by Lane Hart
“Amen, sister. Mondays suck ass,” I agree.
“Do you know how many idiots I’ve talked to today who have court this morning and want to know if Clark will represent them?” she asks, picking up a pen to click and unclick the top incessantly.
“Two?” I guess.
“Four,” she exclaims, tossing the abused pen right over her shoulder. “Four fuckers who had weeks to find an attorney, but waited until the day they have court!”
Did I mention she’s also feisty like most redheads? Again, she hides it well until she gets comfortable around you. Since she’s been here two years, and I was the one who initially helped show her the ropes, we’re tight.
“Those bastards,” I commiserate with her, shaking my head in mock disgust.
“They’re lucky Clark is going for sainthood, willing to continue all their cases today before they pay him a penny. Assholes better get ready to cough up some dough.”
“Damn right,” I agree with an exaggerated zig-zag snap of my fingers.
Clark is still wet behind the ears in the world of attorneys. A baby, just a few years out of law school, he hasn’t learned the true evils of the world and our clientele. It’s sweet that he’s so gung-ho, but that won’t last but a few more years before reality shows him differently. And even though he’s cute in a chess club, debate team champion kind of way, short and stocky with messy brown hair and matching eyes, he’s also so dorky that he can put a woman to sleep in less than two minutes flat, and not in the good way. In fact, I’ve wondered for a long time if he and Becca aren’t perfect for each other, but both of them are just too damn introverted and awkward to do anything about it. Whenever I bring it up, she simply hushes me and then immediately turns the shade of a ripe tomato all over.
“So, did you do anything fun this weekend?” Becca asks after she finishes her tirade.
“Reagan dragged me to the freak festival,” I tell her.
“Freak festival?”
“Yeah, the one with knights, fairies and other mystical creatures.”
Becca snickers. “Any fun?”
“Well, we saw a psychic, who Reagan paid a fortune for a hocus love potion. She made me drink it while driving, which instantly caused me to have to pull the car over and upchuck. Oh, and then some bastard knocked my car door off, so I’m ride-less while my car’s in the shop.”
Becca’s mouth is gaping open, right before she covers it and starts to laugh. Why does everyone think my baby getting dismembered is so funny?
“Love potion? Seriously?” she asks with a skeptical tilt of her head.
“Yeah, it tasted like ass,” I tell her, blanching at the memory of the foul liquid on my tongue.
“What tasted like ass?” Mallory asks, when she sneaks up on us, taking the empty seat next to mine.
“Looooveee potion,” Becca tells her with a giggle.
“You drank a love potion?” Mallory asks, when she turns to me with her pierced eyebrow raised in harsh judgment. Sure, she sticks out like a sore thumb around our office of suits and business casual with her jet black hair that has streaks of pink, her facial piercings and the colorful Japanese sleeve tattoos running down her arms that she never covers, even in winter. But she’s smart as shit and works harder than anyone else I know to keep up with Winston’s heavy workload. He’s such an easygoing boss, like all the bosses in our office. Therefore, he’s never once asked her to wear long sleeves, or take out her tongue, nose or brow piercing. Tall and enviously thin, she wears whatever she wants proudly, usually tight jeans and a cut off rock t-shirt to display her belly piercing that men practically fall to their knees to worship. Not picky and liking variety, she’ll usually try anything or anyone once, but only once since she’s the queen of one-night stands.
“I may have drank a sip,” I finally admit.
“Well, did it work?” Mallory asks. “Are guys fawning all over you as soon as you speak like in Love Potion No. 9?”
“It doesn’t work that way, or at least it hasn’t. I’m thinking it’s a dud,” I tell them.
“Shame,” Mallory replies with a smirk. “You so need to get laid.”
“Do not!” I exclaim indignantly.
“Come on, Josie. When was the last time a man pried your prickly legs apart?” Mallory asks, making Becca snort.
