by Faye, Amy
"Yes, I know," he says.
"Oh, you knew. That makes the rest easier."
"That was Deborah on the phone, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay. What happened this time?"
I close my eyes. I didn't imagine this conversation going this way. I imagined it better, or worse. But I didn't really imagine just getting right down to business. It was always some big revelation.
Instead, he'd already guessed at least half of it, and just needed me for the details.
Now I just had to give them to him, and then we'd figure out what to do next from there.
Chapter Twenty
There's a little voice in my head, something that might approximate morality. I think, once, there was a strong sense of right and wrong there. I don't have the luxury of deciding between good people and bad people any more, or of deciding between the right thing to do and the effective thing to do.
I do what I have to do. The world accommodates. That's how it is, and there's really no avoiding it. The prosecutor doesn't worry about fair or unfair to my clients. They worry about proving guilt.
I don't worry about fair or unfair, either, because those are the rules of the game that I'm playing. Winning is what matters. Not anything else.
But even still, I can't get rid of that little voice in my mind that tells me that I need to back off. To think about this rationally. To really decide if I'm ready and willing to go there.
And right now, as I finally talk about Deborah for the first time in almost ten years, and I try to talk Autumn through the case, that voice is asking me if I'm really ready to fuck her over on this.
No—asking isn't the right word. It's screaming at me like a fire alarm, back out now. Don't do this. Don't do it, you're going to regret it.
I remember the first time I ever thought like that, though, and I have learned quite a bit since then. Like how to ignore that voice even when it might make the most sense to listen to it. How to do what needs to be done, in spite of the fact that it's not the right thing to do.
The thing I can't do, whether I want to or not, is bring myself to give Autumn fundamentally bad advice. She could be a very valuable asset, if I use her adequately.
She's smart. That is definitely true. More than that, she's useful. Beautiful, smart, and a desire to learn. There's nothing more I could possibly ask.
Well, there's one other thing. I could ask that she only be as much of a backstabbing bitch as I need her to be. Whether or not she's that, too, remains to be seen.
Not enough, and she won't last long in this career. Too much, and she's… well, she's a backstabbing bitch. A man can carry the reputation a little further than a woman can, fair or not. This game isn't measured in units of fairness, it's measured in wins and losses. She's going to have to learn to get around fair as best she can.
"Petty larceny is a punitive crime, but it's also a small one. It shows dishonesty more than anything else. They're not going to find her guilty because she did it, or innocent because she didn't do it, per se."
"Right," I say. Almost textbook recitation.
"So the first thing we should do is find character witnesses. Right?"
"Right again."
That's where the problems are going to start for this particular case. I'm particularly glad that I'm not especially committed to the task of getting her off scot-free. Because Deborah Logan isn't the sort of woman who gets a lot of solid character witnesses.
She's a bridge-burner. Act all nice and friendly to get across, and then as she takes her final steps, she monetizes, or she pisses them off. It's how she lets herself constantly feel like a victim. She's always got someone new that hates her.
There's obviously no reason, of course, to believe that she had anything to do with creating that situation. Because she's the victim here, and there's no arguing with that.
So there are going to be precious few, but that's not the same as 'none.' Some people can't be fucked over. Priests, maybe her bosses. Her coworkers likely aren't fooled, but it doesn't much matter. You just don't invite them onto the stand.
On the other hand, it's easy to discredit witnesses. Character witnesses, too. You can find them praising someone who was obviously bad. You can find them insulting someone who's obviously good. Or you can find something wrong with their character.
And then that witness is useless. Which is why it's very good to know well in advance who's going to be on that list. I'm taking notes as Autumn lists them off. It's all in the name of a good defense.
That is, it will be until she leaves, and then it's all fair game.
Chapter Twenty-One
"Hello, I'm calling from the Office of Eric Warren. Is this Connie White?"
The woman's voice on the other end of the line is appropriately uncertain. "Yes? What's this about?"
I don't like making people nervous, of course. I never have and I never will. But it's almost necessary, in some ways; you get better responses from people on their back foot.
That's one of the first things I learned, and it was immediately obvious even in mock-trials. The worst thing that can happen in a trial is the unexpected. You build your case around evidence that already exists.
As best as you can manage, you foresee every possibility and then you put that plan into action. There shouldn't be any such thing as "risk" in practicing law. You don't create a plan that might work. You create a plan that can't fail.
That way, when something doesn't break the way you want it to, well… there was leeway built into the plan from the start. It was a rock-solid case to begin with. And people don't do things that are unexpected, not very often.
Not when they're terrified, anyways.
"I'm calling because—you knew Deborah Logan, yes?"
"I suppose I did."
"She put you down as a reference on her last job application. A personal reference. So you knew her, right?"
"Oh. Yeah, I knew her."
"What would you say about her?"
"Hard worker. She was always everyone's friend. Seemed like she had a few tough breaks, though, so we parted ways. So she got that job down in the City, huh?"
