by Aria Ford
“She’s a sociopath, of course she isn’t,” Sonia spat.
“Mrs. King,” the judge warned.
“Your honor, upon Mrs. Mortez’s mental health evaluation it was revealed that she is a borderline.” Noel turned around and asked the court. “Is anyone familiar with borderline personality disorder? How hard it must be to be that stable with little to no help?”
“Your honor, Mrs. Mortez was a successful advertising giant with a salary well over six figures. If she didn’t have appropriate mental care, it’s because she didn’t seek it because she considers her disorder an advantage,” Sonia interjected.
“In what sense is a mental disorder an advantage? I’m suggesting that because of her mental handicap that my client serve no time in a correctional facility but an extensive stay in a mental health facility of the City’s choosing, where she can receive proper mental care. We request three years of inpatient mental health care.”
Charlotte looked between Sonia, the judge, and Noel through a mess of frizzy hair. She flexed her fingers; tiny one inch long scars decorated every digit.
Judge Howard sighed as Sonia went on to say, “The defendant methodically grabbed a bottle, broke it, and attacked a police officer. That does not warrant a free stay in an asylum. She can receive counseling in prison.”
“I believe that Mrs. King is insensitive to the plight of the mentally unstable, and therefore cannot aptly judge whether or not someone who commits a crime because of their mental illness should be punished. I’m not saying that my client should walk, she assaulted an officer but I think that the court should show some empathy. It’s 2015, and I believe that with proper rehabilitation, Mrs. Mortez can rejoin society.”
“What would be the course of treatment at the mental health facility?”
Gabriel ran his hands throughout his hair. He gripped the bench in front of him as the people around him started to murmur. Shit
“Course of treatment would be three months of a second evaluation, six months to a year of medication trials, and an additional year of talk therapy.”
“The ruling is in favor of the defendant. Charlotte Mortez is sentenced to two years in a mental health facility of the City’s choosing, and a final evaluation upon the end of the two year term to verify that Mrs. Mortez is ready to rejoin society. If she is not, then she will be sentenced to fifteen years in prison without the possibility of parole.”
He slammed his gavel down on the wood and Sonia stormed out of the courtroom in a fury of foul language. Charlotte embraced Noel, and whispered in his ear, “You’ll visit me? You’ll be there when I get out?”
He stroked her back, murmuring, “Of course.”
Gabriel sighed . Megan is not going to be happy to hear this. At least Charlotte we’ll be off of the street for two years. He nodded to some socialites that were watching in the courtroom as he left. Gabriel’s grey loafers pounded the steps from the courthouse and half-jogged to his car.
He pulled out into traffic and thought about the events of the past few months. He couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit bad for Charlotte, knowing that his lack of feelings had pushed her to her breaking point. His sympathy only went so far though. She had hurt someone he’d come to care an awful lot about.
He turned onto Megan’s street and couldn’t help the butterflies in his stomach. Somewhere along the way, he had fallen for the tough little detective. All he wanted was to be by her side and help her recover from the mess he’d helped cause.
He knocked on her door and she answered, leaning against the frame and looked a little pale. He stepped in and quickly lifted her off of her feet, carrying her into the living room.
She slapped at his shoulder. “Oh for fuck’s sake, put me down. I’m not an invalid,” she said.
He deposited her on the couch and sat next to her, pulling her legs into his lap. “I know you’re not, but I want to take care of you. Would you just let me?”
Megan looked at him and smiled. “Ok, I guess so,” she acquiesced.
Gabriel sat quietly, tracing his finger around her ankle, and staring absently at the muted television.
“You seem like there’s something on your mind,” she said, nudging him to get his attention.
He smiled and said, “Well, I’m a little shaken up. You were almost killed.”
“I’m a cop, I signed up for that.”
“Well I’m not a cop and I didn’t sign up for it. I just came back from the hearing.”
Megan sighed and rolled her eyes. “It was on the news, I couldn’t bother with watching it. It doesn’t take the stitches out of my belly, or take back these last few weeks. On the bright side, Chief has promised to never doubt me again. He said that I had huge balls to take on a case like this for my first one as Detective, and I fought an insane person that I was supposed to be rescuing.”
Gabriel enjoyed a real laugh and tweaked one of her toes. “You did. You even read her rights in between kicking the shit out of her.”
“Two things, she’s freakishly strong and it pays to be a uniformed officer before you can be a Detective. That’s real life.”
“Well, Detective Lowe, when are you going back to work?”
She rubbed the back of her neck “I’d say another couple of weeks.”
“I think you should take another month off.”
“You know, my salary is pretty good but it’s not owner of an online matchmaking service good. I have to, and want to, go back to work in a couple of weeks. Two more weeks is plenty.”
“After what you experienced, I’d be happy to support you.” He stroked one of her legs.
“Absolutely not. I have more crazies to catch. However, will you tell me what the verdict was?”
Gabriel chewed on his lip. “Two years in a mental health facility, and if she’s not more or less fit to rejoin society, she’s going away for fifteen years without parole.”
Megan whistled. “See? Everything’s fine. It’s safe.”
