Tease

by Stevens, Camilla

  In the four years we’ve been apart, she’s become nothing more than a faded memory. Emily ended up in Washington D.C., which was always her second choice of locations after New York City.

  I don’t do Facebook or Instagram or any of that social media nonsense, so I was limited as to what I could gather from her work information.

  We haven’t been in touch since we broke up, so it’s no wonder she didn’t call or email to tell me the news herself.

  In fact, she probably thinks I’ve already moved on with someone else.

  I once again click on the picture of her, which her former employer has yet to remove.

  She looks good. If anything, she looks even better than she did in law school.

  Just as I did during that first year here at ABC, I wonder if perhaps we could have made it work. Washington D.C. isn’t that far. She would have one day made her way back to New York.

  Apparently.

  My phone rings, forcing me back into the moment. I see that it’s Doug Hancock, and immediately pick up.

  “Jesse, you aren’t working on anything urgent are you?” he asks before I can even say hello.

  That depends on how you define urgent. In law, it feels like everything needs to have been done yesterday.

  But when one of the senior partners asks, you have all the time in the world.

  At least it will take my mind off this news about Emily joining the firm.

  “No, not really, Doug.”

  “You worked with Blackstone Media on something last year didn’t you?”

  “The contract case? Yes, I was the lead—”

  “Contract? I thought it was a censorship thing.”

  “Well the case specifically dealt with a contract clause related to censorship.“

  “Perfect. Can you come to my office? We’ve got something in the works and I want you on it.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  I pump my fist as soon as I hang up.

  Contract cases have inadvertently become my specialty. I’m an expert at sifting through the minutiae and word vomit of particularly dense agreements to find the needle in a haystack that anyone else might have overlooked. It’s tedious and boring, and most associates balk at such duties, but I love it.

  I grab a pen and legal pad, which I prefer to the laptop the firm provides, and head up one floor to Doug’s office. He has a corner, with a view of both the East River on one side and Governors Island to the south.

  Doug silently waves me in without greeting, and I take a seat in the chair across from him. His attention is focused on the phone on his desk, which is on speaker mode. I’ve noticed it’s his favorite way of communicating.

  “Congressman Bowen? I have one of our best associates here with me. He’s worked on a similar case before—Jesse.”

  Last name conveniently left off. I attribute it to the fact that Doug has a tendency to mangle “Castiglione” when he tries to pronounce it.

  “Congressman Bowen,” I announce, quickly trying to place the name. I know he’s a federal congressman, elected by some district in upstate New York.

  “I want you to eviscerate these bastards!” the congressman says without preamble.

  I raise a questioning eyebrow at Doug.

  He waves a dismissive hand as though he’ll explain later. He allows the man to rant long enough for me to get a clearer picture of both what this case is about and the man himself.

  Congressman Samuel Bowen, well known in the family values circuit for his holier-than-thou Protestantism and his opposition to anything not resembling the traditional nuclear family. Which has obviously made him easy fodder for satirists.

  The specific target of his angst is Ideal Gentlemen magazine which recently did an entire spread on Congressman “Blowin’.” It was a series of cartoons with a caricature of Bowen, blowing a dog whistle in the shape of a penis as he angrily glared at cartoon dogs with very human-like characteristics committing every conceivable perversion. The magazine caters to a certain class of men who appreciate a good dose of off-color satire to go along with their playboy lifestyle.

  Even though I’m religious myself, or at least make an attempt to be—Catholic in my case—I had a good chuckle over it.

  Listening to him right now, the magazine does have a point, he certainly is full of hot air.

  “I completely understand, Congressman Bowen,” Doug says, interrupting Bowen’s latest rant. “Jesse here is going to work on a few angles of attack and we’ll set up a meeting with you to discuss it. How does that sound?”

  “So long as they pay for what they did. Just last week at church someone, probably one of those degenerate teenagers, placed disgusting whistles in the shape of—I can’t even bring myself to say it, but they were scattered all over the hood of my car. My wife and teenage daughter were right there with me. The worst part is my daughter had the audacity to laugh at it! They’re already corrupting her!”

  “Terrible,” Doug says, with such an exaggerated look of disapproval on his face I have to wonder if it’s just to keep from laughing. “You can rely on us to come up with some strategy to address this terrible wrong done to you.”

  “Like I said, eviscerated!” Congressman Bowen yells.

  So much for turning the other cheek.

  That wording inadvertently presents an unfortunate mental image in my head, something to match the images from that magazine cartoon.

  It’s all I can do to keep from laughing.

  When Doug finally hangs up, he exhales and gives me a sardonic look. “So, it looks like we’re suing Ideal Gentlemen for…something. Like I said, I want you to think of a few avenues of attack.”

  “So are we in the business of media law now? Do you really want to take on Conniver Media?”

  “Good God, no,” Doug says in horror. “This case is a one-off—and focused only on the magazine, not the parent corporation. Besides, rumor has it, Conniver is getting rid of a few publications, including Ideal Gentlemen. Either way, don’t spend too much time on it. I doubt these will be billable hours.”

  Well, thank you very much, Doug.

  I bite my tongue.

