Time Served

by Julianna Keyes

  She strides toward us, hips swaying, hair glinting in the sunlight, and offers a finger wave and a smile before entering the building. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and risk a look at Dean, surprised to discover him watching me.

  “She’s beautiful, Rach, but she’s got nothing on you.”

  I huff, ignoring the compliment directed at me and hearing only that he thinks Caitlin, my arch nemesis, office skank and seat-stealer, is beautiful. “Except second chair.”

  It takes Dean a second to figure out what the hell I’m talking about, then he gets it. “That’s her?”

  “Caitlin.”

  “Caitlin,” he echoes.

  “Yeah, so don’t—”

  “Rachel.”

  I freeze when Don Sterling’s smooth voice interrupts. I turn to see him climbing out of one of the company cars, Jose holding the door. “Looks like we had the same fashionably late entrance planned,” he says.

  I force a laugh. “Guilty.”

  Sterling helps his wife out of the car, a slender redhead I’ve met a handful of times before. Suddenly it’s just the four of us standing on the sidewalk in our party clothes and I want to cry. Sterling has always been nice to me. Did he support Haines’s decision to give Caitlin second chair? If it’s on his mind at all, it doesn’t show as he extends a hand.

  “Dean, right? We met a few weeks ago.”

  “I remember,” Dean answers, shaking Sterling’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “Likewise. This is my wife, Lois.”

  Dean shakes her hand as well, then we stand awkwardly for a moment before Sterling gestures to the building. “Shall we?”

  Dean covertly strokes the small of my back the whole way up to the rooftop terrace, as though silently urging me not to launch myself off the edge when we arrive. Sterling makes polite small talk about the weather and even a joke about what color pants Baxter might wear if he bothers to come, which is unlikely.

  The enormous terrace is packed with partygoers, everyone dressed to the nines in summer cocktail attire. Soft classical music wafts through the air, the sounds of the city so far below us that they may as well not even exist. It’s beautiful up here, with soft, airy flowers and flowing sculptures, the place transformed into an ethereal garden.

  A server stops by with a tray of champagne and we all take one. “For you,” Dean says into my ear when I look at his glass.

  I smile gratefully and take a sip from the flute in my hand. “Good call.”

  Sterling and Lois excuse themselves and Dean and I walk over to the wrought iron railings along the perimeter, taking in the city view.

  “What do you think?” I ask, finishing my first glass and swapping with Dean for the full one.

  “I think Baxter’s going to wear the green pants. Definitely.”

  I snort with laughter. Dean has never met Baxter. As far as I know, I’ve never mentioned him. “I was referring to the view. You’re a fan of them, as I recall.”

  He smiles faintly. “And you aren’t?”

  I lift a shoulder absently. “Maybe not as much as I thought.”

  “What would you rather see instead?”

  You. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t muster up the courage to say it. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Big backyard, yappy dog, apple tree?”

  “How do you remember these things?”

  Dean laughs and looks away. “Believe me, I tried to forget.”

  “How about you? Did you reconsider that promotion?”

  He tenses for a second, hands gripping the iron rail. “They gave it to someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I told you I didn’t want it.”

  “So what do you want?”

  He’s silent for so long I figure he’s not going to answer. Maybe it’s too soon. The question was open-ended: I wasn’t asking what kind of future he wanted with me, he could have answered anything—a burger, free pay-per-view, a wife and sixteen children. But he’s not saying anything at all. I shift uncomfortably and finish the second glass of champagne.

  “I want to be happy,” he answers finally.

  I look over in surprise.

  Dean shrugs and looks a little embarrassed. “I don’t know what that means,” he adds. “It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid,” I say honestly. “It’s normal.”

  “You think?”

  “Who doesn’t want to be happy?”

  “I didn’t. At least, I didn’t think about it. Fuck, I don’t know.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

  “No swearing.”

  Dean smiles. “Growing up, I wanted more than what we had. In prison, I wanted to get out. These past few years, I just wanted the days to end.”

  My heart lurches a little at the admission. If anyone wants a lesson in brutally honest truth-telling, Dean Barclay is their man. And what had I wanted? I wonder. More, no question. More than a trailer and an alcoholic mother. I’d wanted an education, a good job, a fancy office, a nice apartment. And I’d gotten it all. Then, when I had it, I’d stopped wanting. I’d just...been. And now?

  “Happy’s a good goal,” I say eventually.

  “You know what’d make me happy right now?”

  I glance around warily. “Don’t say anything perverted.” Or do.

  Dean smirks. “You wish.”

  “What then?”

  “I want out of this fu—this darned jacket.”

  “You look good in it.”

  “It’s hot as fuck up here.”

  “Solid effort with the swearing.” I peer around his shoulder. “There’s a coat check one floor down by the elevator.”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t jump.”

  A split second after Dean disappears into the crowd, a chill runs up my spine. I already know what I’ll find, but I’m still hit with a pang of rage-filled resentment when I turn to face Caitlin.

  “Depressed?” she inquires too casually, taking a miniscule sip from a glass of white wine as she peers over the rail at the ground far, far below.