“That…that is not the point!” I remark, as I stand from my chair, ready to escape the evasive interrogation.
“On the contrary, I think you’re missing…the point,” Mallory jokes, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
“Don’t you have work to do, slacker?” I ask, as I start to head back toward the hallway.
“Okay, pot, have you met kettle?” she shouts in response as I make my retreat.
Back in my office, or my boss’s office, I flop back into his big chair. And after a minute of deliberation on what I should do now, I pick up the phone to call the garage where I left my car and keys because they were still closed when I came to work.
“Andrews’,” a man’s deep voice answers, heavy with a sigh of annoyance. Alrighty then.
“Hi, I dropped off my El Camino this morning, and I was wondering when you might be able to –”
The jerk starts howling like a maniac into my ear, interrupting me. “Ryan…Blake…It’s the chick who lost the door,” I hear his muffled voice say on the other line, before it’s answered with, “A chick drives this old motherfucker? No way!”
“I didn’t lose my door. Some asswipe ripped it off when I pulled over for…for an emergency on the side of the road,” I clarify. “So when will it be ready?”
“Sorry, toots, but doors don’t magically reattach themselves. And with all the dings and scrapes, it’s gonna have to be repainted. But seeing as it’s old as fuck, I don’t think we can match it. You’ll probably need to take it to a body shop and have them redo the whole fucking thing.”
“Watch your mouth,” I tell him sternly, even if it is hypocritical since I’m the first one to hurl the f-bomb when I get pissed, which is pretty much daily. Thankfully, my boss is also a fan of the word. But this guy on the phone has some seriously shitty customer service skills.
“Or what?” the man asks. “You gonna bend me over your knee and spank me?” Hoots and hollers erupt in the background while I gasp at the clear sexual undertones of his statement, affronted and, yes, mildly turned on. I blame it entirely on my long drought since I don’t even know what this man looks like. He’s probably hideous.
“Look you…you, prick,” I stammer, trying to find my words after he leaves me flustered. “Are you gonna fix my door or not?”
“Calm your tits, woman,” he says, making me scoff. Who does this asshole think he is?
“Calm. My. Tits?” I repeat slowly so he can hear and understand that I’m clearly offended. There’s a hot flush spreading rapidly across my face, and I feel feverish with rage.
“Yeah, calm your tits. You left your cell, house and work numbers, along with your email address on the drop box envelope. We’ll call when it’s ready. Probably gonna be another day, maybe two.”
“What am I supposed to do until then?” I mutter, mostly to myself, but the prick answers.
“Not my problem,” he replies before he hangs up on me.
I stare at the receiver still in my hand, unable to comprehend what the hell just took place. For a few minutes, I debate whether or not I should go get my car and take it somewhere else, but quickly decide against it. It’s Monday, and every shop in town is probably jam-packed with weekend breakdowns. If it’s not ready in two days, I’ll go get it from the jerk, report his rude, sexist comments to his manager and take my baby somewhere else. Until then, I guess I’ll have to hitch rides.
Sighing in defeat, I decide to waste more time surfing the web. When my boss still hasn’t rolled in at noon, I walk downtown with my co-workers to the State Street Grill. It’s one of about two restaurants us girls can afford. The rest of downtown caters to the rich businessmen and their clients, of
fering entrees at a minimum of forty dollars a pop. Burgers and fries it is!
“So, tell us about this looovvvee potion,” Mallory prompts after the four of us order our food and sit down at one of the empty round tables to wait for it to cook.
“Besides the fact it tasted like rotten eggs?” I offer.
“Seriously, I’m curious, too,” Becca says while adjusting her glasses.
“This is a for real love potion?” Clarissa asks, practically bouncing in her seat. I swear the girl is either on crack or ingests gallons of caffeine a day.
“It’s not real,” I reply, and all three of the women visibly deflate, even Mallory, which is surprising since she’s always up to her neck in dick. Or more accurately, down her neck… “Some psychic sham of a woman reeled in Reagan to pay two hundred bucks for the stuff. She told us you have to drink it, screw your soulmate, and then pass on the foul shit to another desperate soul.”
