Sweeter Than Chocolate: Valentine's Day Anthology

by Gina Kincade

  “What about those in a relationship? How is it fair to them?” a faceless suit objects. My imagination conjures a blustering wind from opposing counsels’ table, flapping my cheeks with its gale force.

  “Yes, them. Those without a romantic bone in their body. They buy candy and flowers because this day dictates it. Sad sacks who’d never show affection if it weren’t ordered by a date on the calendar. Where is it fair for Budnik’s to jack up their prices and profit when a lover should show romance and appreciation more than once a year? Wouldn’t every relationship benefit from a little regular wooing?”

  “Miss Connor…” his hotness condescends.

  “Y-y-you are a repu—”

  “May I take over, Judge? My associate is flustered,” Georgia interrupts. Her head inflates like a balloon. Flustered? Behind my eyes I leap from my chair, cling to her back, and stick in a pin, watching in glee as she farts out air around the room.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Georgia Simms. Look, I had concerns about this case. I mean how nutty is it to sue one greeting card company? But inside, where the heart lives, there is merit. The gaggle of counsel and Bud Budnik believe if they push this far enough, it’ll become null after February 14th. Right now it’s Jesse Kellar’s heartache and unworthiness fueling this case, but Valentine’s Day happens every year.”

  Chapter Five

  Flash, flash, flash. Idea light bulbs illuminate in a halo around my best friend’s head. Oh, oh, there it is. Georgia is climbing up on her soapbox. Gather round, ‘cause this will stun.

  “Should we search, we’d find many in the state of Illinois who’d agree with Miss Kellar. The housewife who cleans, cooks, cares for children every single day, whose husband grabs an impulse floral arrangement and a heart-shaped box of chocolate one day a year. The workingwoman, who is too busy slaving seventy hours a week, is slapped with hopelessness because her schedule doesn’t allow time for dating. The young fresh couple, who might not make it through the day because they don’t know how much is too much for a new relationship. I’d wager there are thousands throughout the United States who endure the duress of Valentine’s Day expectations and disappointments. Ante up and include the other love-peddling profiteers in the suit, and by this time next year we’d have a rather large Class. Action. Suit.” Those last three words barrel through the room with echoed perfection. The stiffs sit straighter.

  “This is conjecture, Judge. Speculation with a threat. I object,” the first chair leader of the gray-brigade snaps. His frown lines sprout sobbing screaming infants over the death of his youth.

  “Overruled,” his deep voice caresses my skin, and the heavens open, spraying sunlight on his head, singing “Hallelujah.” “Miss Simms, are you finished?”

  “Your Honor, the basis of Miss Kellar’s case stands. The lonely-hearts club spreads far and wide, so why should she suffer for being one of the many? At this moment this is her claim but by this afternoon, with the help of the media, it will be more. When I present the possibility of a partner helping cook, cleaning up the dishes, or offering romance in the form of the little things, people will listen. Showing appreciation with ‘a thank you,’ ‘you’re beautiful,’ or ‘here let me help’ means more than a grand gesture once in twelve months. A single flower bought on a Monday whim, a movie watched while snuggling on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, a candy bar purchased to brighten a person’s day; this is where romance lives and we should foster this belief.”

  The suits combine, forming a storm cloud brimming lightning with each over the shoulder glare. “We’ve prepared an offer, Your Honor, but we request binding arbitration.”

  Judge Hot Stuff asks for consideration. I counter, wanting surety on them not rendering some lowball amount. Agreeing to talks locks us in a room until we reach a settlement, and I wouldn’t put it past these loveless bastards to bluff. A skirt-wearing stiff flops a packet on our table. Damn, they all look so much alike I hadn’t noticed there was a woman in the mix. They are this sexless, bland, line of legal soldiers who would blend with the mucky piles of snow on the streets. The arrow to the heart comes when I see a simple gold band glimmer on her pale, skeletal finger.

  Mousy brown tight bun stretching her face, pallid lifeless skin, and if she knows how to smile I’ll piss myself, but she is married. M-A-R-R-I-E-D. My inner toddler throws herself on the floor kicking and screaming in a wild tantrum over the universe’s disparage and unfairness. A nudge from Georgia drags my gaze away from tiny me to the line of zeros on the page. These brain cell-sharing buggers were prepared all along.

