by Eva Luxe
She laughs on her way out and then I return to the table.
“Madilyn was just going to talk a little bit about HR,” Asher explains. “She and I had a hell of a time of it after we got together. We were going to say that having fun at work really isn’t worth…”
“…the costs,” I tell him, nodding. “I understand.”
It’s rather hypocritical for him to be telling me this, but I decided before I arrived to just say what I needed to say to make this partnership go through. Once I make up my mind to do something, I’m determined to complete the goal.
“And you may know that I ended up marrying an assistant here at the firm,” Ron says next, to which I also nod my head.
Everyone knows that, too. There isn’t much that happens in the legal world that doesn’t spread like wildfire.
“Don’t worry,” Asher says, in a hurry to clear the firm’s name. “Jim here didn’t marry his assistant. Or anyone’s.”
Everyone laughs, but Jim’s cheeks look a bit flushed. He’s staring down at his notepad, looking uncomfortable.
He’s no doubt hiding something, even from his own partners no doubt. But I’ve realized that’s the nature of human beings, and it’s not my place to judge. God knows I’ve made my own share of mistakes. And I’m determined to find a fresh start here, rather than to keep repeating them.
“We know it sounds wrong of us to be telling you not to do what we did,” Asher says, and I agree with him, but I shake my head anyway, part of my goal to tell them— even silently— what they want to hear. “But the firm has been through a lot and we just don’t want any more drama. We have to ask that you please…”
He trails off, obviously not sure how to say it, so I help him out.
“You want me to stop my philandering ways,” I tell them. “To be a good boy and leave my hands off any woman I work with.”
“Well, we, uh…” Jim starts to say, but I jump in to make things easier on him too.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure them. “I get what you’re trying to say. I understand.”
“That’s great,” Asher says, looking relieved. “I guess everything is good to go then.”
“I guess so,” I agree.
Just then, a very pregnant woman with purple streaks in her blonde hair walks into the room.
“Garrett, this is my wife, Ruby,” Cameron says, and I get up to shake her hand.
It really is something, them telling me to behave myself while trotting out their pregnant or child-carrying wives as living proof that they did not do the same. But I just smile and say, “Nice to meet you,” as Ruby says the same.
“Ruby is our most organized assistant, with extensive organization systems she’s helped the firm put into place,” Asher says. “She even has an app she’s developed, to schedule the assistants’ calendars and tasks. Because another app that she made took off so well, she only works here part time as a supervisor of the staff, and we’re grateful that she still does. She’s going to talk to you about your staff needs and how we can best fulfill them.”
“All right,” I say, trying hard not to laugh like an immature middle school boy at the phrase “staff needs.”
What I used to need from my staff was for them to bend over so I could spank their ass. I needed them to let me tie them up. And to not sue me.
But that last need of mine didn’t always get met. Thus, I know it’s important to do what these future law partners of mine say and be a good little boy— something that is very, very hard for me to do.
“As you may know,” I tell Ruby, “I have a few associates I’m bringing with me, as well as some staff members.”
“Yes,” Ruby says, nodding. “I think we will need two receptionists to handle the call volume now, as well as a full staff if you’re not bringing enough to cover your own and your associates’.”
“Can I hire my own?” I ask her.
She looks hesitantly at Ron and the other partners.
“That’s fine,” Ron nods. “As long as you behave yourself.”
I see Ruby crack a smile, but she returns to her professional demeanor. This chick is pretty cool; I can see why Ron married her. Not that I’m the marrying type. And there are so many babies around here, there must be something in the water. It’s a good thing I just vowed to never have sex with anyone who works for the firm, so that I don’t have to worry about knocking anyone up.
“We’ll leave you to the job of discussing specifics,” the partners say, standing up and looking eager to return to their work. “It was great having this meeting and we look forward to expanding the firm with you.”
“Yes,” I tell them, still unable to believe I’m giving up my autonomy. But there’s safety in larger numbers and I know that here I’ll have more money and more security. “I look forward to beginning to work with you. I’ll sign the documents and send them your way.”
“Great,” Jim says, and leaves the room, with Asher following beside him.
Cameron bends over to kiss Ruby, and pats her baby bump on his way out.
“See you two later,” he says, presumably to Ruby and her unborn child.
“He can’t see yet,” Ruby says, confirming my suspicions. “And you can’t technically see him either. At least not without dragging an ultrasound machine in here.”
Cameron laughs as he leaves. Those two are sickeningly sweet.
With that, it’s settled. I’ll be the fourth named partner of the firm— not only because my father insisted but also because I’ve settled and won enough plaintiff’s cases to bring a sizeable contribution to the firm.
I’ll be a good boy, so that they won’t regret partnering up with me. At least I’ll try to be. I have to admit that all of this is very new to me. But there’s a fucking first time for everything.
Chapter 2 – Carolina
Today is the day I’ve decided to start doing something about my mess of a life. Now I just have to keep reminding myself of that, all day long.