  “Careful.” My voice is flat. “You’ll fall.”

  She smiles at me, a red twist of the lips that says we’re on the same catty page. “Who’s your friend?”

  “No one you’d know.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No kidding. He’s hot, Rachel, but that jacket’s about three years old.”

  Two, I want to counter. He couldn’t buy a suit three years ago because he was still in prison. “You’re alone, I presume? Or did Haines leave his wife at home?”

  She takes another careful sip of wine. “One has nothing to do with the other,” she tells me. “I’m qualified for second chair—overqualified, if we’re being honest—and you aren’t. Simple as that.”

  She’s waiting for me to take the bait, and though I desperately want to—How do I not qualify, you lying bitch? Tell me!—I manage to remain relatively stoic. “Go find a partner to suck up to,” I suggest. “Not literally, of course. Oh wait—too late.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m the only one up here who hasn’t.”

  She smirks, unperturbed. “Enjoy the party.” Then she turns on a mile-high heel and saunters off into the throng of people just as I feel Dean at my back.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  I don’t turn around; I don’t want him to see me, white-faced with hatred. The last thing I need is for him to think I need defending. After a moment I paste on a polite smile and glance back at him. “Nothing.” I take the coat check ticket and tuck it in my purse.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I need another drink.”

  “Maybe you should have something to eat.”

  “Don’t,” I say tightly, not in the mood to be mothered.

  To my surprise, he merely squeezes my shoulder in a reassuring, boyfriendlike way. “You’re stiff as a board,” he says quietly. “I don’t need to see your face to know she was fucking
with you. What’d she say?”

  “She didn’t say anything,” I lie. “She doesn’t have to. She’s just awful.”

  Dean sighs and releases me. “If you say so.”

  We spend the next hour mixing and mingling, finding the buffet and snacking on miniature versions of every kind of food imaginable. He’s too polite to say so—for once—but I know Dean is bored out of his mind. The people we meet talk about work and, every time I look at him, Dean is staring out at the horizon, expression blank, eyes dark.

  “Now I know why you drink,” he says when we break away from a conversation about tax law. “I’m going to find a bathroom. If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes...wait another two hours.”

  “I’m sorry you’re having a terrible time.”

  “You enjoying yourself?”

  “Not especially.”

  “When can we get out of here?”

  “After the speeches. Probably another hour or so.”

  Dean sighs. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I watch him weave through the throng, back toward the elevators that will take him down a level to the restrooms. I notice one of the lawyers who worked on the interviews in Virginia make her way over and quickly hide behind a group of tech support workers arguing about who cheated at Risk the night before.

  I come to an abrupt halt when I bump into a shoulder, freezing with my mouth half-open in apology. “Todd,” I manage. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Where’s the fire?” he asks, glancing behind me.

  I flush guiltily. “Sorry. Just dodging another conversation about the Fowler case.”

  He smiles sympathetically. “I understand. I’m not even part of the thing and I’ll scream if I hear another word about it.”

  We stare at each other until it grows even more uncomfortable, both of us racking our brains for something to say. “I’m sorry,” Todd blurts out finally, surprising me.

  “What on earth for?”

  “The mole rat thing. Naming it after you.”

  I cough out a laugh. I’d completely forgotten. “Oh God. I deserved it. I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry about the fireworks. I should have called you, or at least told you face-to-face instead of just sending a text... It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

  Todd waves away the words, looking tall and proper in a cream-colored blazer with a Harvard insignia on the pocket. “Bygones.”

  “Really?”

  He knots his fingers in front of his stomach, a gesture I recognize. He’d done it the first night we’d slept together, right before asking me if I wanted to come up to his apartment for a drink after dinner. It’s his “I’ve got a favor to ask” signal. And because I still feel guilty, I say, “What is it?”

  “Do you want to dance?” he asks, half wincing.

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I’m sure he hasn’t been watching my every move, but Dean’s got about two inches and thirty pounds on the biggest man at this party—Todd had to have seen that I came with somebody.

  “Um—” I begin awkwardly.

  “Just one song,” Todd insists, tugging me onto the small dance floor where couples glide along easily to the classical music filtering through the air. “You’d really be helping me out.”

  I frown, uncomprehending, but let him pull me into his loose grip. He’d taken me to one of those old-school restaurants with a dance floor in the center for our third date, and after a bottle of wine we’d joined two elderly couples for several slow dances, tottering drunkenly.

  I shake away the memory. “Helping you with what?”

  “You know Sheila? Jackson’s secretary on thirty-one?”

  “Ah... Maybe?”

  “Well, we sort of agreed to come together, but then we arrived separately and now I can’t decide if she...you know.”

  “Likes you?”

  “I was trying to think of a less uncool way to say that.”

  “Impossible.”

  He turns so I’m facing the direction he was just looking. “Purple dress,” he says into my ear. “Blond hair in a bun.”

  I spot Sheila immediately. I recognize her, but wouldn’t have been able to name her if my life had depended on it. She’s watching Todd and me, and looks mighty peeved.