  “Miss Connor?” Judge Milam calls. “Are you amiable to binding arbitration?”

  “In lieu of saving legal fees, the defendant’s prepared offer is acceptable. My client agrees to sign an NDA and the case will cease here, today. No need to further bother the court or tie up Your Honor’s time,” I respond, lost in the sea wave swirls of his deep blue eyes. Visions of him shirtless on a beach, glistening with sweat, holding two piña coladas with paper umbrellas dance through my mind.

  “The court thanks counsel for her spirited worry regarding the judicial system’s time. Would it be true, the absurdity of this case would have been quashed before reaching my desk. My judgment stands.” He slams his gavel. “Binding arbitration under the assessment of Judge Harlow to be convened this afternoon.”

  Annnnddd I dump the spirits on his head after I bury him in the sand. Fireballs shoot from my squinted eyes, incinerating his tufts of hair and singing off his brows. With a nod he rises, jogs down the three steps of his podium, and as he disappears to chambers; his dark robe sweeps around his ankles revealing hair-covered bare calves.

  I leave the formalities to Georgia. Slinging my satchel over my chest, I stomp from the room headed straight to Judge Asshole’s office.

  ***

  Without knocking, I shove open the door, finding him sans robe and mid-unbutton of his dress shirt. “Basketball shorts? You don’t wear pants under there?”

  He cocks his head, glancing around the room. “Did I invite you to my chambers, Miss Connor?”

  I cock a hip, crossing my arms over my chest. “No, but disparaging me on the record tends to ruffle my feathers. Unbiased, my ass. You can’t allow your opinions and curmudgeons to influence rulings.”

  “Like you let your elitist attitude sway yours?”

  “What? I’m not…”

  “Please. You strut around all seductive Pollyanna with your freckles, but those short skirts and swooping necklines seek to pop chubbies on every male on the bench. The courthouse watercooler bustles with the kangaroo antics of your cases and obscene hemlines; this was no exception. You judged me by the apron I wore. Months you came in my café, never seeing beyond yourself. Yet, the second you discover I own it and am not the dunce you believed me to be, here you are, fuming in my office.”

  A forced grin slims my lips while I visualize busting his nuts with a sledgehammer until they’re nothing but powder. “You’re an egocentric shithead, who’s butthurt because I won’t leap at your vulgar offerings.”

  He opens the door, summoning a bailiff with a wave of his hand. “Miss Conner,” he condescends. “You want to work off your repressed sexual urges dumping coffee on my head while in the private sector, feel free, but here in this office I rule, and as such you will show me the respect I’ve earned.”

  “What? But…no,” I argue.

  “Bailiff, take her to lockup. She’s in contempt,” he gloats, while the officer grabs my elbow leading me away.

  Chapter Six

  “Why did you insist we walk?” Georgia complains, shivering as I open the locks on my loft.

  “It’s three blocks and I needed the time to grow back the ass Roman chewed off. Why did we have to stop at the office?” Door open, we slip inside, reluctant to shed our coats.

  “Because he ordered me to bail you out, with the stipulation I deliver you to him. You insulted a judge, Lex, be glad Milam didn’t require an apology as a
condition of your release.”

  I pull the cork from a bottle of wine, pouring two glasses. “I told you what he said to me. We should sue him for sexual harassment.”

  She takes the proffered goblet before flopping on my sofa. “Was he wrong in his method and lingo? Yes. But, Lexi, he’s been flirting with you for months, and you didn’t notice him until he became the asshole type you’re attracted to. Admit it, seeing him up there on his bench today flipped your hussy switch.”

  Meow, hiss, hiss. My cat blades claw at her eyes. “Did you miss the part where he called me the marsupial of the Cook County justice system, accused me of using my cute clothes to incite chubbies on the male judges? What self-respecting male still uses that word?” My voice climbs to a high whine. “And he called me a snob.”

  She reminds me how it is no secret I’m assigned the wacky cases. The ones no respectable lawyer would touch with a ten-foot pole. I point out how I win, sighting our current settlement as proof. The firm profited thirty percent of Jesse’s six-figure offer, and Georgia and I split ten of that.

