Riverstorm

by Tess Thompson

  “I’m sixty-five. It’s time. Even without this, it was time.”

  Where would that leave the firm? The others were partners, but Raymond was their leader. His character was the character of the firm: fair, charitable, and pragmatic, yet compassionate. Raymond sought justice for all, even for those who couldn’t afford their four hundred and fifty dollars an hour fee. He felt it was his responsibility to shelter and nurture the underdog—to fight for them when they could not fight for themselves. Without him, Grant feared the firm would become merely profit-focused instead of justice-focused. “You deserve to do whatever feels right.” It was all he could think to say.

  Raymond returned to his chair. “It’ll be months before the transition is legally complete, but my partners have agreed to let me leave immediately. Julia and I don’t have any time to waste.” He smiled. “This brings me to my next news. The other partners voted unanimously. They want to offer you an equity partnership.”

  “Me? But I’m so much younger than some of the other non-equity partners.” Four years ago, he’d been promoted to a non-equity partner role, which was essentially a title and higher salary, but no share of the firm’s annual profits. What Raymond spoke of was a full partnership opportunity. When the firm did well, he would do well. If they had a down year, so would he. Regardless of the risk, it was what everyone hoped for when they joined a firm like this one.

  “Like me, they believe in you,” Raymond said. “Although, perhaps for different reasons. They’re impressed with the high-profile clients you’ve brought in the past few years.”

  “I can’t take full credit for that. Stefan and I go way back. They’re all referrals from him.” Stefan Spencer was Grant’s best friend. He also happened to be one of the highest paid actors in the world. Rich people know other rich people, and sometimes they needed lawyers.

  Raymond shook his head. “My mentorship has not been successful. You still think of yourself as unworthy of the good things that happen to you.”

  “You’ve done the best you could.” Grant forced a grin, avoiding Raymond’s gaze by pretending to sip from his drink. His throat ached with all he could not say. He’d worked hard for Raymond. Every late night, every personal sacrifice—all of it to make Raymond proud that he’d risked his reputation to bring Grant into the fold. Grant, the outsider. The outlier.

  His father’s voice had been in his head all day long. I knew you weren’t good enough for that rich bitch. Now, here he was again. The only reason they’re offering this to you is because of Stefan. You’re still a loser.

  All these years later, he could still hear the old man’s voice, even though he hadn’t spoken to him in ten years. Time passing had not mattered. The voice of Merle Perry remained. He was mean and persistent. You’re weak and stupid. Sometimes, during a trial, his father’s voice would shout at him before he went up to examine a witness. You won’t ask the right questions.

  The old man was particularly loud today.

  You’re a loser. You’ll never have a successful relationship.

  Raymond shifted in his chair, pulling Grant from his thoughts. “Anyway, you think about the partnership. As you know, it’s a rather lengthy process to get through all the paperwork, so if it’s something you want, the sooner you let them know, the better.”

  “It’s riskier than my current situation,” Grant said.

  “No doubt. But the upside is there. It’ll be more money by twice. If not more.”

  That’s so much money. How can I say no? Why am I hesitating?

  “How did this morning go?” Raymond asked.

  “As well as can be expected. Very amicable and dignified. She took what she came with, and so did I. She’s planning on marrying Hedge Fund right away, so she was anxious to get it over with.” They had a nice, tidy dissolution, dividing assets without much argument. She wanted nothing of his. He wanted nothing of hers. He kept his house, which he’d had long before he’d met her. She kept the boat, which he hated anyway. They agreed to leave each other’s money alone. He kept his. She kept hers.

  “Time now for you to move on to your next chapter.” Raymond reached over and patted his shoulder. “You have a lot of exciting adventures waiting for you.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He set his glass aside and let his shoulders sag. There was no need to pretend in front of Raymond. He hated change. Raymond was leaving. Without trying to please him, who would he work for now? Himself? He rubbed his eyes. I’m tired. So damn tired. “I don’t know if I want to do this without you.”