  “She’s watching,” I say, trying not to move my lips.

  “How does she look?”

  “Unhappy. Did you ask her to dance?”

  “No. She’s been surrounded by people all afternoon.”

  “Maybe she was waiting for you to approach her.”

  “Laugh like I’ve just told a really funny joke.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay, but then we’ve even.”

  “Deal.”

  I toss back my head and laugh, meeting Todd’s eyes as he laughs too, though I think he’s laughing at me. Whatever the case, it’s convincing, because Sheila is slowly shifting closer to us, as though planning an impromptu encounter.

  “You’re such a good dancer, Todd!” I exclaim enthusiastically. “Your rhythm is impeccable.”

  He scoffs at my performance. “You’re welcome. Now please stop stalking me.”

  The song ends and we back up, bumping into Sheila. Todd turns, his surprise genuine, and his eyes light up. I stand on my tiptoes to whisper, “Don’t talk about golf,” then slip away into the crowd, stopping abruptly when I bump into a wall. Of unimpressed man.

  “Forming a search party?” Dean asks, unsmiling, eyes on Todd and Sheila.

  “Found you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. What does it look like?”

  “Like you were dancing with the guy you used to fuck.”

  I grit my teeth and glance around to make sure no one has overheard. I catch one person staring, but she quickly looks away, and I grip Dean’s biceps and steer him back to the rail overlooking the city. “Do you have to say it like that?” I hiss.

  He rests a hip against the railing and stares down at me, expression cool. “Like what?”

  “Always referring to it as fucking? I told you that’s not what it was. And stop swearing, please. For one afternoon.”

  “You embarrassed?”

  Now it’s my turn to be unimpressed. “You know I’m not.”

  “Do I? You didn’t invite me.”

  “You said you didn’t want to come!”

  “And I turn around for a second and you’re back with your ex-boyfriend.”

  “I was helping him get someone else’s attention.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” Remember July Fourth, when I showed up at your apartment in a new dress and underwear? That was meant for Todd. “That’s what...friends do.”

  “Is that so?”

  My purse vibrates, interrupting the strained conversation. I huff and dig out my phone from my bag, finding a text from Parker. Accident on 94. Running very late.

  Don’t miss speeches! I text back, but get no response. I put away the phone and blow out an unhappy breath. It looks like Baxter wisely stayed away from the party and Adrian’s sticking with the other second-years, meaning my closest allies are out of reach for the time being. And my remaining ally is glowering at me, doing everything but clubbing me over the head and dragging me downstairs to remind me and everybody else that we’re together.

  “Parker’s stuck in traffic,” I say to break the silence.

  Dean nods.

  “Did you want to dance?” I try, squeezing his arm in what I would like to believe is a companionable way. “Is that what this is about?”

  He just shrugs.

  I sigh. “Dean, come on. No hissy fits.”

  Now he comes to life. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. This thing is bad enough without you getting angry I danced with someone else.”

  “How would you feel if you showed up to find me dancing with Jade?”

  An image of the scantily clad Jailbait flashes through my mind. “Her name is Jade?”

  Dea
n rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Rachel. Did you hear the rest of the sentence?”

  “I’d be extraordinarily jealous,” I assure him insincerely. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  He mulls this over. “Yeah.”

  A server glides past with champagne and I reach for a glass, only to be interrupted by Dean’s hand and his curt order that the server carry on.

  “What are you doing?” I demand under my breath.

  “You’ve had enough.”

  I almost fall over in shock. “What?”

  “Next thing I know you’ll be taking off that dress and giving everybody else a show of what’s mine.”

  Now I roll my eyes. I know what he’s doing. I stand on my tiptoes and he dips his head so I can whisper in his ear. “We had sex five hours ago,” I say softly. “Do you really believe I’m thinking about anybody else right now?”

  I hear his breath push past my cheek, feel some of the tension leave his body. “That’s the problem with you and me,” he replies eventually, staring at a point over my shoulder. “I’ve gotta keep reminding myself you’re not a figment of my imagination. That I’m not asleep in my cell, dreaming we’re together, and I’m not gonna wake up and remember that you’re gone.”

  The confession makes my heart seize up, both guilty and touched. I don’t have a good reply, and I’m saved when the amplified sound of a knife dinging against a glass cuts through the air, calling an end to any conversations. Everyone turns to the small stage where Sterling, Morgan and—ugh—Haines stand, each with a full glass of champagne and a smile. Sterling begins with the traditional welcome speech, encouraging our new hires to feel at home and part of the SMH team. Morgan follows up with the typical promises for a wonderful new year, then Haines takes the mic and makes the announcement we’ve all been dreading.

  “These past few months have been strenuous,” he says, voice silky smooth and assuring. “No matter which cases you are working, you have all been giving 110 percent, and we have noticed. Whether or not you are personally involved with the Fowler class action, you have no doubt heard about it. Well, today I am pleased to announce that we are officially going forward with a strong and promising suit, and I am thrilled to name Caitlin Dufresne as second chair on the case.”