarized myself with the three partners who would be interviewing me.
Greenwood, the founder of the firm, was a salt and pepper haired man with wiry framed glasses. He touted Harvard as his reason for being so demanding and thorough, and boasted that in his thirty years of practicing the law, he’d attained one of the highest victory rates in the country.
Bach, partner of the firm for over ten years, was a bald man in his early forties, though he looked a bit older. He’d worked his way up through the firm, and since he was “such a hardworking individual with unparalleled passion,” Greenwood had no choice but to make him his first partner. He had one of the second highest victory rates in the country.
Last was Hamilton—Andrew Hamilton, and he was...He was sexy as fuck. I tried to focus on his biography and ignore his picture, but I couldn’t help it. His deep and piercing blue eyes were staring right at me, and his short, dark brown hair was begging my hands to run through it.
He had the face of a Greek God—evenly tanned, perfectly symmetrical, strong and chiseled jawline, and his full lips were curved into a slight smirk.
Even though the picture only showed the top part of his body, I imagined that by the way he filled out his navy blue suit that there were hard and defined muscles underneath it.
I was getting wet just looking at him.
Focus, Aubrey...Focus...
Strangely, his bio was the shortest one of them all. It didn’t list his education, his background, or the year he became partner. It was just a bunch of filler words about how “the firm was so honored to have such an esteemed and proven lawyer” on their team. Oh, and he enjoyed eating chocolate.
How informative...
I copied and pasted all of their bios into a word document, and then I called Thoreau.
“Good evening, Alyssa,” he answered, making me melt with his voice as usual. I swore he could talk me into doing anything—almost anything.
“Hey, um...”
“Yes?”
God, I loved his fucking voice... He hadn’t said much of anything and I was already turned on.
“You called so I could listen to you breathe?” He had to be smiling.
“I did, actually.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you enjoying my sounds?”
“I’d enjoy them a lot better if you were underneath me.”
I blushed. “Um...”
“The case, Alyssa.” He laughed. “Tell me about your latest case.”
“Right, um...” I cleared my throat. “Long story short: My client carried a gun into a federal bank and forgot to turn on the safety lock. Someone bumped into him and his hands instinctively went to his pocket, and the gun fired—shooting him in the leg.”
“Since when do you practice criminal law? I thought your specialty was corporate.”
Shit... “It is, it is. I’m taking this case for a friend, pro bono.”
“Hmmm. Well, your friend is looking at two to five years in a federal prison if he doesn’t have any priors. What part of this do you need help with exactly?”
“The pleading part. He didn’t hurt anyone but himself.”
“Did he have a license to carry?”
“No...” I looked through my notes.
“Then I’m sure the prosecution will convince the jury that he carried that gun into the bank with the intent to harm someone other than himself. Take whatever deal they offer.”
“Well, I...” I looked at what the assignment sheet said. “What if I already rejected that deal?”
He sighed. “Call the prosecution and try to get it back. If they say no, plead no contest.”
“No contest? Are you out of your mind?”
“Are you? What type of corporate lawyer agrees to take an open and shut criminal case? A fairly inexperienced one at that...”
“For your information, it’s an assign—” I coughed. “Never mind. Telling me to plead no contest is pretty much the same thing as telling me to plead guilty.”
“If that was the case, I would have said plead guilty.” He sounded annoyed. “No contest is your client’s best option, and any real lawyer would know that. Are you sure you passed the bar exam?”
“I wouldn’t have been invited to join LawyerChat if I hadn’t, would I?” I felt my heart ache with that lie. “I’m just trying to avoid my client being sentenced to prison.”
“Then you really should stick to corporate law.” There was a smile in his voice. “Your client is going to prison and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only negotiable thing about his case is how long he’ll spend there. Anything else I can help you with? Do I need to lecture you on the difference between guilty and not guilty?”
I rolled my eyes and put the file away. “Thank you for your condescending help as always.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I need to ask you something important.”
“About my case?”
“No.” He let out a low laugh. “What do you look like?”
“What?” I could barely hear my voice. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Since I may never get a chance to see you, I’d like to know. What do you look like?”
I stood up and walked over to my mirror, letting my eyes roam over my reflection. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that...” I needed to change the subject, fast. From everything he’d told me about his dates over the past few months, he definitely had a type he liked best, a type that intrigued him like no other: Blonde, slightly curvy, full lips...
Me.
I’d tried to envision what he looked like plenty of times. Dark haired, maybe? Dirty blond? A mouth made for kissing with deep green eyes? Six pack, no, eight pack that leads down to a lick-able V?
He does mention working out every day...
I was more than certain that he was attractive—he had to be if so many women put up with him on those dating sites, but each time my mind drew a picture, I’d convince myself that I had him all wrong.
“You know what?” I said, snapping out of my thoughts. “I’ve never been good at describing things. What do you look like?”
“I look like a man who wants to fuck you.”
Tingles ran up and down my spine. “That’s not a description...”
“What color is your hair?” He didn’t sound amused, and I knew he wasn’t going to let me direct the conversation tonight.
“Red.” I yanked the band from around my bun and let the blond strands fall to my shoulders.
“How long is it?”
“It’s short...”
“Hmmm. What about your eyes?”
I stared at my blue and grey irises. “Green, light green.”
“Do you have freckles?”
“No.” At least that part was true.
“And your lips
?”
“You want to know how thin or thick they are?”
“I want to know how they’d look wrapped around my cock.”
I gasped.
“Are you playing shy tonight?” Ice cubes clinked against a glass in his background. “How much of my cock do you think you could take into your mouth?”
I remained silent, and my breathing began to slow.
“Alyssa?” His voice was soft. “Are you going to answer me?”
“It’s hard to make a prediction about something you’ve never done.” I heard him inhale a deep breath, and the line went completely silent.
I thought he’d ask me how I’d managed to have sex with boyfriends in the past without ever giving a blowjob, but he didn’t.
“Hmmm. Are you a natural redhead?”
“What does it matter?” I moved over to my bed. “I’m clearly not your type.”
“I have a preference, not a type, and a smart mouthed redhead who’s never had another man’s cock in her mouth is more than worthy of an exception.”
I hooked a thumb underneath my panties and peeled them off before slipping under the sheets. “Too bad I’m not a full blown virgin, huh?”
“I don’t fuck virgins.” He paused. “But considering the fact that you and I have never fucked, you might as well be one.”
Wetness slipped down my thighs, and I felt my nipples hardening. “I highly doubt—”
“I’m tired of only being able to talk to you on the phone, Alyssa...”
Silence.
“I need to see you...” His voice was strained. “I need to fuck you...”
“Thoreau...”
“No, listen to me.” His tone was a warning. “I need to be buried deep inside of you, feeling your pussy throb around my cock as you scream my name—my real name.”
A hand trailed down past my stomach and between my thighs, and my fingers began to strum my clit. Slow at first, then faster, faster with every sound of his heavy breaths in my ear.
“I’ve been very patient with you...” His voice trailed off. “Don’t you think?”
“No...”
“I have,” he said. “I’m tired of imagining how wet your pussy can get, how loudly you’ll scream when I suck your tits as you ride me...How hard I’ll pull your hair when I bend you over my desk and fuck you until you can’t breathe...Tired.”