“So it only attracts one man?” Mallory asks.
“I guess, supposedly. Madam Tess said that after you fuck your soulmate you won’t be able to unsee the other, or whatever,” I tell them with a shrug of indifference. At once, all three sets of eyes start wandering around the restaurant.
“Ohhh, maybe it’s him,” Becca whispers, nodding to a giant of a man, slender with curly dark hair standing in line to order. The four of us are staring at him when his head swivels around. His eyebrows slant inward as he faces forward again, probably wondering what’s wrong with us.
“Super smooth, ladies,” I tease.
“Mmm-mm, check out Mr. Pinstripes,” Mallory says with a slight head nod to a table off to our right. Of course all of our heads turn, but at least we don’t get caught ogling this fine fellow while he inhales his burger.
“It doesn’t work,” I tell them confidently, convinced Bryan was the only soulmate I’ll have in this lifetime. One and done. “Besides, even if it did, I, ah, I threw it up a few seconds later on the side of the highway.”
“Ew,” Clarissa remarks with her nose wrinkled.
“And while my driver side door was open, a car came by and took it slam off the frame.”
“You mean, the car door came off your car?” Mallory asks, barely able to contain her snickering.
“Uh-huh,” I tell them, and it’s answered with silence for about ten seconds before they all start laughing. So loudly, in fact, everyone in the entire restaurant turns to stare at the cackle of hyenas around me. How appropriate that a group of hyenas are, in fact, called a cackle since that’s what they’re doing. “Hush, it’s not funny,” I chide them. “No telling how much it’ll cost to get it fixed, and the douche at the shop said it might take days.”
“Sorry, Josie. It’s just…picturing it…so funny,” Becca says, followed by more giggles.
“You ladies suck,” I tell them when I thankfully hear my order number called. I jump up from my seat to go retrieve my food.
“Number seven?” I ask when I get to the pick-up counter.
“Have a good afternoon,” a cute, really cute guy with chin-length blond hair and a dazzling smile says when he hands me my tray.
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling back at him, wondering…ugh, stop that you dimwit, I chide myself before turning around to take my seat with the hyenas again.
The rest of lunch is relatively quiet as we all dig into our food, needing to hurry up and get back to the office because it’ll likely burn down without us workhorses there.
“Hey, boss,” I say in greeting when I walk back into the office and see John standing in the middle of it. Today he’s wearing his tan, fly-fishing overalls and matching vest that holds all of his supplies, complete with tall, black waterproof waders. “Going fishing?” I ask the obvious question with a smile on my face since that means my afternoon is free.
“Hey, Jos. Yeah, if I can just find my damn tackle box. Have you seen it around here?”
Walking over to the seven-foot-tall bookshelves that sit in the corner, I go up on my tiptoes to reach the plastic container and pull it down.
“Here you go,” I say in offering.
“Well, fuck,” he says as he lifts it from my hands. “How did it get up there?”
“You brought it in a few weeks ago so we could reorder a few things online. And then when they came in the mail, you put everything away and sat it up on the shelf so you wouldn’t lose it,” I remind him. At seventy, this is pretty much our everyday conversation. He loses something; I find it.
“Oh yeah,” he mumbles with a scratch to his thinning white hair. “Well then, unless you can tell me a reason I can’t take the afternoon off, I’m gone.”
“Nope, you’re free to go,” I gladly respond. “Richardson has his plea tomorrow morning, continued from last month, but the file’s already been prepared from before. And you’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon with the Griffins who wanted a face-to-face update on why their piece of shit son is still in jail for his assault inflicting serious injury, but other than that you’re clear.”