  “You haven’t needed me for years. You’re one of our best litigators.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t know if I want to work here without you,” Grant said. “For so long it’s been about pleasing you. With you gone, it doesn’t seem as meaningful.”

  “Your clients wouldn’t agree,” Raymond said.

  Grant fixed his gaze on a beam of sunlight. What was it that he wanted? He’d dreamt of this day. But now? All he felt now was an overwhelming fatigue. And sadness. What do you want? I want the kind of love Raymond and Julia have. I want exquisite moments. I want Lizzie.

  “I’m going to miss you like hell,” Grant said.

  “Me too, son.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Liz

  LIZ TEENY DID not often curse. As the daughter of an English professor, it had been pounded into her head that there were more precise words in the English language with which to express one’s feelings without having to resort to an overused expletive. A curse word was simply the vernacular of the lazy. However, when Liz exited a bathroom in the Los Angeles Courthouse, flapping her just-washed hands to rid them of water, and spotted Grant Perry near the elevators, the urge to let loose a string of the worst expletives imaginable surged through her. She wanted to curse like her salty Aunt Sally had that time a coyote killed a dozen of her best-laying hens.

  A loss of decorum was not permissible for Liz, especially this week. Because of the invention of smart phones with their ability to take video, the large, sprawling landscape of L.A. was made microscopic. Someone was always watching. Two days ago, she’d given her closing argument in the civil suit against Joseph Symons for the rape of Meve Joyner, pleading with the jury to look carefully at the evidence and come up with a financial award worthy of her pain and suffering. He was a frat boy from UCLA. She was a cocktail waitress who claimed he raped her in the alley outside of the bar where she worked. The D.A. had been unable to convict, but Liz had agreed to represent Meve in a civil case against him. If they couldn’t put him in jail, then taking all of his family’s money was the next best thing.

  The verdict of public opinion was torn down the middle, divided not by race but by economic status. Would she get the verdict she wanted? Would the rich frat boy have to pay for raping a single-mother cocktail waitress? Whether she liked it or not, the entire city watched.

  Anyway, she was a lady. Politeness and manners had become a lost art in modern society. At thirty-four, Liz was determined to remain a woman of decorum. Most days anyway.

  But today? Right at this moment? Not so much.

  Grant Perry stood near the elevators. As handsome as ever in his perfectly draped blue suit and lavender tie, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his muscular chest. Looking at her. Smirking. Like he owns the courthouse.

  He waved.

  All sense of propriety vanished. If only she could unleash her inner Aunt Sally.

  Grant expletive Perry, tall and strong and rugged. Why didn’t he just get fat or bald? Instead, in the ten years since they were together, he’d done nothing but get better looking.

  Why am I flapping my hands like a ninny? Those environmentally conscious hand dryers didn’t do a thing but blow hot air. Like Grant Perry himself. Rich and successful, driving around town in his red Porsche.

  He strode across the hall. A grin had replaced the smirk on his dangerously gorgeous face. “Hey Lizzie.”

  Lizzie. No one but Grant had ever calle
d her that. The first time her parents had met him, her mother had whispered to her, Lizzie sounds like a name for a little girl, not a powerful woman. Back then Liz didn’t care. It turned her insides to mush every time he uttered her name.

  “How are you?” She presented a tight-lipped smile. The skin around her mouth might crack with the effort.

  He shrugged and tugged on his tie. “Not great. How about you?”

  Not great? That was weird. He was always great. Always on top of the expletive world. Who wouldn’t be, married to a rich socialite who looked like a supermodel? He was already a non-equity partner in his law firm at only thirty-four. In front of the press, he was charming and articulate. Half the women in L.A. were in love with him.

  “Tired,” she said. “I just want this case to be over.”

  “I’m tired too.”

  “You? You’re never tired,” she said.

  “I feel about a hundred years old lately.”

