Risking Ruin

by Mae Wood

  “Not quite. It needs to be written. To see each other, we need Jimmy to give us a permission slip.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Trip backed away from Marisa completely. “Really? I’m thirty-seven years old and I have to get my father to give me a freaking permission slip to, excuse me, have sex with you?”

  Marisa was silent as her eyes fell to the table which was currently covered with discarded plates.

  “Forgive me, but I would like a drink,” he said, hefting himself out from the table and swiftly walking to the bar. He stretched his arms up high and nabbed a bottle. “Can I fix you one?”

  Marisa remained silent, pursed her lips, and nodded solemnly.

  “Pick your poison.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she answered in a monotone voice.

  Trip poured generous shots of bourbon into two short glasses that he angled from under the bar. After plunking an ice cube in each, he returned to the table and silently passed Marisa a glass. Before she could extract her now numb hands from under her bottom, Trip lifted his glass.

  “A toast. To being upstanding members of the legal profession.” Marisa lifted her glass and clinked it to his. She couldn’t help but smile and laugh to release the awkwardness of the previous few minutes. Trip joined her in laughing. They finished their drinks in companionable silence and headed out.

  As Trip pulled his car to the curb outside her condo building and handed her the box of dessert, he spoke. “Listen, I had a great time tonight. Whatever you’re comfortable with, that’s fine with me. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll just be friends.” Marisa took the box of tartlets and nodded in agreement, before shooting Trip a wicked smile.

  “For now,” and she leaned in and gave him a firm but chaste kiss on the lips. Hell, the rule only says no sex.

  Marisa climbed out of the car, leaving Trip in a stupor behind the wheel. Walk, walk, keep walking. If you stop, he’ll, I’ll, No! Don’t think! Walk! Marisa made it through the building’s double doors, up the elevator and into her condo before she allowed herself to think of anything other than the need to keep placing one foot in front of the other. She set the tartlets in the fridge and heard her front door open. Shit! I didn’t lock the door! Oh my God! I need to call 9-1-1!

  “Marisa!,” called Trip before setting his eyes on her. He spotted her in the kitchen. She was frozen like a deer in headlights. “You are going to ruin me.” He strode toward her with a firmness of purpose. He took her by the hands. “You really are going to ruin me.” He pulled her towards him until her breasts touched his chest. “Utterly and totally ruin me,” he whispered. Marisa turned her face up to his, and he immediately enveloped her lips with his.

  She returned his affection, and the two fumbled their way to the sofa in the living room, their bodies never separating. Trip lifted her and laid her back on the sofa.

  “Marisa,” he murmured into her hair, as he greedily explored her neck and shoulders. “It’s just now ten o’clock. My dad is almost certainly still awake. Shall I call him?,” said Trip. Marisa could feel the smile on his lips, which were caressing her ear. She playfully batted him away.

  “You break into my condo, start to ravish me,” she said, gently rolling her body along his and savoring every square inch of contact, “and then remind me about why we shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Fine,” sighed Trip, pulling himself off Marisa. “The rule says no sex, right? Setting aside the other night when we were in outright violation of the rule, I think we can find ways to work with it,” he said reclaiming her lips and firmly cupping her left breast in his strong hand.

  Marisa didn’t object. She couldn’t object. She lay still under him, enjoying his weight and warmth. It felt so good to be physically adored by this man.

  “You’re seriously going to pull a Bill Clinton and start trying to define what counts as sex?,” she said after savoring a few minutes of unfathomable kisses.

  “Yes,” he said, as his kisses trailed down her mouth to her décolletage. “Think of it as a challenge. For example, this isn’t sex.” Trip nudged down the neckline of her dress, pressed his hand more firmly upwards, and began to caress the nipple of her left breast with his tongue.

  Marisa inhaled sharply. Exquisite. Marisa wanted more not-sex with Trip. She managed to find words. “Yup, not sex.”

  “And this, I think we can agree isn’t sex, either,” he said, skidding his left hand up under her dress skirt to stroke her thigh.