Telling myself to take baby steps, I walk outside to check my mail, squinting into the bright sun. It’s been a couple days since I’ve been outside. Things have seemed a lot easier lately from under my covers. Until they started to seem a lot harder, because I realized I have to start paying bills, coming up with a plan for my future, facing life— little things like that.
I pull open the little metal door on the front of the mailbox. It catches and I have to tug it open, which serves as a painful reminder that I had always meant to replace this standard issue mailbox with one of those ironic ones I see on Pinterest, which signify a holdover from a more ancient time when people used to count on snail mail rather than messages in their social media feed.
Mine would be painted like that bird that’s the Twitter logo, if that isn't some kind of copyright or trademark violation. I always meant to look it up, but never got around to it before Jake and I fell apart, and then it was the least of my concerns. Leave it to me to painstakingly plan the most minute detail that would never come to be.
I take out a large stack of mail, which includes an envelope from Georgetown County Courthouse. Divorce papers. This was the reason I’d not been wanting to check my mail. And the reason I’d been hiding under my covers.
Jake had left me weeks ago, and no longer wanted to be married to me. It was time I start making other plans.
When people talk about plans and goals, they expect to hear big ones. So, I usually keep mine to myself and spend all my time planning them out only in my head.
My plans might have seemed small to some people, but to me they used to constitute big dreams. I married Jake right after high school, and I was supposed to be a housewife and eventually a stay-at-home mom. Life would be perfect, with not only a white picket fence but also one of those ironic mailboxes I never got around to making.
I know that I should be patient and let life’s plans unfold. But Jake’s leaving me seemed to be so outside of my control that I feel the need to make plans that are within my
control. In my opinion, patience— like ironic mailboxes— is for the birds.
Jake and I had married young with the specific plan for me to be a housewife. We had been trying for what felt like forever to get pregnant, without success. At first, it was fun. I quit using birth control, and we made love whenever and wherever we could. But as the months wore on with no baby in sight, it stopped being fun.
We went to a fertility doctor who said the problem was on my end and that we probably would never be able to. And just like that, Jake was gone. He didn't leave so much as a note. When I tried calling him, his number had been changed.
Thus ensued my hiding under the covers. And now, just a few weeks later, I got divorce papers in the mail. I guess the future children and I were a package deal. Without them, Jake didn't want me. I’d gone from beloved wife to infertile ex in the blink of an eye, and it’s quite a blow to my ego.
Clearly, there’s nothing in the world I could do to change things. Jake has made that pretty clear with his silence, and now with these papers.
I head back into the house and then immediately open the envelope so that I can’t put it off any longer. If I do, I know it’s only a matter of time before I end up back under the covers.
I can see that he is generously offering me some alimony in the divorce, probably to get me to agree to it, which I would do anyway. I don’t see any point in staying married to someone who didn't want to be married to me anymore. Maybe he’s also trying to assuage his guilty conscience.
I can't say I don't understand why he doesn't want to stay married. I knew how much he’d wanted kids, because I wanted them too. I’m just upset that he didn’t feel that I mattered enough to talk to me about what he was thinking and say a proper goodbye.
I guess it was just too hard on him, and even though I was mad at him and thought he was chickenshit, I also realize it’s time for a new plan. My plan. But wouldn’t you know it, I had never even thought about what I would do without Jake.
It’s clear I need to start a career, since the alimony offered is in a lump sum and won’t last forever. I also need some kind of a focus to distract me from my feelings of grief and inadequacy over not being able to have children— or even keep my husband. I know I have to find something to offer the world now that my plans of marriage and motherhood have fallen through. I just need to figure out what it is.
It’s been years since I’ve held down a job, at least legitimately. Sure, I’d cleaned a house or two here or there just to make ends meet, and I'd cut hair for some of the local girls in my neighborhood. But it appears it’s time to get a “real job.”
I turn on my computer and go online. Clicking on websites that aren’t familiar to me— monster.com, indeed.com— I begin applying to many different jobs, pretty much any and every one that I’m remotely qualified for, and some that I’m not.
I live in a small southern town, where there aren’t many jobs available. I’d never had a need to look in or outside of it for jobs before, since mine was supposed to be “homemaker.” But once I exhaust the few job openings available here, I decide to apply anywhere and everywhere.
Why not? There’s nothing for me in this town any more, and it would probably be a good thing to get out of here. Other places have more jobs and higher salaries, so I’d best go to where they are.
There’s a job listing for a legal assistant at the law office of Marks, Sanchez, Reed and Mack that falls somewhere in the middle of “totally not qualified for” and “could do this in my sleep.” It also happens to be in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I’ve never been. I doubt I’ll get the job, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to apply.
I’m a fast typist, and know my way around basic office programs like Word and Excel, but I don’t know a damn thing about the law. I figure I’m semi-qualified and I apply because it’s on the list of things I need to do if I want to go on eating and paying rent and all that other important stuff.
Having done my due diligence in looking for a job, I collapse back under the covers. And now I wait, until one of these leads calls me, hopefully. If they don’t, I have no idea what I’m going to do.
