Claustrophobic

by Bernadette Franklin

  “Are you a high school graduate?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You’re qualified. Legal secretaries don’t need special training. Paralegals need special training, but frankly, at my firm, we hire good people and invest in their training as necessary. If your record keeping is half as good as I think it is, you’d make an exceptional legal secretary.” Julian shook his head, dug out his wallet from his jacket, and pulled out a card, holding it out to me. “This is the card for a headhunter who works for a lot of the legal firms in the area. It might be worth giving him a call. I’d wait for my friend to advise you. I don’t know if quitting before the filing is made will help or hurt your case.”

  I took the card and slipped it into my purse, although I doubted I’d be able to find something in my minimum income range. Most legal firms wanted paralegals. I’d considered myself fortunate to get a job as a receptionist. “I’ll look into it. Thanks.”

  “Glad to help. This is a hard town, so if I can help make it easier on someone, I will. That’s part of why I got into law in the first place. The billing hours issue wasn’t what I expected when I got into doing legal work, but I fit in as many pro bono cases as I can.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I blurted.

  Both of his brows shot up, but then he laughed. “Well, I am a lawyer.”

  “You probably snore, drool in your sleep, and hog the bed,” I muttered.

  “I hate sharing the gaming console, and I never, ever take it easy on an opponent. Frankly, I’m an asshole once I start playing a game. Want to win? Beat me, then. I’m not going to give you a win. Ever.”

  He played games? “What kind of games?”

  “I’ll play anything. First person shooters and car racing games are my current vices.”

  Ah-ha. I figured him out. Pointing, I said, “You’re a geek.”

  He grinned. “Guilty as charged. I have a secret room in my house decorated with board games. The real problem is finding someone to play with me.”

  “I can play Monopoly, but I play by the actual rules.”

  “I’m impressed you know most people don’t play by the real rules.”

  I grinned. “I can play a mean game of Scrabble, too.”

  “I have a nice Scrabble board, if you can handle defeat.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I looked him over. “You think you can beat me at Scrabble?”

  “I don’t think I can. I know I can.”

  “Don’t cry when I hand your ass to you, lawyer man. Maybe I don’t know jack shit about gaming consoles, but I play a mean game of Scrabble. I’ll enjoy teaching you the errors of your ways.”

  “It’s on, Miss Mitchell. May the best player win.”

  From the day I’d learned to talk, I’d been giving someone crap, usually my parents. I blamed the New Yorker in me for part of my inability to keep quiet, resulting in me mouthing off to Julian. The rest of the responsibility fell on his shoulders. He wouldn’t stop challenging me, even when it came to how much we ate.

  Dinner became a battlefield, a delicious disaster on all fronts. Julian hadn’t been kidding about the quantity of the grilled shrimp; we’d split them evenly, and I’d already exceeded how much I typically ate in a single meal.

  He’d win the battle and the war on the dinner front, but I refused to go down without a fight. The underdog sometimes won. Our contest wouldn’t end until I surrendered, which would be never.

  The victor, him, would have to carry, drag, or otherwise relocate me out of the restaurant. He’d likely have to resort to rolling me out. Even when I lost, I won.

  Never in a hundred years would I eat at a restaurant even half as nice without a damned good reason. I supposed surviving a stint as an elf counted.

  When our meal finally arrived, along with my order of asparagus, I acknowledged my defeat to myself, but Julian would have to learn of his victory on his own. I’d never seen a bigger steak in my life, and I needed to match Julian bite for bite and then some to emerge the victor.

  While I might make it to the valet and into his car, I foresaw myself entering a comatose state and staying there. Julian would have to leave me on the curb; I wouldn’t be coherent enough to tap in the code to access the building to get into my apartment.

  Whatever. Even when I knew I’d lost, I still refused to lose without a fight. I’d find room somehow. If I tapped my heels enough, perhaps I could expand my stomach or find new ways to store extra food. One bite more than Julian would be enough, but if I made it to the finish line, I’d take two to seal my victory.