  You don’t look like it. Grant was almost six feet tall. Liz was only five feet. She had to crane her neck to see his chiseled features and full mouth. During the ten years since their graduation from law school and their subsequent successful careers as litigators, she had run into him only rarely at the courthouse. While they were building a case against Murphy, each representing one of his rape victims, they’d spent many hours together strategizing their cases. Since then, he seemed to be everywhere she was.

  “No verdict yet?” Grant asked.

  “No. I feel like I could throw up.” Guilty verdicts usually came quickly. Two days did not bode well.

  Her phone buzzed from her purse, indicating a text. “Just a sec,” she said. “It might be my assistant.” She grabbed it out of the side pocket of her bag. Joel Mueller. Her ex-boyfriend.

  WHAT ARE YOU UP TO TONIGHT? CAN I BUY YOU DINNER?

  Joel only sent texts with full caps. It said so much about him. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? It had been three months since she’d broken up with him. The guy would not give up. She typed a note back to him.

  I’m busy tonight. Sorry.

  She deleted the text and looked back at Grant.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was nobody.”

  “I’ve been following the case. Along with everyone else in town,” Grant said.

  She sighed. “I had no idea it would get so much press.”

  “I know that’s rough on you. If it means anything, you always look fantastic on camera,” Grant said.

  “Well, then, unlike popular opinion, the camera must lie. I always feel like I’m back in Mrs. Cronin’s third-grade classroom and she’s just called on me.” She’d been a skinny kid with eyes too big behind her thick glasses. When called on, she would try to speak, but no sound would come. Similarly, she was tongue-tied and sweaty every time she was interviewed. It was ironic that in a town filled with people who wanted to be famous, it was her who was so often interviewed and photographed. She felt uncomfortable under the spotlight, but justice for her clients had to come first.

  “You’re due for a little time off,” Grant said.

  Was that a look of concern in his eyes? She looked terrible. She hadn’t slept well in months. Food had lost its appeal. It was this case. “I’m fine.” The concerned quality in his voice did not move her, nor did the way his light blue eyes softened when he looked at her. No, nothing about him moves me one way or the other. I’m totally and completely indifferent to his charms. Yeah, right, lady. Tell me another one.

  “You nervous about the verdict?” he asked.

  She looked to the ceiling, avoiding his eyes. “I am.” She knew there was little chance they’d win. The District Attorney hadn’t been able to convict him. Why did she think she could? “I’ve done my best, but somehow I don’t think it’s enough.”

  “You can’t save everyone,” Grant said. “Not even you can save the entire world.”

  “I’m hardly saving the world.” She fought the pleased flush that rushed to her cheeks. He could always melt me without even trying.

  “Waiting for the jury to come in always feels like torture to me,” he said.

  “Me too. I hate it when I don’t know the ending of the story.”

  “I remember,” Grant said.

  Just like that, they locked gazes—layers of shared experiences and memories binding them like no outside force ever could. Ten years evaporated.

  Oranges and bourbon.

  Liz sat cross-legged on the bed in their small Hollywood apartment, wearing nothing but his t-shirt. Late June brought warm breezes off the Pacific. The aroma of oranges drifted in through the open windows and mingled with the heady smell of bourbon. Grant had his back against the headboard with his legs spread long across the bed, watching her with those eyes that could light her on fire. He spoke softly. I love you, Lizzie. Now and forever. If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes?

  A thousand times, yes.

  Her throat ached with happiness and love. I can never be this happy again. This is the moment the rest of my life will be compared to.

  She was right. Days later, Grant blew it all up. Do not remember. Time had passed. Ten years of days which had turned over like molasses as she had waited for the pain to subside so she could breathe and live and move around the world without feeling as if the outer layer of her skin had been ripped from her body.

  She jerked her gaze from his. “I should go.”

  “Sure, yeah, go.”