Chapter 3 – Garrett
2 Months Later
I’m quite literally seeing red as I’m correcting a legal assistant's work. Office Depot probably can’t restock red pens as fucking quickly as I've been going through them.
No, I write, crossing out yet another line of Jeff's latest attempt to draft discovery requests. All the nitwit kid had to do was use some templates from the firm’s “brief bank,” which he had started on as a base, but for some reason insisted on adding his own discovery responses to the mix. Like this one, which asks for what the defendant had to eat a week before the accident.
No one asks for this information because no one will get this, I write in red pen. The judge would overrule this request as overbroad and irrelevant.
Who cares if the defendant ate Honey Nut Cheerios or pancakes? And why a week prior? Perhaps there could be some relevance the day of the accident but a whole week before? The kid has lost his marbles.
I shake my head, wondering why I’m wasting so much red ink by bothering to object to my own legal assistant's proposed discovery requests. I'd already explained to him many times how they're supposed to look.
"Just follow the damn templates in the brief bank," I'd told Jeff, but he likes to take poetic license and go rogue. That would be fine if he came up with something that could improve the discovery requests rather than render them useless, which he had routinely been doing.
It seems that if my assistants aren’t being too creative, then they aren’t being ambitious enough. I’d had to have Ruby get rid of the guy before Jeff because of the most basic spelling errors and typos.
I’ve been giving Jeff a little more latitude because at least he takes initiative, but now I’m frustrated that he would spend so much time coming up with discovery requests I can’t use instead of simply copying and pasting some that I can.
Damn it.
If only the other partners would let me choose my own secretary. But they won’t— not since I’d slept with Selinda. Once things turned sour between her and me, which for me always happens somewhere after the third date, Selinda had already worked for the firm for a couple weeks.
That was a longer "relationship" than I'd been used to or comfortable with anyway, so I wasn’t disappointed that it was over. Still, the partners had given me a stern talking to, throwing around phrases like “inappropriate office behavior” and “sexual harassment suit.”
Takes one to know one, I had wanted to say, but of course I didn’t.
Asher, Ron and Jim reminded me of that first conversation we had had in the conference room, and that the deal was that I could pick my own assistants if I didn’t screw them, too. They said that since I couldn’t manage to follow that one simple rule, they would be in charge of choosing my legal assistants from then on.
Fine, fair enough. Except that their two choices have been awful, and I don’t just think that because both have been men. I suppose they were doing it so that I can’t get myself into further trouble.
I understand the precautions they’re taking, for the firm’s sake. I had meant to follow the rules and be a good boy. But I had messed up big with Selinda.
I hadn't meant to, but a man has needs, and my needs included the need to push my eleven- inch cock into Selinda's juicy little pussy, which I'd known was juicy because she’d insisted on telling me everyday how wet she was for me and that she was wearing no panties under her black pencil skirt. Then she would ask if I would like to confirm those facts for myself.
Well yes, I would like to, Selinda. What red- blooded male wouldn't? I'd tried to restrain myself since she was a firm employee and since I had promised Asher, Ron and Jim that I’d behave. I'd told myself there were plenty of other fish in the sea, and none of them even required much work to catch since so many of them just threw themselves at me.
I'm rich, attractive, a
nd good in bed, so it only makes sense that women fantasize about me. I’m more than happy to indulge their every fantasy, but since I try not to mix work and pleasure ever since merging partnerships here at the firm— tried being the operative word, since I didn't always succeed— I did my best to exercise restraint around Selinda.
Of course, there’s only so much restraint a red- blooded male is capable of showing day in and day out when a beautiful young woman throws herself at him, and that's exactly what Selinda did. One day she threw herself down onto the floor and crawled over to me with a piece of paper in her mouth, as if she was auditioning for a remake of The Secretary.
At that point, I could resist no more. Just ask my cock. It was tired of resisting. It was ready to stand up, quite literally, and take what was being offered to it. So, I did. When Selinda got to my computer chair and began unzipping my fly, that was the moment I stopped resisting.
She gave really good blowjobs, so I still don't regret giving into Selinda, even if it did get me stuck with the likes of Jeff and the other useless male assistant before him. But don't get me wrong, I only got physically involved with Selinda—not emotionally. Just because I put my cock down an eager woman's throat and then show her the time of her life by putting it in her pussy and fucking her silly, it doesn't mean anything more to me than another day at the office.
But that's not how Selinda took it, and that's where our problems started. Once she started wanting more, I realized I was in trouble. As much as I wished I could give her something more than at least five orgasms a day, I simply wasn’t capable of an emotional commitment.
God knows, I did try to convince myself that I could, for the sake of my happiness at work. But I failed.
I'd never been able to form emotional attachments to women. I guess I’m what they called damaged goods. Except, of course, for my cock. They’ve always said that worked just fine.
And my brain works half decently, as much as it needs to anyway. My father has always been rich as fuck and made it so that I didn't have to do much to get by.