  The bastard smiled, likely already congratulating himself for his victory.

  “You can’t win,” he murmured, stabbing a piece of his steak and showing off how much he enjoyed taking his time to savor every bite. “The shrimp alone were enough to defeat you. I told you, Chloe. I like to win.”

  I couldn’t tell which looked more delicious: him or his damned steak.

  “Have I stopped eating yet? No.” I speared a piece of asparagus and nibbled on it. “I’ll even be generous and share my asparagus with you. It’s delicious. You were right about the garlic mashed potatoes, though. They are worth writing home about. I just might, too. I guess it’s illegal to steal their recipe?”

  “I’ve considered it a time or two, but alas, theft is illegal. I may be a ruthless lawyer who hates to lose, but I won’t give bogus advice about the best food a restaurant has to offer.”

  “You just planned for the potatoes to selfishly take up extra room in my stomach.”

  “Anything to secure my first victory of the night. If you surrender now, you’ll have plenty of leftovers to enjoy. I certainly can’t eat all of this in one sitting.”

  At least he had limits. I would neglect to tell him I’d likely be taking home enough leftovers to feed myself lunch for an entire week. My lunch box would get quite the workout, as I didn’t trust anyone at the firm with my food.

  It’d either go missing, be tampered with, or someone would fuck around with it just to induce anxiety. I could think of at least five associates who disliked me because their bosses liked me better than them.

  Maybe if I didn’t have to play secretary on top of receptionist, their bosses wouldn’t be upset when I bailed their lousy asses out when they failed to do their job—or make their actual secretaries do their jobs.

  I needed to think long and hard if I could last in New York long enough to get a new job without my owed overtime payments.

  “Not going to surrender?”

  I pointed at my steak. “I refuse to surrender my steak.”

  “You don’t have to surrender your steak, but by the time this night is over, you will surrender.”

  I wanted to know what surrendering won me, when I was rewarded, and if surrendering would heighten my chances of not making a complete fool of myself in a public setting. Alas, the New Yorker in me demanded I stand strong in the face of adversity. Standing strong also got me a stellar view, something I cherished after I finished mucking the evening up. “Sure, whatever you say, Mr. Hotshot Attorney.”

  “I do appreciate a challenge.”

  I laughed, shook my head, and wondered how everything had gone so wrong yet so right. “That explains why you brought me here. Getting me in the door in this getup must’ve been a challenge.”

  “Despite appearances, the dress code here is really slack. I come here often enough they don’t care what I wear. They want my money, I want their food. We have a good relationship. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with how you’re dressed.”

  There wasn’t? I could think of a few things. My jeans were a little more worn than I liked, I’d picked my blouse because it was one of the few things left clean in my apartment, and I’d picked the boots to go with the elf outfit.

  The boots made everything better, and obviously, they were responsible for Julian’s lapse of good taste. “My boots are pretty amazing.”

  “I’m not one to tell a woman what to wear, but you will never hear me
argue if you wore boots like those every day. Who knew I could have an interest in boots? This is new territory. How am I supposed to appreciate those boots properly? It seems I’ve left my manual of boot appreciation at home.”

  I would need to thank Kristine for bailing on me, and when she asked why, I’d tell her the boots were the best purchase I’d made in my adult life. “It was either a new pair of boots or stilettos, so I got a new pair of boots. Fortunately for you, there’s no manual required to appreciate a nice pair of boots. They just require your undivided attention.” I stuck my foot out from beneath the table and showed off my boot. “There. You may now appreciate them.”

  “I find myself forced to give you a passing grade for that combination of jeans and boots. Well done.”

  “I definitely wear these boots better than you ever could,” I announced.

  “However much I hate losing, I can’t deny you’re right in this case. Those boots and my legs would not have a good relationship.”

  I’d pay good money to watch Julian try to walk in heels. “I don’t know, Julian. When you lose to me at Scrabble, you should give heeled boots a try. You won’t know until you try.”