  Billable hours are the lifeblood of the firm, which means it’s one of the major factors partners look at when granting year-end bonuses and deciding who is deserving of a partnership offer. All associates have a minimum quota and, while I’m perfectly on track even this early in the year, I certainly don’t want to waste time on something that does nothing to advance my career.

  Save for the fact that it’s Doug Hancock doing the asking.

  Despite my silence, he must note something in my expression.

  “It pays to have a Congressman in your pocket, Jesse.” He gives me a mildly panicked look, then adds, “in a manner of speaking.”

  “Right,” I say with a tight smile. “At least we won’t be breaking any campaign finance law.”

  “The source of funds isn’t your concern,” Doug says, for some reason especially irritated at that remark.

  The hell it isn’t. My name on a case that ends up in front of a congressional hearing is not something I’m interested in happening. But since I’m not billing anything at this point, I suppose it doesn’t matter.

  “That will be all,” he says, dismissing me. “Give me something by first thing in the morning? Just a quick memo on your findings.”

  In other words, spend most of the night researching caselaw and put together something that is proofed, perfectly-cited, and complete with a table of authorities.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  “Will do,” I say without hesitation. It comes out easier than the next thing on my mind. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the notice this morning regarding the two new associates we’re hiring? What’s the deal with that?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that was Marie’s doing. Can’t hurt to have a few souls straight from D.C. in our Admin Law department, right?”

  “Right,” I say, nodding.

  So it seems like
Emily was headhunted?

  At least she finally ended up in New York. I can’t fault her for choosing ABC. She always was vigilant about going after what she wanted, and this firm is the best.

  Good for her.

  The two of us didn’t necessarily end on a bad note, but when she couldn’t get the kind of job she wanted in New York and decided to head to Washington instead, we knew it might not last. After almost three years together up at Harvard Law School, it was a clean break.

  Now, she’s back.

  I wonder if she’s seeing anyone.

  It occurs to me that she’ll be back in time for the firm gala.

  All the more reason to find someone to go with.

  Unless of course she’s still single.

  Chapter Five

  Honey

  It’s now late afternoon, and I’m at the gym with my workout partner Jerome. We’re taking turns on the chest press machine.

  By day he is a bike messenger, so his schedule is flexible enough to fit in the odd workout session with me.

  At night he becomes “Jheri Gurl” a drag queen who comes alive on the stage, mostly to the tunes of old school Janet Jackson. When he’s in full makeup, hell if he doesn’t kind of look like her.

  We became friends when we both worked tiny roles in an off-off-off Broadway show years ago.

  I’ve filled him in on everything that happened at lunch with Francis, seeking out his advice. I knew how my girlfriends at work would react, circling the wagons of female outrage. That certainly has its benefits, but right now I need a good dose of reality.

  So I’m asking the opinion of a man.

  Or as close to one as I can get.

  “Honey, it’s over girl,” he says as he stares down at me, pursing his lips.

  “What?” I say, suddenly releasing the weights. They fall back in place with a loud clang. I didn’t expect him to be this blunt about it. “It’s not over. We’re just…on a break.”

  Why am I so defensive all of a sudden?

  Wasn’t I the one who walked out of lunch with a firm note of finality—at least until Francis comes to his senses?

  “Mmm-hmm,” Jerome hums, rolling his eyes. “Finish your set, girl.”

  I continue on, a bit more fiercely.

  “Well, damn, Honey, don’t take it out on the dang machine,” Jerome protests. “You don’t want them titties to explode. They too pretty for that.”

  I’m too upset to laugh. I finish the set and pop up to let him take his turn.

  “He said it was just for appearance’s sake.”

  “And I’m assuming you’ve seen the appearance of this hoo-ha woman?”

  “Muffy,” I correct, a reluctant smile coming to my face.

  He sucks his teeth before starting a rep. “If I was you, I’d take that one as a sign. Ain’t no woman, high class or not, go around namin’ herself after her own damn vajayjay. At least not unless she ain’t purposely out there looking for some dick to go with it. Hell, if I was desperate enough I’d change my name too, get me my own Francis. Call myself Jheri Swirl or Jheri Coochie.”

  I cough out a laugh. This is the second reason why I’m coming to Jerome for all of this. Laughter really is the best medicine, even for a broken heart.

  The two men pumping iron nearby turn to give Jerome disgusted frowns. They each look like they could benchpress a pickup truck.

  Jerome is more lean muscle, currently exposed in short shorts and a very loose tank top, which I’m sure only adds to their disdain.

  “What?” Jeromes says, being extra sassy just to wind them up. “Don’t act like y’all wouldn’t sample a piece of this pie.”

  “He’s joking,” I quickly say, trying to calm them down, since they look like they definitely want to do something to Jerome’s pie.

  They huff and puff, but take one look at me and my pleading eyes and decide to move to another machine instead of blowing Jerome’s house down.

  “Maybe next time mind ya business. Listenin’ in on people’s conversations and shit,” Jerome mutters.

  “Do you feel manly now?” I say with a smirk as I turn back to him.

  He clucks his tongue as he continues pumping the machine. “I didn’t offer either of them anything they wasn’t looking for. You’d be surprised, baby girl.”