  She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here in the warmth of his gaze. Grant expletive Perry. After all these years, she still loved him. It was obvious that her feelings hadn’t changed the first time they sat down to compare notes on the Murphy case last October. The minute she sat next to him, her pulse had quickened. Sweat had dribbled down between her breasts. Her fingers had itched to touch him. It wasn’t just the physical either. He still made her laugh. He was still the smartest man she’d ever met.

  It was wrong to think this way. He was married. Married. Not to her, but to an ash-blond socialite with fake boobs and a trust fund.

  “Lizzie, you okay? Did you hear my question?”

  “What? Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She flushed. God, it was hot in the courthouse. “What did you ask?”

  Grant reached out, as if to touch her, but drew his hand back at the last instant.

  “For what it’s worth, to the average Joe, he seems guilty as hell.” Grant squared his wide shoulders. If anything, he was even more muscular than he used to be. What did he look like under his designer suit? Years ago, she knew every inch of him. The mole on his upper arm. The scar on his right shoulder where his father had burned him with a hot poker. My dad, he’d said to her the first time she ran her fingers over the scar. I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “You’re hardly the average Joe.” I’m completely unable to get the admiration out of my voice when I talk to him. What is wrong with me? This is not normal. It’s been ten years, for God’s sake. Liz, get yourself together. You’re a thirty-four-year-old successful attorney with a stellar reputation. They call you a shark in the press and yet you’re reduced to a sniveling schoolgirl in a matter of two minutes in Grant Perry’s company.

  Why did his chestnut hair have to fall over his forehead like that? Just dying for someone to brush it back with her fingertips. Someone? Me. It should be me. She used to play with his hair while he slept during warm summer nights. Stop it. He’s married for heaven’s sake. Married to the oil heiress always in the papers for what? Nothing. Famous for being rich and useless.

  “I feel about as average as one can get.” He clenched his jaw, making an indentation in the hollows of his cheeks. He did this when he was in emotional pain. Sometimes it was the only hint that anything was wrong. That night they’d gotten the call about his mother—he’d set aside the phone and turned to her, his voice flat and monotone.

  She hung herself, Lizzie.

  Now, he ran his hand through his hair
and looked up at the ceiling. “Raymond’s retiring. Julia has terminal cancer.”

  “Oh, Grant, that’s awful.”

  “He’s taking her to Europe before she gets too sick to go. He decided it was time to retire. I’m…I don’t know what I am.”

  “Sad?”

  “That. And anchorless. Too many changes at once.” He tugged on his tie, loosening it. Red marks speckled his neck. “My divorce was final yesterday.”

  She stifled a gasp. Divorce. What? When had that happened? She hadn’t even known he was separated. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Liar. You’re not sorry.

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Is it?”

  “The marriage was one of my impulsive decisions. I got caught up in the madness, so to speak. Vegas, baby.”

  “Vegas?” She asked as if she didn’t know. It was all over the society pages. Oil heiress elopes with esteemed attorney.

  “Yep. As you know, occasionally I do something really stupid in a moment of insanity. Usually trying to push pain aside. It never works.”

  “Occasionally, we all do stupid things,” she said. “Trust me, it’s not just you.” Better than never making any changes at all. Same rut, day after day. After every case, she told herself she needed to slow down. Take a trip. Take fewer cases. Move away from tinsel town where she could breathe. Instead, she made the same choices year after year. Work and more work. Ambition trumped everything else, even her health.

  “Mandy’s getting remarried. To Hedgie.”

  “Hedgie? That’s his name?”

  “No, Stefan and I just call him that. He’s a hedge fund manager.”

  Liz laughed. “I thought it might really be his name. Some snooty trust fund type.” She stuck her nose in the air and spoke in a high-pitched voice. “‘Hedgie here. Put everything into pork butts.’”

  Grant grinned. “Pork butts?”

  “Isn’t that a stock market thing?”

  It was Grant’s turn to laugh. “I hope you have someone else looking after your money.”

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s no laughing matter.”