  “You want to cut a wager, do you? And what do I get when I win?”

  “It seems fair for you to propose your side of the wager, not that you’re going to defeat me.”

  “I’m working at the Christmas Village every Saturday and Sunday until Christmas. Should I win, you have to take Kristine’s Sunday shifts while I’m there. In addition, you’ll be subjected to whatever I feel like for dinner, but as I’m a gentleman, I’ll drive you home afterwards.”

  “I’m going to need more than seeing you in heels if you’re going to ask for that,” I countered, pointing my fork at him. “There are four Sundays before hell arrives on Earth. Should I win, you will have to drive me around for the equivalent number of hours as I’d be forced to wear that damned outfit. And if I have to wear her dress, I’m charging a sneezing surcharge.”

  “A what surcharge?”

  “Sneezing. I can’t sneeze in that dress. If I sneeze in that dress, I’ll pop a seam.”

  “You have my attention. Which seam would be popped?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out if I sneeze when I’m wearing that damned dress! I looked like I was about to take on the entire town in one night in that thing.”

  He laughed. “You realize all you’ve done is motivate me to win even more, right? That’s not a smart move, Chloe.”

  “It’s a perfectly smart move. I’ll get you to drive me around for how long when I win? I think one of my ventures will be to Broadway. That might teach you.”

  “Should I win, you’re dressing up as an elf for the next four Sundays, and you’ll do so with a smile. Should you win, I’ll wear a pair of heeled boots and drive you around for the equivalent number of hours. Are we agreed?”

  I set my fork down and held out my hand. “Deal. May the best Scrabble player win—and enjoy ten minutes of guilt-free gloating.”

  He shook with me. “Game on, Chloe.”

  We called dinner a draw; we both wanted to get on to the main event, the Scrabble game that would decide my fate for the next month. I’d either have a slave or be forced to pretend I enjoyed the holidays. If I lost, I’d have to face my severe case of Claustrophobia face on. In good news, my childhood traumas would be faced in a delicious package.

  I could handle an overdose of the holiday spirit when compensated with Julian around. While my motivations made me more than a little petty, I had reasons for my general rejections and fears of the holidays, and it involved what ultimately happened when people got too close to me.

  Bad things always happened to me around the holidays.

  Armed with enough leftovers to last a few days, I made it all the way to Julian’s car, buckled in, and fought the urge to stretch out and catch a nap. “Food coma isn’t going to give you an advantage,” I warned.

  “Pity. I do try to secure every advantage possible.”

  I laughed. “You’re such a lawyer.”

  “I really am. I’m a lawyer who enjoys being competitive. I like a challenge. Frankly, most women either run the other way or think I’m weird when I invite them over to play board games.”

  Most lawyers I knew watched sports, went to bars, or pursued other evening entertainment. Gaming, no matter what type, did make him weird, but I liked his sort of weird. I wasn’t sure what other types of games he played, but it seemed like a good way to spend time with someone having mostly harmless fun.

  Was I better off winning or losing? Did I toe the line as far as I could and let fate decide? I could live with four weekends of facing the holidays. I’d enjoy having someone around who could help me with errands.

  If I ultimately needed to leave New York, a ride would make the necessities easier for a while.

  “I don’t think there’s anything weird about Scrabble,” I finally said when the silence dragged on for too long.

  “How about Risk?”

  “The war game with the little miniatures on the board?”

  “That you know the game is impressive.”

  “I lose, but I’m game to play. But it’s not really good with two players, is it?”

  “No, it’s not, but Kristine will play with us if we ask her. She likes barricading herself on Australia and pretending she can conquer the whole world from there.”

  I scowled, as that was the tactic I liked to use. “Only an idiot fights a land war in Asia.”

  “I see you have played this game before.”

  “No wagers on Risk, but I’ll play.”

  “I have other variants, too.”

  “Risk comes in variants?” I blurted.

