Overlooked

by Lulu Pratt

  “Maybe you should have left him in cow country.” Lily wrinkles her nose. “You could have shacked up with some hot-shot actor instead.”

  “I’d be in the same spot. This whole town thrives on drama, sex and lies. Why do people even get married? It’s bullshit.” I zip my bag with extra fervor and narrowly miss catching my finger in it. “The only upside is his hot lawyer. I spend every session daydreaming about doing terribly dirty things to him while David watches.”

  “The ultimate Fuck You.” Lily nods her approval. She’s the best friend. “I can dig that. Who is his new attorney? Didn’t you just meet him this week?”

  “I did. David doesn’t like decent humans who don’t condone his shitty behavior.” We step out into the bright sun and my stomach clenches again. I need to remember reliving my college days is a terrible idea. Shots and Kate no longer mix. “Eric Stevens is the latest asshole lawyer.”

  “No.” Lily stops and grabs my arm. “You did not just say who I think you said.”

  “Are you still drunk?”

  “That guy, oh God, Kate.”

  “What?” Fear makes my stomach worse. Celebrating sending another guy running from us at the bar last night really was the worst idea ever. “What?”

  “Remember when Maggie and Tim split?”

  I nod. We didn’t see Maggie for months after their divorce. She left the country with her money and refused to show her face again in any of our usual haunts. It was more than the tabloids circulating their personal life, because it was just another slice of life around here, but something truly terrible had happened and she refused to ever speak of it. Not even after a bottle of Chardonnay to loosen her lips.

  “Eric was Tim’s lawyer. Unless there are two of them running around Hollywood, he’s the same guy who ruined her. She lost everything.”

  “I remember. Are you sure it’s him, though? I thought he worked with David’s old guy and that’s how they were paired up?”

  “Definitely him.” Lily shook her head and took my hand. “You need to be careful, Kate. He’s ruthless. He’s a life-ruiner. He’s just as vile as David, except he uses the law, instead of his dick, to make things worse. Though maybe also his dick, word is he’s a serious man slut. Maybe we need to keep you hidden for a while. Just camp out at your place until this is over.”

  “I’m not going to stop living my life, Lily.” I pull back, a swirling mess of confusion and defiance. “David isn’t going to control me anymore and if he thinks he can do it by using this guy, he can fuck right off. Vivian is amazing and he can’t touch me anymore.”

  “He can’t.” She nods, trying to soothe me. I push her off. “But Eric can.”

  I shake my head because I can’t think of anything else to say. If David thinks he can smoke me out or ruin me with his little attorney, that’s fine. I tried to play this as friendly and fair as possible, just like when he convinced me not to sign the prenup to protect the money I inherited from my grandfather years ago. But I’m wiser now. If he wants a game, he can have one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ERIC

  I unlock my apartment and head straight for the washroom. I’ve been chugging water for the last hour and looking forward to this piss for twice as long.

  I wasn’t going to bring anyone home, and even passed up a threesome. Hard to do when it’s been sitting on my bucket list since high school.

  My heart wasn’t even in it tonight, which was both unsettling and frustrating. I’m on my way to bed when a phone rings. Not my personal phone. My piece-of-shit work phone.

  I pause to listen. Every client gets their own ringtone so I know how urgent I must deal with their shit. The song loops the Beastie Boys’ “Hey Fuck You”. David McArthur, that fat fuck billionaire who thinks because he shoved his wallet into some superhero movie series, he now owns the sun and my balls.

  The ringtone dies as it kicks over to voicemail. I close my eyes and count to three. Maybe, just maybe…

  And if you don’t like it, then hey, fuck you

  So put a quarter in your ass ‘cause you played yourself

  Fuck that guy so hard. It’s three in the morning, on the weekend, and he’s lighting my phone up like a Roman candle.

  It goes to voicemail again. I’m not even back in the living room when it starts ringing again. I’m going to have to change that goddamn ringtone.

