by DL White
We climbed back up onto the bed and sat on the towel.
"Let's lay down," I suggested. "And if we want to do something, we will."
"Right," he agreed, lying down next to me, flat on his back and then immediately rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow. We had yet to do anything, but he seemed proud of himself. "You're a virgin?"
I nodded. "Aren’t you?"
His eyes dropped and he shrugged a shoulder. "I wanted you to be the first."
I wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him on top of me. I felt him through his briefs. He felt bigger. Harder.
We kissed for a few minutes before Preston sat up, rolled the briefs down his hips, and reached for the condom that he had set aside. His erection raged, the shaft sticking straight up from his body. I'd only seen one penis before, and it was okay. Preston's was fun.
I laid back and lifted my hips so I could roll my panties down. My bra disappeared over the side of the bed. I was naked and not nervous about it. Preston seemed to be enjoying the view. I pulled his arms and encouraged him to lay back down, which put him exactly where he needed to be.
"Will this hurt?"
Morgan and I had talked a lot about sex, especially the first time. It sounded fun... eventually. I had been looking forward to doing it myself. At the time, I didn't have a boy in mind, but ever since Preston kissed me the night before, he was the only one I wanted to touch me.
“Yeah. But it’s okay.”
"Okay. I'm sorry…” Before I could reassure him, I felt him. I lifted my hips; he moved slightly, taking his time. He looked so scared, I almost laughed, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings.
“It’s okay," I soothed, kissing him. I guided him through kissing and touching me, ramping up the hormones. He was patient and slow and took instruction well. After a while, he was pushing further, then pulling back and pushing until he was moving without obstruction, just delicious friction.
He grinned down at me. "We're having sex."
"Uh-huh."
I couldn't say much more because I was in awe of the sensation. I felt every pulse and throb. My body instinctively arched in rhythm with his thrusts. I heard my name in the air in a strangled kind of moan and realized it was coming from Preston. The sound of him enjoying himself…with me...gave me a heady, powerful feeling.
Afterward, we lay next to each other, both staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. I couldn't help but smile, even through the lingering ache in my core and the soreness in my thighs. I didn’t have that explosive moment that Morgan had told me about. She’d said that I probably wouldn’t, so I was okay with that, as long as it happened eventually.
I was still so in awe that I’d had sex! With Preston.
"Hey," I whispered to him. He rolled his head toward me. "That was better than I thought it would be.”
He chuckled. “Uhm, thanks, Angie.”
“You know what I mean. I’m happy we were each other’s first. I didn’t want to do that with anyone else.”
Preston blinked a few times and then smiled. "Yeah," he answered, his voice gritty. “I’m happy… about that too.”
And that was the first lie.
5
The more I think about this case, the more I seethe with anger and compassion, and plain this isn't right. Not only because my client is so obviously wronged, but because his landlord is a piece of shit.
As is his attorney. I am embarrassed that I know the card-carrying, dues-paying member of the Florida Bar Association that agreed to represent him.
Carlos Sanchez and his wife are first-generation Cuban Americans. He’s a father of three, in his late thirties. Adherence to cultural tradition, however, is tight. Families take care of each other.
In my first meeting with my client, he recounts his story of multiple run-ins with the owner of Bay Ridge View, the mid-rise apartment building where he and his family have lived for the last three years.
"I'm no angel," Carlos says, his brown eyes wide. He glances at his wife, who clings to an arm and nods in agreement. “We have three children, and sometimes things get out of our control. On nights that we were home with the kids, watching TV and reading stories before bed, the police would show up, saying they got complaints and want to look around and investigate.”
Though I am recording the session so I can listen to it later, I’m also furiously taking notes. I finish scribbling a sentence, then look up and nod, prodding them to continue. “What happened that made you file the complaint?"
Carlos shifts in his seat and licks his lips. “My sister ended up at our place one night. She had to get away from her husband. She was scared. The kids were crying. I would never turn her away.”
Gloria picks up where Carlos leaves off. "Emilio came to our apartment. He was drunk, pounding on the door. He forced his way inside and went right for Christina while the babies were watching. It was a nightmare.”
"We got Emilio to leave,” Carlos says, picking up the story again. “My sister and her kids stayed two nights. Our lease says we can have overnight guests for forty-eight hours. We were well within the terms, but we got a notice from Mr. Bailey that we had thirty days to vacate due to lease violations. When I called him about it, he said he was not going to have a bunch of Mexicans sharing one apartment and living cheap on his dime."
My eyebrows rise at the way Carlos spits out the charged word. I can only imagine how it feels to hear it.
"I told Bailey that she was gone and there would be no more guests." He shrugs, nervously pulling one ear. "He said we had too many complaints on file and now there’s damage to the apartment."
"It’s the principle," says Gloria, her dark eyes hard. “We did nothing wrong. This is illegal. And if he can do it to us, he will do it to the next family."
"You’re right,” I assure them both. “You have a case. We’re going to fight him.”