"And would you be willing to testify to that in a court of law?"
"Testify to what?"
"To her hard-working and friendly demeanor."
"I'm not sure I understand the question."
"She's gotten involved in some legal trouble, and—"
"I'm not sure about that. I don't really want to get involved with the courts."
"Very understandable, ma'am. But there's really nothing to worry about, it's all very—"
"I said I wasn't interested, miss. Thank you for your understanding."
That wasn't unexpected. As much as I wanted it not to happen, it wasn't unexpected. My rule still stood up.
I scratched Connie's name off the list. We had a dozen, split between us. And they were going about as well as I'd expected them to, sadly. There was, at least so far, no big trick to getting people into the seat. They could be subpoenaed, of course, if we had to. But that wasn't a good look for someone who is supposed to come in and tell everyone how they'd stake their reputation on the person being a real upstanding citizen.
I set the phone down a minute, rubbed a finger against my temple. Across the table, Eric set his own phone down. He didn't look like he'd had any more success than I had.
"No luck?"
I thought it sounded like a stupid question. One that got on my nerves, frankly, because he could no doubt see that I hadn't had any.
"I've still got two more to go, though."
"Yeah. Same here. You want to take a break?"
"No." I would like nothing more than to take a break.
"Come on. We're going to stop and get something to eat."
"No, I need to make these calls."
"You're exhausted. I can see it in your eyes."
"Shut up, I'm just—"
"Just exhausted. Come on. We're going to go eat
."
He wraps an arm around me. I can't help myself. I press into his body, feeling the strength of his muscles as they hold me close. The tiredness seems to seep out of me as his hand wraps around my shoulder.
"Come on," he repeats again, and starts moving for the door. He doesn't pull me, but his arm starts moving and if I don't fight him, I'll be going with it. I don't fight it.
We step out into the lobby. Shannon's gone for the evening. She's got a singularly focused attention to getting out of the office on-time. I don't know whether to like or hate it.
"Where are you taking me this time?"
"Home," he says. I can't tell if he's being serious or not, which might eat at me if I didn't have a throbbing headache. "I've got a couple of steaks as thick as your wrist."
I lean into him. I'm too tired to do anything else. And besides that… I have to admit. Steak sounds delicious.
The other mischief I could get up to in that man's house, well…
I'm just teasing myself now. It's not going to happen, not now and not ever. But if it could, if it did…
I cut the thought off. It's not going to, and it can't, and that's just how it is. No use indulging fantasies. I tell myself that, now.
But I'm not convinced, and my mind's already wandering towards the gutter as I slide into the car beside him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The fact that she was my kid sister hadn't entered into it since the first week. There were lines that people drew, and I suppose that maybe most people drew them thicker than he did, but as it turned out, the line between "attractive woman" and "woman I'd like to sleep with" wasn't as thin as the one between "once-upon-a-time step-sister" and "every other woman."
There wasn't going to be any legal trouble to stop them. He knew that much. It wasn't something he'd looked into so deeply, but the sort of trouble that people run into when they've got so much money that they don't know what the word 'no' means can run into the wild.
Which is to say, can you fuck your step-daughter? Sure. More or less. You shouldn't, probably, but if you're both consenting adults, it's a story you don't want in the paper, rather than a story you don't want the cops finding out about, because a good lawyer will get you off.
An ex-sister should be totally fine. No legal problems, no consanguinity problems, nothing like that. She seems to think that it'll be a problem, for me. It's obviously not a problem for her, or she wouldn't have thought about it in the first place.
But when she thought I didn't know, it was all's fair in love and war. Now that she's told me, she thinks that something has changed. It hasn't.
I sit back from the table and sip the glass of water I poured for myself. Some part of me would like the crisp, sharp bite of something harder. But I don't want to ruin anything for myself, and I don't want to get started without her.
She's eating slower than I am. Small bites, very polite. Very feminine. I can't fault her for it, but even after I've eaten my fill, I'm still hungry for something else. Something more.
And I've got it right here, ready for the taking. But everything has to go in order.
"You've got nothing to worry about," I tell her. I've told her that a half-dozen times or more, but I don't feel as if it's stuck yet. "She'll be fine. We're just making triple-sure that there's not going to be any surprises."
She swallows the food she's been chewing and wipes away her mouth. "Yeah, I know."
"But you're still worried."
"Of course I'm worried. You—well, maybe you do know. She's… Well, she can put up a front for a little while. For twelve people, for however long? I don't know."
"Then we're just going to have to make sure that it ends quickly. You might get on the phone with the DA's office and see if you can't get out of it entirely. See what they're willing to offer."
It's good advice. There's no reason ever to not ask for someone to cut you a break. What's the worst that can happen?
"You're right," she agrees. She doesn't seem quite like she's over it.
Or, at least, it would be good advice, if I hadn't already done it. If I hadn't already dropped hints that maybe there's something here, and if the office digs a little, they might find something.