  Marisa was overcome with lust. Her head spun, and the world grew soft around the edges, while she could feel Trip harden on top of her. “Damn, you’re right again, Trip. Not sex. What else isn’t sex?,” she said coyly.

  His lips moved to hers and his hands found hers. He coaxed her to sitting and then to standing. “This, I do, not believe, is sex. If you feel otherwise, please correct me,” he said, speaking lowly into her mouth.

  Trip took hold of her shoulders and turned her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. Marisa was confused.

  “This certainly isn’t sex,” she noted. Marisa felt Trip’s body shake with a joyous chuckle.

  “No dispute here, but this isn’t where I’m going.” He released her shoulders, and one hand twisted her hair gently into a rough chignon. Trip held her hair out of his way as he spilled kisses along the tops and backs of her shoulders. Her skin tingled with anticipation of where his lips would land next. Marisa felt a slight tug and realized Trip was using his other hand to pull down the back zipper on her dress. For each inch of flesh he exposed, he covered it with kisses down the entire length of her spine. Finally, he let go and her dress’s bodice fell around her waist in a soft whoosh of chiffon. His mouth remained steadfastly on her delicate skin just at the top of her panties, then he carefully reversed course and returned his attention to her neck, in the space created by her impromptu upswept hair.

  “Now, please note, that we both have clothing on. And, again I believe you’d agree, that it is scientifically impossible to have sex while wearing clothes.”

  Marisa kept her eyes forward and shook her head, pulling loose from Trip’s soft grasp on her hair. She sighed, not out of disagreement, but out of frustration. “I also agree with you. Now, may I see if I understand what isn’t sex?”

  “Yes, please,” Trip answered huskily.

  Marisa leaned back into Trip, taking his hands and first having them cup her breasts before skimming them down to her waist. She unfastened the narrow belt around her waist and taking his hands in hers, pushed the dress to the floor. She then glided down Trip’s frame, permitting Trip’s hands to stroke her torso and once more fondle her breasts as she lowered herself into a crouch. Then, perched on the balls of her feet, she rotated towards him and slowly rose to a stand, crawling up Trip’s body. As her mouth reached his groin, she paused, knowing she was giving Trip thoughts that she was not going to fulfill, at least not yet. She heard him groan and felt him tremble ever so slightly.

  Marisa smiled to herself, happy she was able to elicit this reaction from him. When she reached her full height, Marisa rose to her toes, stretched her arms upwards, dug her fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck and pressed her mouth firmly into his. She explored his mouth with her tongue and nibbled on his lower lip. A yet deeper groan rose from within him.

  “Marisa,” Trip began in a horse whisper. “You are really good at not having sex.”

  “Thank you. So are you. But, I believe we are at an impasse.”

  “Yes, trust me. There is nothing more in the world I want to do right now than to peel every stitch of clothing off your body with my teeth. While I’m certain that that too is not sex, I can’t. Well, that isn’t true. I can and I’d be happy to show you, but I’m not sure you want that.”

  “I can’t handle it,” Marisa confessed.

  “Me either,” replied Trip, kissing her firmly on her forehead. “Fuck, Marisa,” he said, shaking his head and looking directl
y into her eyes. “Not having sex with you is harder than having sex.”

  Marisa laughed. Trip’s openness made standing in front of him in nothing but her pink silk panties and plunging lace bra comfortable. She was so turned on and didn’t feel bashful in the slightest.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  “Then don’t. Stay,” she implored.

  “Fine. But don’t try to take advantage of me.”

  A giggle once again bubbled out of Marisa. Her cheeks were tender from the evening of abundant smiles and laughter. Trip swept Marisa up in his arms and carried her down the hallway towards her bedroom.

  “I seriously cannot believe I’m suggesting this, but can I just hold you?”

  “Are you seriously asking to cuddle? This has got to be a first.”