  “But we sued a greeting card company for doing what they’re designed to do. We put the celebration of love on trial.”

  “And won. Those monochromatic lawyers had three offers tucked in their briefcases. One insulting dollar amount to make her go away, a mid-range if they thought we might get this beyond the evidentiary, and the final for when we threatened with the press.”

  “How do you know?”

  I shrug. “Because a little of Jesse Kellar lives inside all of us. Bud Budnik knows it, but as a shrewd businessman he had to put up a fight. The bottom line is paying her off proved cheaper than the hit he’d take. I knew he would settle the second I accepted the assignment.” I swallow a drink, meeting her wide, awed gaze. “It’s why I get the oddities, because to win you have to be as quirky as your client.”

  “You’re my hero,” she taunts, tapping her thumbs on her phone. When it dings a dreamy smile pulls her lips, turning me to a bowl of green gelatinous envy.

  Three bottles of wine and four episodes of Friends later, I curl into the corner of the couch. “Ross is such a douche with the whole ‘we were on a break’ debacle. They were apart for a few hours and his cockpedo found a new target. Useless. Men are useless,” I lament. “We don’t really need one, right? I mean the sex toy industry makes pleasure self-serve, an electric blanket offers warmth, scent cubes come in cologne aroma, and we can air all our woes on Facebook if we want useless opinions. A dog can offer companionship and snuggles. W-w-what do we need a partner for?”

  “Procreation.” Her cocked brow says she knows this one word sends my theory down the crapper, but she continues to clog up the toilet bowl of my life while she’s at it. “Glenn meets me at the door with a kiss and hug. He encourages me to remove my makeup, release my hair, and grunge in my jammies. Since my hours vary depending on my cases, he checks in each day to figure if we’re cooking or ordering out. We work together on household chores and, Lexi, there’s nothing sexier than a man running a vacuum or loading the dishwasher after I’ve had a long day.”

  “But he makes you watch sports and his true idea of clean is finding enough places to stash shit,” I rebuke.

  “Lexi, no one’s perfect. I shed handfuls of hair filling the drain, work too much, and hate shaving my legs. I love him. He’s in my thoughts all day, I can’t wait to go home and lose the stress in his embrace. Hearing his heartbeat under my ear, rubbing my feet on the hair of his legs, I can’t sleep without it. Plus, the man is an animal in the sack, and holy Jesus, he’s sexy. I don’t need Glenn but I want him and the thought of not having him makes it hard to breathe.”

  “You’re lucky. I want Glenn.” Her eyebrows climb to her hairline as wine spews from her lips, coating my fluffy cream carpet in red. My alcohol clouded thoughts rewind rehearing what I said. I want…I want…I want Glenn…the replay skips like a stuck record. “NO! I mean I want someone like Glenn.”

  “Didn’t you just list all the reason you don’t need a man?”

  I wobble my head in a yes, no, maybe roll, which makes me dizzy. “Don’t confuse me, Geo. You’re with Glenn, my parents are grossly in love, to the point of the whole public sex debacle I defended last year. Me and the Jesse Kellars of the world are sludging through the sewers of love waiting for Pennywise to eat us, while up on the street love thrives and couples snog.”

  “Lexi,” she sighs with more sympathy than my wine-clouded mind wants.

  “I don’t want to spend my life compensating. I want real affection. Fleshy hot fucking, instead of silicon do-it-yourself sex toys. Four-legged friends are wonderful companions but I want arms, hands, fingers, and pumped up appendages. I need more than a heating pad duct-taped to blow-up carpool Dave to canoodle with at night. I want love.”

  She refills my empty glass with a look of poor-pathetic-Lexi sympathy turning down her eyes.

  I’m stopped from smacking the woe-is-me off her face by my phone, rattling on the table and the laughing Minions of my text tone.

  Glass tipped, I chug the contents ignoring her tumble off the couch and scramble to my cell. “Whoa, you hussy. Here I fell for your whole ‘I Want Love’ Elton John sadness when you’ve got a total stud on the down low.”