  “There’s even a version with Atlantis in it.”

  Obviously, I needed to move in with him so I could play games at my whim. That would fit well with my inevitable job change before I worked myself to death with unfair compensation. “No matter how our game of Scrabble turns out, I propose that any paid wagers must include playing some form of other game. So if I make you take me somewhere on an errand, the day begins or ends with a game. Should you win, we get takeout and play games. You won’t win,” I added, mostly to cover my bases should I decide losing would benefit me the most.

  Maybe I’d get over my Claustrophobic tendencies with sufficient exposure. I doubted it, but I could spread some cheer to others while hating myself for selling out for a chance to spend Saturday nights playing silly games with a man worth taking home with me.

  I wondered how my mother would react to someone like Julian. She’d probably call me a gold digger, before demanding to know how he performed in the sack. Then, Dad #2, a slightly downgraded model compared to my biological father, would do his best to fulfill his fatherly duties, likely drive Julian away accidentally, and remind me why I left my mother’s place questioning life, the universe, and everything.

  “I find this alteration to our wager acceptable. Written agreement before the start of our game?”

  Julian meant business, and I appreciated we’d have a written agreement; it would keep us both playing the game fair. “Of course. We can’t have you forgetting that you’re scheduled to be my driver for the foreseeable future.”

  “You’re biting off more than you can chew, and I’ll enjoy my Sundays until Christmas far more than I dreamed possible this morning.”

  “We’ll see about that, Mr. Carter.”

  Win or lose, I won, but I wouldn’t let him know that. I wanted to see how the game would play out, and somehow, the dinner disaster hadn’t ruined everything for once in my adult life.

  I’d enjoy it while it lasted.

  Julian lived in Hell’s Kitchen close to Central Park, which mitigated my threats of forcing him to drive to Broadway; he dealt with the traffic as a daily part of his life.

  In a way, I’d been tricked, but I found his choice of home interesting. By picking somewhere like Hell’s Kitchen, which was still
in process of gentrifying itself compared to other parts of New York, he’d landed himself an actual house, one that’d seen a lot of love and care and stood out on his street. The effort—and money—he spent on the home boded well for a lot of reasons.

  Unlike my apartment, his house would become a damned good investment down the road.

  “How many banks did you rob to buy this place?”

  “Only one. I picked my target well, made certain someone I didn’t like took the fall, and whistled my way to the bank down the street. It was a win-win,” he replied, reaching up to his visor to tap a button, which opened his garage door. “I had to sell my father’s soul to the bank to get a place with a two-door garage, too.”

  “What happened to your poor mother’s soul? This is huge for the area. I thought it was all townhouses and apartments around here.”

  “Luck, honestly.” Julian hit the brakes and pointed down the streets. “My parents, unfortunately for me, live over there in the last house on the row. This used to be a whole row of townhouses, but they burned down a few years back. Turns out, the idiot landlord didn’t have insurance, couldn’t afford to rebuild, and the bank foreclosed when he stopped paying his mortgage. I grabbed the property and had the house built. Being a smart attorney with a high threshold of tolerance for my parents, I dealt with living in their basement for years, saving up every cent I could. It was dumb luck, but I’ll take it. I won the bid war because I was paying in cash; I only owe my parents part of my soul at this point, but they helped with part of the payment for the build. I’ve since paid them back.”

  Julian had lived in his parents’ basement? I’d escaped the instant I could, although I often regretted my choice. “That’s seriously impressive. No mortgage?”

  “No mortgage, just a loan from Mom and Dad. Dad’s a partner with a big firm, and I got my unfortunate lawyering tendencies from him. Mom’s a personal shopper for people with too much money and no fashion sense.”

  “Your mother helps other people shop?”

  “Yeah. It’s actually pretty interesting. She’s the person you want to go to if you need a dress for any event. Hell, I bet she could hook you up with an elf dress that wouldn’t pop a seam should you sneeze.”