Gabriel slid from under her feet and kneeled in front of her at the head of the couch. He grabbed her face in both of his hands and said, “We don’t have to worry about her attacking you. We’re more than safe to be together.”
Megan’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Oh my God, you’re serious. You still want to do this, whatever the hell this is?” Gabriel gave her a soft kiss on the lips. “Yeah, I want to do whatever the hell this is. I would love it if you gave me a chance to not be a dirtbag.”
Megan guffawed. “You’re not a dirtbag, maybe a little bit of a playboy, but not a dirtbag.”
He played with her curls, having been shaken out of their routine the two weeks that Megan was in the hospital, it had become curlier than he had imagined it would be.
“Okay. Let’s give it a shot, let’s see if we can be a normal couple.” She swung her legs out and patted the space on the sofa next to her. Gabriel smiled and sat next to her, thankful that she saw in him what no one else ever had.
THE END
Her Billionaire Writer
Chapter 1
The heels of what Francesca had considered to be “teacher appropriate” shoes, clacked down the crowded hallway of Wright University. She and her roommate, Sal, had spent the night picking out an outfit that would extinguish any chance of her appearing ‘bangable’.
I’m a twenty five year old, teaching a class to a bunch of twenty- somethings. I need to give off an air that says ‘It’s totally not okay to ask me out to drinks after class. And that I’m not cool with it if you turn in your papers late’.
She tugged on the sleeves of her ruby red blazer and scanned her mental checklist for her appearance again.
I didn’t eat anything that could still be stuck in my teeth, I straightened my hair, and I’ll at least look like I drink coffee. She held a bulky, purple plastic coffee mug in her left hand as she juggled her purse on her other arm. She turned the corner and crossed the threshold into her classroom.
It was set up like a standard lecture hall,
she would have the main floor, while the rest of the room opened up to the stadium style seats where the students would sit each day. She looked around the room and took a few moments to prepare before the students came in. She shook out her nerves and blew out a shaky breath.
Francesca stuffed emergency tampons in the smaller compartments of her desk, and whipped out a flash drive that housed the lecture’s power point on it. She left it to rest on top of her desk, next to the laptop that the university awarded her for accepting the position.
Teaching English Lit was not her first choice of a career. She was a writer at heart, but not having actually written anything worth publishing yet, she needed something to pay the bills.
She sighed as she set up her laptop and ignored the desktop icon that shouted ‘NOVEL.’ Only three classes today, I can finish up and head home to keep writing, she told herself.
The doors opened and students filed in from both entrances, some heading straight down the stairs to the front row.
Francesca nibbled on one of her fingernails as the seats quickly filled until the hall became packed with all sorts of people, staring straight at her. There was a low hum of conversation in the room, as well as few stone-faced grad students that whipped out their sleek laptops and waited for instruction.
She stood once a tall student in the far back shut both of the classroom doors, and she teetered on her heels. Cheeks prepared to bloom bright red, she righted herself and walked around her desk.
Francesca put the flat of her palm on her desk and her hand grazed the smooth wood as she walked around her desk. She cleared her throat as the class simmered down and addressed the room.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Francesca Reynolds, I prefer to be addressed as Ms. or Professor. Welcome to English Lit.”
A few murmured hellos and Francesca’s shaking hands plugged in her flash drive and the gaze of each student burned on her skin as she struggled to the get the projector to work.
“So, I wanted to start this semester with Gothic Literature. How many of you had to read Poe and Thoreau in high school?”
Most of them raised a hand and Francesca put on a bright smile as she smacked her clammy hands together. “Excellent! Let’s get started.”
The two hour lecture came and went, and by the end of it Francesca’s tongue was dry and her legs wobbled from standing. All of the students emptied out of the room and she immediately glued her ass to her seat. Her fingers stroked her calf muscles, hoping to gas them up for another four hours of class.
The dryness on her tongue nagged at her and she wished that she’d remembered to throw a water bottle in her purse.
As new students began descending the twin staircases, she nodded hello at them and excused herself out of her closest exit. The traffic in the halls had picked up significantly compared to when she first arrived. She propelled herself down the hallway at the fastest speed she could manage without attempting to run in heels.
She approached the cafeteria and peered in through the open doors. The open space revealed three other professors crowded around the condiment bar. Francesca targeted the drink cooler and helped herself to a soda, she checked out with the cashier, a grim faced Wright University student.
As she pulled back the tab on her diet soda, a tall, pale woman decked out in a red skirt and blazer was barreling toward her.
Fuck, I’ve met her, I know that I know her. Francesca extended her hand, a bright smile the consolation for having forgotten her colleague’s name.
“Professor Reynolds, how have you been ? Hard time finding your classroom?” The long woman stretched her mouth wide and revealed red lipstick-stained teeth. Her tongue flicked over them.
“I’ve been fine, I just finished my first lecture-”
The tall woman leaned in uncomfortably close. “Did they give you a run for your money? My first lecture I spent all morning puking, and between each class I was glued to the can. You have the bonus of having someone like Adam Houston accepting a position here on your first day.”