  “Anyway,” I stress, getting back on track. “Can we move on from your dick and back to my Muffy?”

  Jerome purses his lips in an exaggerated way. “Girl, you know I like it when you talk nasty to me.”

  “I aim to please,” I say blithely.

  “Okay then, just let me understand all this nonsense. You gave your man the green light to tap some strange.”

  “No! It’s a fake relationship. He said there wouldn’t even be so much as holding hands!”

  “And you believed him enough to say okey-doke.”

  “What all else could I say?” I hear my Georgia roots creep in, now that I’m feeling a bit more fired up.

  “Do you really want me to tell you?” He gives me a pointed look.

  “I agreed because this is what his family’s company needs. And I love him—and trust him enough to…agree to it.”

  “Honey, I ain’t never met a man who’s been given an inch and don’t take a damn mile. And girl, you just gave him permission to travel down the whole dang interstate.”

  “You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” I say morosely.

  “No, I’m supposed to be givin’ your ass a reality check, and that’s what I’m doin.’”

  “So, I should officially-officially break up with him,” I say, mostly to myself.

  “Not so long as you have that apartment!” Jerome says in alarm. “At least make him sign the lease for another year. Hell, get you a duplex and checks. Some decorations from Tiffany’s or somethin.’ You bettah channel Miss Kitt if you know what’s good for you. Let Santa Baby do his thing. You deserve a parting gift. Get as much as you can from the man, then move on to another sugar daddy.”

  “Don’t cheapen it, Jerome. I do actually love him, you know.”

  “And your ass can just as easily fall in love with another multi-multi-millionaire. Hell, if I had your face and body, I’d make a career of getting money from men. I wouldn’t even need the love part.”

  “But I do. And I don’t want it to be over. Francis and I, we have fun together. He’s sweet and kind and…yes, generous, but that’s a bonus on top of everything else.”

  “Are you sure the love part wasn’t the bonus?”

  I scowl at him.

  The truth is, when Francis and I first started, I wasn’t sure which was which. When Francis showed up backstage to the theater I work at so unexpectedly, he was all roses and gifts to win me over.

  Then, when I finally melted, it was luxury trips and designer clothes. It was nice to be spoiled, especially after those first few years struggling in this city. I’m going to miss this life of luxury when—if!—he’s gone for good.

  But that doesn’t mean the crack that’s formed in my heart isn’t genuine.

  “I want to be with him, Jerome. I can’t help it. I love him.”

  “Fine, fine, she loves the man,” he says toward the ceiling, as though praying for understanding. He brings his head down to consider me. “But let’s think this all the way through before we consider going after that ring. Do you really want to be Honey Hickenbatter?”

  “It has a certain alliterative ring to it,” I say.

  “I don’t even know what that means, but I do know Honey Hickenbatter sounds like the poster girl for a box a grits or somethin’.”

  “Well, I am from Georgia,” I sass. “Come on, Jerome, do you honestly think I haven’t called myself Honey Hickenbatter in my head a hundred times in preparation for what I thought would happen?”

  “I guess,” he says, rising up now that he’s finished his set. He grabs a towel to wipe down as he continues. “First of all, you need to find out all you can about this supposed arrangement of theirs. Disco
ver if it’s really for show.”

  I nod in understanding.

  “Then, you need to find out about this Muffy woman. Francis told you what he’s getting out of all of this—supposedly.” I give Jerome a hard glare, which he dismisses with a wave of the hand. “Now, you gotta find out what Miss Thang is after. Who knows, maybe she has her own boytoy on the side?”

  “Is that what I am? A toy?” I say, a hurt expression coming to my face.

  Jerome gives me an apologetic look. “Oh Honey, Jerome’s sorry.”

  He pulls me in for a hug and I cry out in protest as I’m drenched in his sweat and odor.

  “Jerome!”

  He laughs and lets go.

  I frown and wipe myself off with my towel.

  “In the meantime, I say, you throw ya self a party. Get over him in style. Set these three months off on the right foot.”

  That brightens my mood, as parties are wont to do. I knew he’d suggest something to cheer me up.

  “Perfect!” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

  “Ooh girl, don’t get too excited up in here. You gonna give all these boys a heart attack,” Jerome says, eyeing my sports tank top.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll make it for next Monday, that way everyone we know can attend. It’ll be right before St. Valentine’s Day. But no break-up themes! It has to be…hopeful. I don’t want to bring anyone down.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just tell me who all is going to be there, other than yours truly of course.”

  “Of course,” I agree with a pert smile. “The Girls from work, obviously. Rose, Esmerelda, Antoinette.”

  “And I assume everyone we used to work with at the theater. I’ll bring a few of my girls from work too. Make it a real party and shit,” Jerome says. His “girls” are about as female as he is.

  I laugh, “Good grief, this thing is going to be gay as anything isn’t it?”

  “Then invite you some straight boys! You know Jerome is always down for that.” He gives me a scrutinizing look. “You do know some straight boys, don’t you? Francis hasn’t completely cut you off from the trough.”

  “Of course I do,” I say with a frown as I think about it.