  I’d like to block his number altogether, except McArthur does own my balls, to some extent involving a lot of dollar signs, and I’ve got to handle his shit right now.

  I call David back. Because leaving a message at three in the morning is beyond the realm of reason for this fuckwad.

  “You better not be fucking any whores.” David says as a greeting. “This case is serious.”

  “David, it’s three in the fucking morning.” I shove a little grit into my voice. “What can I do for you?”

  David launches into a ten-minute rant about fuck knows what, because I’m not listening. I can tell he’s drunk and just looking to start shit, which means this is an utter waste of my time that still falls into billable hours. Check and mate, asshole.

  “Are you even fucking listening, Stevens? The fuck do I pay you for?” David slurs.

  “Right here, David. Right here. That’s tragic.”

  “So, what I’m saying is….” David drawls to a silence for the first time.

  “We’re going to win this.” I assure him, pouring a straight glass of whiskey from my bar cabinet. “You want me to make sure she goes down hard and I will.”

  “Get all the dirt you can.”

  “Dirt is my middle name.” I immediately wince, because even I feel like a douche for saying it. “Get some sleep, David. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Fucking-a right.”

  He hangs up. I toss back the entire glass of whiskey and look down at the glass. I should bill David for it.

  I boot up my laptop and resume an image search of Kate McArthur. It can take a while to sort through, but everyone tends to have dirty laundry on the internet if you look hard enough. My job is to look hard enough. I pour another whiskey.

  Some fifty pages in, I find a series of topless photos from a beach trip six or seven years ago. Either David changed his hair and his whole damn uglyass face, or she was kicking it in Turks with another guy. Every last photo goes into the McArthur folder on my desktop. I’ll have to cross-check the dates, but if I can get an established history of infidelity, it’ll be a huge score on my part.

  Most of the images are really too blurry to be of any use. I start another search for Kate in Turks and stumble across a jackpot: dozens of them, some with great views of her tits. One thing I never understood was how someone as fucking sexy as her ended up with a twat like David. Forget leagues, he’s not even on the same planet as Kate McArthur.

  I zoom in on one of the clearer photos. She’s mid-laugh, flashing all her teeth and a set of dimples. Her hair is a mess, tits are in full view. They are my favorite kind of breasts: round, full, perky, with small pink nipples. They look like little old-fashioned candies you eat right off the paper.

  Whiskey gone, dick hard, naked tits in front of me. Before I realize it, my cock is out and I’m fucking myself. I run a finger across her digital nipples, wondering if they’d be as sweet as they look. Her whole body was firm, tight, but looked soft enough to plow into.

  I love fucking soft women. A quick mental picture of my cock sliding between those glorious tits and I am done for, shooting cum across my table and keyboard, involuntarily grunting louder than I had intended.

  I save the photo in a separate, hidden folder on my desktop. For later. Just in case.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KATE

  Every week is a nightmare scenario. It’s hard to remember it’s only been a month since David demanded the divorce papers be rewritten, because time slips through my fingers like grains of sticky, terrible sand. Some days, it feels like only three days passed. Others, a lifetime.

&nb
sp; Robolibrarian tries for a stronger hold on mediation this week. She’s fielding questions, posing possibilities, establishing scenarios. My head hurts and I don’t feel like playing along, so I don’t.

  Today, Eric the asshole lawyer and I are mentally involved in another series of compromising positions. I’m wearing a black leather bodysuit, crotchless for when I want him to touch me, and carrying a whip. Every time the real asshole says anything I whip imaginary him.

  Dream Eric is tied to a chair, a ball gag dangling around his neck. I pick up the weight of it in my hands and let it drop against his Adam’s apple. He winces and the words stop once more.

  “Can we stop this pretentious bullshit?” Vivian says, her voice floating through my daydreams like an overhead announcement at the yoga studio. “We have a long-documented history of David’s marital transgressions.”