"Of course I'm right."
She takes the last bite in her mouth and pushes the plate away.
"Thank you for dinner, it was lovely."
"You want to stay a while? You need to relax a little."
I can see the mental calculus going on in her head. Am I being friendly? Or am I being coy? Or am I just coming right out and saying what I want?
I like it. I like watching her try to stop the shudder that runs down her spine. I'm just acting brotherly, right? She's the one who was seriously considering sleeping with her older brother. I was just getting close to an attractive young woman, until she told me the truth.
It may have entered her mind that I knew the whole time, but she isn't convinced that it's the case. She thinks that she's had me fooled all this time, and I'm far too amused to correct her.
"I shouldn't," she finally says. "I—"
"Don't tell me you shouldn't. Tell me you want to."
Her eyebrows press together, and her face drops to her lap. "Say I did, then what would happen?"
"Only what you wanted to happen."
"I don't know what I want," she says. I don't know if she's telling me the truth, or if she's lying to herself, too.
"Then I'll show you." I push myself up, and within two steps I'm close to her. Her breath catches as I stand her up. Closer still. Her nose is only inches from mine. And then I pull her in close and take what I've wanted for months now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He has that same sweet, woody scent that I first noticed on him, just powerful enough to smell it as his lips find mine, as his arms wrap around me, and what little bit of resistance I had left in my body drifts away.
I melt into his embrace, his arms the only thing keeping me from settling into a mess on the floor. His beard scratches my smooth skin, an irritation that reminds me of the masculinity that drew me to him in the first place.
I know that it's not a legal issue, any more. Nobody can judge me for it, either. I waited, I tried to let the attraction drop. And I thought I had succeeded. So I thought. Then I met him again and all the feelings came back again.
He pushes me back with his chest, his arms stopping me from falling, and together we walk, bodies still pressed together, into the other room. Until I hit the arm of the couch and he pushes one last time.
My body hits the leather seat and forces all the air out of my lungs. By the time I know what's going on again, he's above me, suspended over me, but I can almost feel the weight that he keeps safely held over me.
My breath comes in sharp gasps. I shouldn't want him the way that i do, but I can't stop myself. His other hand finds my breast, inside my jacket. Even through the fabric of my blouse and my bra, I can't stop myself shuddering at his touch. Imagining it.
He grins wolfishly. He knows I want this as bad as he does. Maybe more. And he's going to give me what I want, in spite of what I should want.
I press myself up into him. Wanting, needing. He pinches, and my nipple reacts, tightening and puckering before he's even touched his flesh against my skin.
"What do you want me to do," he says. His voice is rough.
"Whatever you want," I tell him, my breath still ragged in my chest.
Fingers wrap around my wrist, strong and insistent but not demanding. Firm, but not rough. And he guides my hand to his hardness. It makes an outline against the fine fabric of his trousers, but nothing prepares me for the feeling of my fingers as they wrap a little way around it, as much as I can through the clothing.
It's big. I don't have a long list of dicks I've seen, but this one is big by any comparison point I can make. Part of me wonders how it's going to fit inside me. I already know the answer, though. Deliciously.
"Take it out," he says softly. My hands go to wo
rk undoing his belt, unzipping the fly on his trousers. The clothing is well-made and comes undone easily. His hardness springs out at me automatically, as soon as it's freed from the clothing.
My hands find the hem of his boxers next, and pull them down until he's loose of them as well, his manhood standing straight and proud. It looks bigger than it felt, and it felt large. A shiver runs down my spine. I've always liked a challenge, but this is entirely different from anything I've ever had to combat before.
My hand wraps around it. The flesh is soft, and yet it's only a thin layer of softness over something that feels impossibly hard. My mind is racing at a million miles an hour, and I can't stop myself from giving it an experimental tug.
The soft flesh along his length moves with my hand, and his breathing gets a little louder, a little more ragged, just for an instant before Eric can get control of himself again. I move more smoothly this time, a little slower.
His eyes drift shut as my hand falls into a rhythm, massaging his shaft and watching the expressions on his face. How his mood shifts when I do it faster, or when I focus more on the head.
His hand reaches down and stills mine. "Your mouth, too," he says.
As simple as that, and then he lets me continue. My pace, with instruction.
I sit up. I don't know how much I'll be able to fit in my mouth, but I don't feel as if he wants to hear my excuses, or my rationale, or my worrying. Something deep down inside me suspects that has nothing to do with what he wants.
My tongue comes out for an experimental lick along the shaft, one that meets with his vocal approval. A little shiver runs through me. I did alright so far.
He fills my mouth when I take him between my lips. I'm a little bit disappointed in myself when I can only take the first couple of inches. I move my head though, doing what I can. I can already feel my jaw loosening up, can already feel the gag reflex slowly dissipating.
He can feel it, too. The way that his fingers dig into my hair, the way that he can't quite still his hips from moving to meet my mouth.