  Trip set Marisa down gently on her bed. She pulled back the covers and slid under them. Silently, Trip walked to the other side of the bed and slowly unbuttoned his shirt and belt buckle without removing his gaze from Marisa’s covered form. The intensity was too much for Marisa. If he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to completely lose it. She closed her eyes. She heard Trip toss his clothes on to the chair that stood at her vanity. Oh my God. He’s naked. I’m toast. She felt the sheet lift next to her, and the bed gently rocked from his weight.

  “If you’re wondering, I’m not naked. I thought we agreed it couldn’t be sex if we both have clothes on.” He pulled her into the comma of his body and breathed raggedly into her hair. “Just relax,” he instructed her.

  His skin felt incredibly soft despite the strong muscles just under the surface. She felt his hard penis at her backside and knew then that not having sex was truly difficult for them both. Neither said a word. She focused on relishing the feel of his skin on hers from the way the backs of his feet pressed into her soles to the feeling of his bare arm draped over her body.

  Time passed. She was sure of it, but she couldn’t be certain whether it was minutes or hours. Finally, she grew drowsy and snuggled deeper into him in search of sleep. As she flitted on the edge of consciousness, Trip’s soft words entered her brain. “You will ruin me, Marisa, and I’m looking forward to it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You look chipper this morning,” said Jane, handing Marisa a midmorning coffee.

  Is she just getting here? It’s nearly ten.

  “Have a good weekend?,” she asked.

  Marisa started. She doesn’t know. No one knows. She’s just being friendly. “Yes. I did some shopping and spent a night out in Collierville.”

  “I’m sure your mom and dad liked you staying over,” replied Jane.

  Staying over. Marisa reflected on her previous evening, letting the memories of her private dinner with Trip and not having sex roll around slowly in her head. She’d awoken this morning in her bed and was crushed when she discovered that Trip had left. I knew I shouldn’t have done that. Done any of this. Marisa grabbed her lavender robe off a hook in her bathroom and marched towards the kitchen in search of coffee. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Once in the kitchen, she paused. A fresh pot of coffee sat made. A cup and small plate were set neatly next to the coffee maker. On the plate perched a pecan tartlet. Relief had flooded through her body. She fixed her coffee and then picked up the tartlet in her hand. She examined it with a smile and took a huge bite.

  Jane crossed her arms and gave up on waiting for Marisa to engage in conversation. “Are you going to ask me how my weekend was?,” she prompted Marisa.

  “Sorry. Of course,” said Marisa, reentering the present. “How was your weekend?”

  “I’m going to sit down, because you won’t believe what happened,” said Jane, sitting in one of the two guest chairs in Marisa’s office.

  Why is she sitting? She never hangs out in here. Really, I hope this isn’t about her cat or some family drama. I’ve got a busy week, thought Marisa, preparing herself to tune Jane out and focus instead on her lengthy to-do list.

  “You know how you asked me to pull the court records from Susan Norton’s divorce? The Susan Norton who is the plaintiff sex harassment lawsuit with the in-house counsel? Well I did that.”

  Well, good for you for doing something at the office other than updating your status on Facebook, thought Marisa snidely.

  “While I was at it, I checked the divorce docket for all of the Branco sexual harassment plaintiffs. And guess what? They all have been involved in a divorce in the past year. Well, all of the women. Lord only knows why that firemen calendar cutie Mr. July, er, Mr. Priddy, I mean, is single. I might start a house fire in Munford just to see him in action. Anyway, every single one of them has been in a divorce in the past year.”

  Marisa’s ears pricked up. That is unusual. It may not mean anything though. Lots of people get divorced, but it is really strange that seven women who all work at Branco would almost simultaneously be involved in a divorce and a sexual harassment lawsuit?

  “I can tell I have your interest now,” said Jane, looking proud of herself.

  Marisa took a sip of her coffee and nodded.

  “So, I took some initiative, which I know is something you always say in my reviews that I should do more of, so I did. I looked through Cheryl Myers’s deposition and saw that she’d gone to some divorce recovery group at a church near my house. I also saw that Kristen Beck and Nida Palmer had gone to a support group. But I wasn’t sure if they went to the same group. So, on my own initiative, I popped in to a group counseling session.”