“Got it,” he says with a nod on the way out the door. “You’re the best, kid.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” I tease and hear his answering chuckle from down the hallway. Honestly, the man does pay me twice what I’m worth and more than any other paralegal probably in the city. I’m damn good at my job when he gives me actual legal work, which is rare, but happens. If it does, I step up and get things done. Otherwise, I sit back, relax, and hang out in case my boss calls needing something or one of our clients get antsy and I have to talk them down.
By four o’clock, I’ve read every article on the celebrity news sites, played five games of solitaire and read half a book on the Kindle app. If I had my car, I would consider leaving early, but I don’t. So, I’m stuck here until five when one of the girls can give me a ride home. Which is just awesome.
…
The next day, I actually have work to do, because in a rare form of assholerly, the judge denies our plea and demands we get ready for trial in a case that John had negotiated a great deal for our weed dealer with the prosecutor. Which is stupid since they ought to just legalize the damn drug, but whatever. The judge leaves us scrambling to call witnesses, get them to the right courtroom, and copy and label all of our exhibits within an hour. I have to cancel John’s appointment with the pissy parents who are not thrilled with having to reschedule for one measly day, and then I have to listen to them bitch about it for five minutes before they finally concede. Once that’s taken care of, I go over to court to observe and help out with the trial. Also, there’s a part of me, albeit a small, practically miniscule part that was hoping to meet “the one” during my many runs back and forth from the courthouse. No such luck. Guess I’ll be single for nine more long years.
Later that night, I pass out from exhaustion after Becca gives me a ride home for the second day in a row. Tomorrow, I vow to take my ass over to the auto shop and get my car, fixed or not since I didn’t hear a word from the jerk mechanic today.
…
The next day at work, I also earn every penny John pays me. It was one crisis after another with an old, snooty client getting arrested for shoplifting again to get her rich husband’s attention, a client who didn’t show up to court and a federal agent calling, wanting to meet with another one of our extremely guilty clients. It was a lovely day. By the time I got to leave an hour late, I had forgotten about my car being in the shop, until I stepped out into the back parking lot and noticed it missing, along with everyone else’s car.
Huffing out an annoyed breath because I haven’t gotten any updates on the shop’s progress on my baby, I walk back through the alley and cross the two blocks that take me to Andrews’ Auto Shop, hoping I’m not too late. Outside the brick building, all three garage doors are lowered, but the door knob easily turns in my hand. Opening up, I call out, but get no answer. The front lights in the receptionist and waiting area are out, but the ones in the garage are on. I hear rock music coming from
the same direction, so I start that way. I go past a car raised up on the lift, and then I come to an abrupt halt, unable to move another step when I see him.
Too jaw-dropping gorgeous to be real, his thick, golden hair is mussed and messy, and a hint of stubble runs along his chiseled jaw. From my profile view of his shirtless body several feet away, his smooth bulging muscles, obviously carved from granite, are covered in sweat, shining like a beacon of sexiness as he works underneath the hood of a car. Never before has sweat looked so sweet, nor the sight of a man ever been this absolutely delectable. Maybe it’s all the remnants of car fumes getting to me, but I feel lightheaded when a scorching hot inferno suddenly ignites somewhere deep inside. Unfamiliar liquid heat burns through me, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Lord Jesus, there’s a fire…In. My. Panties.
Chapter Three
Lawson Andrews
Fuck me, it’s hot. It’s only the first of May, but the great thing about the state of North Carolina is that it can go from winter to summer and back again within a week. Forget spring and fall. Those comfortable seasons are usually skipped right the fuck over. So, year round I’m either freezing my balls off or my balls are sweating like a dirty whore in church.
Since the shop’s been closed for an hour and all my guys have gone home for the day, I unzip what used to be navy colored coveralls, but are now mostly black with oil and grease stains, and shrug out of the sleeves to lower the drenched material to my waist. Relieved at the cool air now hitting my chest and back, I pick up my wrench and go back to work. Or I try to, but the unexpected sound of a woman muttering something about a fire over the radio interrupts me.