  I smack Dream Eric across the cheek with the handle of my whip. He hisses as a sharp red mark blossoms across his cheek. I grin, watching the fear behind his eyes. His lip trembles.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress.” Dream Eric whispers.

  “Little asshole,” I grab a fistful of his dark hair and yank it back, exposing his throat. “You won’t talk to me that way again.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “There are no innocent parties in a divorce.” Real Life Eric is talking again. Daydream Eric’s mouth moves, but his voice is different, confident, cocky.

  I really, really hate Real Life Eric. Especially for being so bloody sexy.

  Bondage has never been an interest of mine before, it was something that always horrified me. David tried once, bringing home an arsenal of crotchless panties and a thick leather strap-on. I slept in one of the guest rooms, feigning the stomach flu to get out of it.

  We didn’t have sex for weeks after that. Our sex life was always terrible but that was a new level of awful I didn’t want to explore. Now, though? Surrounded by this filth?

  Bring it on.

  But only with the hot lawyer, because the idea of sleeping with David ever again is enough to make my stomach crawl. Dream Me slaps Dream Eric across the other cheek. To prove a point.

  My phone vibrates, pulling me fully out of the daydream. I don’t check it right away, but look around to see what I’ve missed. Vivian and Eric look like they’ve forgotten we’re even here. They are fully engrossed in their argument, pulling out pictures and scribbling notes on yellow pads.

  Vivian’s notepad, instead of drawings, is full of angry capital letters and heavy ink underlining words I can barely make out. Mediation has taken an abrupt turn, and I’m not sure how or why.

  Robolibrarian’s hair is as severe as normal, but her face is especially grim. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Through this whole thing, even with her remaining angrily silent in previous sessions, I had the impression she was on my side.

  I didn’t do anything inherently wrong. Maybe I didn’t use the crotchless panties and maybe I refused counseling the last time, but David and I had tried four other times in our marriage. Wasn’t I allowed to say I wasn’t comfortable with certain sex acts?

  David is staring at me with a look I wish I could forget. He winks and lifts his phone slightly. My phone vibrates again, reminding me I have a text. My throat is dry when I unlock it under the table.

  Wanna fuck after this?

  I stare at it for a solid minute, my face a plastic mask of indifference, but inside I am roiling. The nerve! After everything that happened? He cannot be serious. We’re in this stupid room because he liked to fuck anything with legs that wasn’t me and he has the audacity to proposition me?

  With a quick click, I lock my phone and pretend I didn’t see it. Let him think I got a text from someone else. Entertaining that shit is out of the question.

  I close my eyes and straddle Dream Eric. His whole body is tense and his face open. He’s waiting for me to make the next move. Dream Eric wants nothing more than to pleasure me. I smack him with the whip again and a tear falls down his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress,” he whimpers.

  “Sometimes sorry isn’t fucking good enough, Eric.” I pause, frozen by the words fresh from my lips. “I mean, Asshole.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  My lap vibrates. These distractions are becoming a real problem.

  You look really sexy in that dress. You want me to fuck you in it. Right here on the table.

  I repress a shudder and take a deep breath to still the churning in my stomach. Back in dreamland, I smack Dream Eric again. He likes it, though, his eyes hungry and desperate. I guess I can give him what he wants — just a taste.

  I recline on the table and spread my legs. He pushes himself closer to me and drops his head between the black leather. Like a good little submissive, he looks to me for permission. I make him wait, make him smell me without tasting, and finally nod.

  “You will put that dirty mouth to good use.” I order him.

  Vivian slams her palm down on the desk and I jump. Real Life Eric and David the Fuckface don’t look shaken by it. Instead, they have almost matching wry smiles. They feel the upper hand. They feel me losing.

  I, on the other hand, feel a panic attack bubbling in my chest.

  “I think we are done here.” Vivian neatly stacks her papers and notepads. She shoves them in her briefcase with a layer of cool that could betray even the most detail-oriented observer. “This is obviously not working. The point of mediation is to settle outside of court, gentlemen. If you are incapable of meeting us on anything, this just means we’ll have to proceed. Your client needs to evaluate what this means for his career.”