  “You did not!,” shouted Marisa, her eyes getting wide.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t talk with any of them. I know we can’t contact a plaintiff directly. That’s legal ethics 101.”

  “Any of them?,” said Marisa, trying to get Jane on track before she got a lecture about legal ethics and felt crappier about the Trip situation.

  “Yes, that’s what I wanted to tell you. It was like an AA meeting or any support group that you see in movies. Chairs in a circle and people only used their first names. I was June for the meeting. Thought it was close enough to Jane that I’d answer, but I didn’t want to give my real name. Anyway, there were a dozen women in the group. I didn’t catch all of their names and I have zero clue what any of the plaintiffs look like because I’ve never bothered to look them up. So, I tried to remember names all of the women’s names. When I got back to my car, I wrote down as many as I could remember.

  “Sorry, it’s on the back of my Target receipt,” said Jane, reaching over the desk to pass Marisa a thin slip of paper with handwriting on the back.

  Marisa read the list out loud. “Susan, Kristen, Nida, Louise, Tiffany, Stephanie, Mary Something, and Amy. Damn. Do you think Louise might have been Eloise, as in Sarah Eloise Rudolph, who worked in Branco’s IT department?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Think the Mary something might be Mary Chandler?”

  “It was a double name, and it was a family name for the second. It wasn’t another woman’s first name.”

  “Damn, Jane. Looks like you just found at least five of the Branco plaintiffs at the same support group meeting.”

  “Want ‘June’ to go back? They were all super sweet. They invited ‘June’ back next Saturday afternoon or even the Tuesday evening meeting if ‘June’s’ boss will let her leave early to beat traffic,” asked Jane, clearly angling to go.

  “No,” said Marisa firmly. “Absolutely not. The last thing I want to happen is for you to end up on the witness stand. We might send a private investigator though. We could use that woman PI who the firm has used before – Vikki? Victoria?”

  “You mean Vanessa?,” added Jane helpfully.

  “Yes, Vanessa. She could go to the meetings, pretend to be going through a divorce like you pretended to, and get pictures of folks coming and going for us so that we can confirm this. I’ve got to get Branco to sign off on it, but will you set up a meeting later this week with Vanessa wherever she’s comfortable meeting? Also, find ou
t what her rates are and if she’s got time to dig into it. Don’t give her many details. Just say multi-plaintiff and we think she’d be a good fit.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Trip Brannon.”

  “Trip, it’s Marisa. We need to talk this afternoon,” Marisa said brusquely into her office desk phone, her head still trying to figure out the amazing connection between the plaintiffs that Jane, er ‘June’, had unearthed.

  “Um, okay. Something wrong? You didn’t like the breakfast?”

  “No,” gushed Marisa, twisting the phone’s cord around her fingers. “That’s not it at all. That was lovely. This is purely a business call. Something is up with the sexual harassment lawsuits I’m handling. I don’t have any specifics for you yet, but I need to get on your schedule for this afternoon.”

  “Okay. Five-forty in my office.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then,” replied Marisa, as she moved to hang up.

  “By the way, don’t be surprised if I try to talk you into dinner afterwards,” she heard Trip say as she set the handset back on its cradle.

  Don’t think about that. Concentrate on getting prepped to meet with a client. Don’t think about Trip or the way he held me last night as I fell asleep in his arms. Marisa reeled back in her thoughts. Seriously, stop! Get to work!

  Marisa ditched everything else on her calendar, and with Jane’s help, prepared dossiers on each of the plaintiffs, aside from Mr. Volunteer Fireman, that incorporated their divorce information and everything Jane could remember that any of them had said at the divorce support group meeting that Jane attended, no matter how trivial it seemed.

  Jane was like a new assistant. She didn’t check Facebook or disappear for long chats with other staff members. She dug in.

  Perhaps I don’t give her enough responsibility and she’s actually bored, realized Marisa as Jane diligently created a single sleek binder with tabs for each woman’s dossier, a tab for the potential PI, Vanessa. Marisa looked at her wristwatch. 5:25. I totally missed lunch.