Francesca swallowed her sip of soda before she sent it splattering all over the woman’s suit. “ Adam Houston? You can’t be serious.”
The woman slapped her on the shoulder. “Oh, I’m so serious. He honestly wants to lecture some English Lit students; I just couldn’t believe that he chose to come to a Manhattan university.”
“Everyone wants to visit the Big Apple at one point or another; I just can’t believe that I have such good luck.”
A curious expression settled on the other professor’s face. “Oh? Are you a fan?”
“I own a couple of his titles- so, I guess. It’s just such big name.” And such a big opportunity to have fallen into my lap my very first week here, Francesca thought.
Before she could dive into something else, Francesca said, “Well, I’m sure my students are waiting for me and you don’t pay two grand for a class to sit in the room without a professor. I’ll see you around?”
She nodded vigorously. “Of course, of course. Good luck to you.”
Francesca power walked to her classroom, noting to herself, At least I didn’t spend all morning vomiting.
Chapter 2
Adam dragged a comb through his salt and pepper hair, smiling at the tanned and aging man in the mirror of his newly leased apartment. This is what he assumed New York life to be all about If he dared to open the window to let in the busy noises of the street, they could potentially drown out the thoughts in his racing mind.
I’m out of distractions, he noticed. The deodorant and razors that were on the counter had already been put away, and if he just pulled out his phone, a car would arrive in moments to drop him off at the university.
He slid his wide smart phone out of his pocket and his fingers hovered over the car service app. There was a sunken feeling in his chest. Jesse hasn’t called today. He had seen his oldest daughter two times since he moved to New York from Rhode Island. He saw her the day that her and her mother moved all of their things, dresses, sofas, and televisions, out of his five-bedroom home. Then, he saw her briefly on moving day. She was upset that he was moving so soon after the divorce, but she promised to communicate consistently.
Sixteen-year-olds aren’t known for their organizational skills. Or their ability to stick to commitments, he thought.
He shook the feeling off, taking one last look in the mirror before he reluctantly sent for the car.
Let’s get this over with.
Chapter 3
Francesca set the drug store margarita mix on the camel-brown, square shaped table between her and Sal. Sal giggled as he sipped his margarita and said, “How much longer do we have to drink this shit? You’re making good money now.”
Francesca adjusted her knees so that she could lay on her side, with the plush gray carpet rubbing against her skin. “I haven’t received my first stipend yet. You know, you could stand to buy the alcohol sometimes, you sold four houses this month!”
Sal shrugged. “I guess. What’s it like so far? Do they just stare at you, obviously bored out of their minds?”
Francesca offered her middle finger to Sal. “No, Sal, believe it or not some people like English Literature.”
“I thought you were the only person that did.”
“Anyway, I’ve got three really good groups of grad students that are there because they appreciate it and want to incorporate it into their careers somehow.”
Sal took a long sip of his margarita and his fingers drifted to his temple. “And how do you do that? What jobs are there for English Lit majors?”
“There’s teaching, and you know, its good knowledge to have. However, if you’re me, there’s writing, and then there’s also the opportunity to get feedback from Adam Houston.”
Sal leaned against the tangerine-colored couch. “Is that the guy that writes a bunch of self-help books?”
“No. He’s sold billions of books worldwide in the true crime genre, and he chose to offer lectures at my university
of all places. What do I even do? I need to find some way to get him alone and have him read over my manuscript.”
Sal snorted. “I think you’re the only person in the world that thinks someone would find it an opportunity of a lifetime to read your manuscript after you’ve shoved it in their faces.”
Francesca rolled her eyes and tossed her head back to rest on the couch. The ceiling was discolored, the previous tenants had just enough juice to paint half of the ceiling a pastel purple, and to leave the other half white. The building staff wasn’t exactly paid well enough to climb up on a ladder and right that wrong.
Francesca whined, “He’ll love it, he has to”
****
Okay, hopefully the seventeen dollars it took to print and bind this thing wasn’t money that would have been better applied to a panini, Francesca thought, as she clutched her thick manuscript through the holes in her copper-colored yarn knapsack.
She passed a decorative mirror in the dark hallway and checked her teeth for lipstick stains. She smoothed her burgundy colored hair back and tucked away the strays that tried to escape from her wide headband.
The lights were already on in Adam Houston’s lecture hall. I guess showing up here four hours earlier isn’t going to get me too much farther.
She had shaken herself out of bed at eight am with Sal’s help. He had waved a croissant and hot coffee under her nose. Sal had always been an early riser, so he had no problem joining the mission to help Francesca achieve overnight literary success.
Whatever. I’ll make myself stand out, she thought.
She entered the hall from the back and the heat of the room immediately provided a smothering sensation around her neck and ears.
The room was hot with the body heat of over two hundred professors and students crowding around Adam on the lecture hall floor.
Voices buzzed and panic swelled in Francesca’s chest as she realized she may not get a chance to talk to him.
She walked to the two rows above her and was able to see through the throng of fans.
A tall, lean man of about 50 was in the center of the circle, shaking hands and offering a genuine and alluring smile to each person that jumped in his face.