  My phone vibrates again. I don’t want to check it. David stares straight at me, waiting like a terrible lion. I stare back and rest my phone on the table. We never break eye contact as I recline in my seat and cross my arms.

  The smile on his face wavers for a moment but he returns to his phone and pecks out another message. The phone vibrates again, rocking around the table. Vivian glances over, reads my phone, and turns a pointed stare at David.

  “That’s private.” David says it with bite but keeps his face placid. It’s a Hollywood trait we all learn quickly.

  “I find it interesting, Mr. McArthur, that you are refusing to acknowledge how instrumental Kate has been to your professional career, and how important she was to you personally, while you are propositioning her via text message.”

  “I agree. I think we’re done here.” Real Life Eric stands and buttons his jacket. “Since your client is unable to see what she’s requesting is outside the realm of rationality, we’ll just need to take this to a judge.”

  “So it appears.” Vivian stands and motions for me to follow. “Mrs. Crofton, thank you for your time.”

  Robolibrarian stands with the others but says nothing. Her face is unreadable beyond the frustration. She’s a mirror of the storm swirling in my brain.

  “What the hell?” I hiss to Vivian by the elevator. “I thought our best chance was for this to go well in mediation?”

  “Not anymore.” Vivian jabs the elevator button with extra vigor. “Save those text messages. We’ll need them. Every scrap of evidence he cheated. Anything that could be misconstrued as infidelity. Phone records. Everything. It is imperative we take him down at the knees. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll try to take down Eric while we are at it.”

  Somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, an idea hatches.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ERIC

  “Shots on the house, boys.” Becky offers me a wink before running off to another table. I give it a sniff and wince. Tequila. I hate tequila, but if someone else is paying, I’m not passing.

  “Just take Becky home already.” Paxton clears his throat. “I’m tired of watching this cat-and-mouse shit.”

  “And ruin everything? Pass.” I clink his glass and shoot the tequila. Lime goes over my shoulder and I look Geoff in the eye while doing it. “If she f
alls into that woman scorned bullshit, our reign of free drinks comes to an end.”

  “So date her.” Geoff says. He sets his lime rind in the empty glass and folds his arms. “Or maybe leave her alone.”

  “Shut up.” Paxton rolls his eyes. “You’re the most single motherfucker I’ve seen in this bar, so it’s not like you’re a sage of wisdom.”

  “I’ve had plenty of girls.” Geoff puffs himself up. “Plenty.”

  At this, Paxton and I laugh heartily. I pretend to wipe a tear from my eye and clap him on the back.

  “That was a good one, man. Don’t let anyone ever say you aren’t funny.”

  “Fuck off.” Geoff growls and sips his beer. “How does McArthur put up with your shit?”

  “McArthur and Eric? They’re one and the same person,” Paxton smirks at his own joke.

  “Oh, you can die in a fire.” I point to Paxton and flick him off. “That guy is a real piece of garbage. I chase tail, he chases the goddamn devil. Don’t put him on my level. He wishes he was as badass as I am.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re a saint among men.” Paxton waves me off. He leans forward, waggling his brows. “You hook up with his wife yet? She’s fine as hell.”

  “She is.” I lean back in my chair and sigh heavily, picturing her in my head. That topless photo of her had become a favorite in the middle of the night. “But I’m a man of honor.”

  “Bullshit.” Both of the assholes at my table say. They clink glasses and Geoff looks smug.

  “He’s a pain in my ass, though. He catches second wind at three in the morning and blows up my phone. I haven’t slept more than four hours in two weeks. Tonight, I’m going home and sleeping through the entire weekend. Turning off my phone. Money be damned.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Well, call the press because Eric Stevens is closed for the next two days. If I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll die and lose out on the paycheck. This mediation bullshit is nothing more than a three-day-long guilty plea, man. We’re going to win. So I’m going to sleep.”