"How long does it usually take to get to court? I'm worried that we’ll have to move if there isn't a decision before—”
I hold up my hands and give the couple a small smile. “Part of our office operates under a grant to take up these causes. The fee will be subsidized, in part, by that grant and our billing department can work out a payment plan for the balance that won't hurt too much. As for how long it takes?"
I shrug, tossing up my hands. "It varies. I've had cases settle very quickly. I had a case that went on for a year. But we can halt eviction proceedings. Bailey can’t move forward until this complaint is settled.”
They sink back into their chairs in relief.
"So, let's talk about our game plan."
A few hours later, I transcribe the notes for my timesheet.
I’m angry for the Sanchez family. They're living what passes for the American dream on the front page of every newspaper— life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I've driven past the Bay Ridge View. It's in a bustling area, surrounded by suburbs and small businesses. There's a peaceful neighborhood feel with a park a few blocks away. I always see people playing Frisbee, walking dogs and riding bikes. I'd want to raise my children in such pleasant surroundings. Too bad the building owner is a dirtbag.
"What a dick," I mutter to myself, listening back on the recorded session and adding to my notes.
"What about a dick?"
I turn to see Troy standing in the doorway and grin as I press the stop button on the tape recorder.
“Hey Lil Bear,” I reply, a prepubescent nickname for him slipping out. As per our agreement, when Troy decided to work for F&R, I’m not supposed to call him that ever, but especially not inside the building. “Woops. I mean Troy. What are you up to?”
“Whatever. You did that on purpose.” He steps into my office, moving around to settle into the only other chair in the room. "Who's a dick?"
"The landlord in this case I'm working on."
"The one I can't know anything about because my brother is opposing counsel?"
"That one." I point at him, then begin stacking note pa
ges, tapping the edges on the surface of my desk. "I can't risk him hearing our strategy. I need to surprise him.”
“I know my grades weren’t all that, but I passed Ethics. Like you did. Like Preston did.”
“I know. Just saying. What are you working on?"
"Besides carting archive files to storage? I got a new case."
I brighten at this news. “Finally!”
He nods, his head dipping in a moment of shyness. “I go to court once with the client. Easy."
"Easy money folds the same way.” I raise my hand, and he slaps my palm in a high five.
“That’s how I feel about it. So..." He pauses, smiles, and I know what’s coming. "How's wedding planning?”
I groan. “Speaking of a man who is a dick. I hope you don't mind me talking shit about your brother.”
He laughs; his usual response to my hate for his sibling.
"He has a good idea about the destination, but I'm not admitting that yet. His head will blow up so big he'll never get out of his house."
"You two have a funny relationship."
"We do not have a relationship, Troy.”
“Call it what you want. You're still around each other all the time."
I begin to pack my files and laptop into my bag. It's Friday night, but I have a meeting with Preston and his client soon, so there’ll be no swinging single life for me.
"Not by my doing. He’s my best friend’s fiancé’s best friend. If I had my preference, I'd never see Preston again."
"You don't mean that,” he argues. “I don't believe that you mean that.”
“No?” I pause, lodging a fist on my hip. “He follows me around, not the other way."
“And you lead him around. You don’t date, ever. You’ve never tried to get away from him. You still live here after all—"
My head snaps up, catching Troy’s soft, full-of-regret eyes. “I stayed in Orlando because of my dad.”
By my second year at UCF, my dad's Parkinson's had become symptomatic, which put an end to any plans to leave my hometown. Every morning, I talk to my mother and get a report. When she needs me, it's vital to be minutes away.
“I know.” His lashes flutter as his gaze hits the floor, and his mouth turns down. “I’m sorry. I know.”
“Preston didn’t leave either, and he has every contact in the world that could get him a job anywhere but here. And don't start with that he’s in love with you bullshit. There's no love anywhere near his cold, dead heart for me."
“There is, though,” Troy responds. His head tips up, and he smirks, his expression so cute but evil. Troy is the irritating little brother I never had.
I wedge a stack of files into my bag and snap, “Well, you might want to inform him that he's in love with me.”
Troy's mouth opens, then closes. Then it opens again. "Did I ever tell you about the time I told him that he was in love with you?”
I stop dead in my tracks, my veins going cold. “No. What did he say?”
“I got knocked the fuck out!” He answers, in a hilarious Chris Tucker impression. “Well, he tried. Mom had to pull him off of me. She told me to stop instigating.” As if he’s almost ashamed of himself, he shrugs. "I thought it was funny."
I pick up my bags, packed full of material to review and inch toward the door.
“It isn’t. Have a nice weekend, Troy.”
6
I usually work in my living room, on the floor in front of the television. My laptop sits to my left, all my notepads to my right, my files directly in front of me. Every few hours, I have to get up and walk around, grab some water, make some coffee.
By 10 AM, I have already been working for hours, after pulling a late one the night before. I am stiff, and not for any good, fun reason. My first conference with Preston and Philip Bailey is next week. I need to be ready.
Running forces me to concentrate on not dying instead of everything else going on in my life, so I change into a tank top and yoga pants, grab my phone and earbuds, ID, debit card, and keys and shove them into a small sack that attaches to an armband. I hop in the car and drive to my favorite park with a running trail.