  “Bitch, are you high? Smokin’ something I can’t see?” I squint through drunk goggles at the trio of wavering Georgias. Hands cupping my head, I grip to still my eyes until three become one. “It’s nice to share, Geo.”

  “No, ho-bag. You could’ve at least programmed in his name so I have a label for all this man-flesh.” She crawls across the floor, swaying like a skyscraper in the wind, falling sideways twice, and surviving a concussion worthy bonk on the coffee table. We have more alcohol in our veins than blood; bet she’ll feel that in the morning. Her hand hovers an inch before my nose with my blacked-out screen drawing my eyes crossed. “This ripe piece of meat is your dirty secret, and I want the glorious humping details.”

  “You’re cut off. Hallucinations are the first sign you might need an AA meeting…”

  “LOOK!” Her thumb taps the glass, with it close enough to unlock by facial recognition, my text screen opens. The top message says Unknown with a series of blurred foreign numbers. A blue bubble asks, “Miss me yet?” followed by a photo.

  The best selfie on the planet.

  HALLELUJAH…a choir sings in bellowing harmony.

  Muscles, oh my Jesus, taut tanned skin hugs all the dips and grooves. Tattoos decorate a hair-dusted broad chest, spreading ink jags down his arms. Shoulders rolled, his abs ripped and cut enough to make a potato chip envious. And he didn’t stop with just the six-pack, nope, he grabbed two forties in the form of side folds, blending into deep gouges at his hips. He’s not can’t-wipe-my-ass buff but lean and toned with a narrow waist, a Technicolor David carved in fleshy marble.

  “What are you doing?” Georgia asks, watching me scratch my nail on the screen.

  “Trying to see if he’s ever found a gym he didn’t want to meet or if he’s lacking marbles and his Adonis body is brought to us by steroids.” When it doesn’t work I decide to taste him instead.

  “Gawd, you’re a dumbass smart woman when you’re drunk. You can’t remove his shorts by digging at your screen, now stop before you fuck up and delete it.” She yanks my device from my hands. “For fuck’s sake, stop tracing him with the tip of your tongue.”

  “Hey,” I pout, clumsily grasping as she retreats.

  “This wrong number connect is a golden egg. His firehouse can douse the dumpster fire of your sex life.” She taps my phone against her lips. “We need the perfect response. Flirty, fun with blind date opportunity paving the path to naked fun.”

  I shake my head to clear some fog. “He’s all Headless Horseman, hiding his face. What if he’s Elephant Man hideous? I vote we ghost him and I’ll pocket this image for later solo diddling.”

  “The fact that you call masturbation diddling proves it has been too long since you’ve
had a great shag. Who cares if he’s ugly. If you make it to the hookup, keep your eyes on his masterpiece chest. Now, stop your stupid and type.”

  Chapter Seven

  Her fermented breath hits the back of my neck, wafting me with grape, which might be my own puffing through my lips. My thumb hovers over the screen and I keep blinking at his picture. The devil on my shoulder humps air, singing bow-chic-a-wow-wow, while halo-wearing me advises to inform him he’s reached a wrong number and move on. The two meet at my neck, thumb warring over who’s right.

  She rips the device from my hand, crab crawling across the carpet. “I’ll do it.”

  “No, Geo, give it back,” I shout. Tumbling from the sofa, I fist the hem of her sweatshirt, cringing from the rug burning through my leggings. She gags from her choking collar, opening my chance to climb her back like a spider monkey.

  “Get off, Crazy.” She tries to shrug me off by rising on her knees, plus she needs her fingers to type. I cling tighter, slapping at her wrists until my cell slides across the floor.

  In her scramble to retrieve it, we collapse with her tall body squishing me. “Oomph,” the air leaves my lungs, paralyzing my limbs.

  She rolls off, smacking me with her long blonde ponytail as she searches. “You’ll thank me later,” she singsongs, knee wobbling with speed walker pumping arms.

  “Nooooo.” My head spins with my quick leap to a crouch. I vault, tackling her to the floor.

  We’re rolling, scratching, and dragging each other backward until somehow I end up pinned between her long legs, and she’s holding my wrists in one of her long-fingered paws.