The day is sunny, the air is clean, and the flowering trees and shrubs give me pretty scenery to focus on while I heave and pant for a few miles. I’m sweaty, but I need snacks before I head back home to work, so I swing into a Publix grocery store parking lot, giving a wave to the symphony of car horns that sound off.
A bag of tortilla chips and a jar of medium salsa make it into my basket. I walk past jars of cheese dip… and then walk back. I reach for one, pick it up, then frown while I read the label.
Is there even any cheese in this stuff?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A familiar spicy citrus blend with musky notes wafts behind me. Fuck.
"Evangeline."
My shoulders drop. “I was having such a good day.”
I put the nacho cheese back and turn my head far enough to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks nice for a late Saturday morning— jeans and a black button-down shirt, far enough open at the collar to see tufts of chest hair.
If I was looking that hard.
He smells good, like...he hasn't been home from his date last night.
I am instantly disgusted. And then angry at myself for being disgusted.
“What are you doing in here? You don’t even live over here.”
Preston’s chuckle carries over my shoulder as he steps close so close to me, the soft cotton of his shirt brushes against my skin. “You don’t own this side of town. I had a meeting over this way. I saw you leave the park, then cut across two lanes of traffic to get over here. I wanted to see what had you in such a hurry.”
He peers into my basket. “Chips. Salsa. This is how you fuel after a run?”
"Can't get anything past you, Reid."
"You don't eat this shit all the time, do you? I mean, you can't. Not with everything you’re working with.”
I turn to find him eyeing me, head to toe. It reminds me of that day in seventh grade when he couldn't stop staring.
“If you don’t want anything, I have shit to do, Preston.”
I want to walk away, but that would leave him staring at my ass. So, I stand with an irritated tilt to my head, hoping that incites him to move.
"See, Evangeline… here's me being nice to you.” Laughter pokes at the corners of his mouth as he splays a hand over his chest. “And here's you treating me like shit. You reap what you sow."
“Anyone can pretend to be nice. Especially when I know there’s ice behind that smile.”
“I don’t pretend to do anything.” He props an elbow against the shelf and leans in. I can smell the mint in his toothpaste. “I’m generally a nice guy.”
“Men that have to tell people that they’re nice usually aren’t. So, I beg to differ.”
“You probably beg for a lot of things."
"Never had to, actually,” I shoot back, my eyes narrowing. “How about you, Reid?"
"You and I both know that I've never had to beg."
He stares at me. I stare at him and refuse to look away. Preston finally breaks the stalemate.
"Tell you what. Put this shit back. I’ll take you to breakfast. Maybe this is why you’re not competition in the courtroom."
"No. But thanks.”
“No?” He seems genuinely surprised that a woman has turned him down. “What else do you have to do?"
“I’m in the middle of a case that I will win because I will be prepared. Opposing counsel looks to be busy trolling the grocery store for ass.”
“Oh. I wouldn't worry about that case, Angie. There’s no way you’ll win, so relax. Let's go eat."
He reaches into my basket and starts restocking my groceries.
“Hey! Give—" I reach for the bag of chips, but he grabs for my hand and doesn't let go. Instead, he gently pulls me down the aisle. “Preston! I said—”
"I heard what you said. Come
anyway. I'm hungry. You're hungry; you almost bought nacho cheese sauce. Do you know how much sodium is in that shit? It's not even cheese."
He tilts his head in a nod toward the door. "We'll go to Grand Luxe. You love that place."
I feel shitty about it, but I immediately stop protesting. I do love Grand Luxe Café. Our families used to go there together all the time.
Do I want to put up with Preston for chocolate chip pancakes?
Preston and I snag the last booth before the lunch rush gets crazy, and a line starts to form. He unwraps a straw and dunks it into a glass of ice water while absentmindedly reviewing the menu. "Maybe I'll get their new ranch chicken sandwich. What are you having?"
I don't even look at the menu. I can smell the pancakes a mile away. "My usual," I say, sipping the coffee that the waitress has set in front of me, and I've doctored with cream and sugar.
"Chocolate chip pancakes.” He raises an eyebrow. “Doesn't that sound better than chips and not cheese sauce?”
"Now, yes. At 3 AM, I am going to want chips and not cheese sauce.”
"At 3 AM, you should be thinking about anything but food."
"Try not to be a pig right now.”
Preston is unbothered. “I’m a man. Anyway, I was going to call you. Did you look up the resort?"
“Yup.”
I had looked up the resort and called their coordinator several times. I was mesmerized by everything in the brochure, on the website, in the reviews on the Tying the Knot's Destination Wedding forum. So much so that I hadn’t looked into any other destinations. St. Lucia or bust.
"And?" He prods.
"I'm worried about the timing. October is too soon and it’s hurricane season.”
“So we’ll watch the weather. A rainy day on an island doesn’t suck. You underestimate our friends and the bait of a free party. Nate's paying for everything at the resort; they just have to get there. They’ll spend a few hundred on a flight."
“And it’s a long flight.” I’d checked Google, and no matter how we configured the flight plan, it would be a long day of travel from Orlando.
“Free accommodations for as long as they want to stay. The flight is worth it.”
