"Well, first, I can't imagine you ever looking dowdy, and second, you're saying I have Midge Payne to thank for your little striptease in the elevator?"
"You should send her flowers or something," I mutter.
"I definitely should," he replies. Then as an afterthought he asks, "What was the interview question that you nailed?"
"Oh, that," I say as I lean up on my elbow so I can look at him. He's grinning up at me, completely enjoying my loose lips, because I normally reveal very little about my life. I find I like this sharing thing. With great flourish, I say, "Danny asked if there was ever a scenario in which I'd be willing to put my law license at stake. Apparently, every single candidate answered with a resounding no."
Reeve's smile fizzles and dies. His jaw goes tight. "And how did you answer?"
He clearly knows I answered the opposite, but he wants the details. And for some reason, I feel like he's not going to like my answer. It was a simple question, but the answer was a bit more complex. I spent a lot of time and money earning my law license, and there are very specific things I can do to lose it. Law schools pound into their students the fear of letting their ethics waver and getting in trouble with the bar. The loss of my law license would be catastrophic, so this is something I do take seriously.
But as with most everything in life, there are exceptions. Even though I know he really won't like my answer, I give it to him anyway. "I laid out several scenarios where I would jeopardize it."
"Like what?"
"I'm not sure of my exact words . . . it was so long ago. But I think I said I'd do it if someone's life was at stake."
For some reason, Reeve's body seems to relax with that answer, and his smile starts to form again.
"I also said I'd do it if justice could prevail, as long as it didn't hurt anyone else." His smile slides again, which presses me to ask, "Does that bother you?"
"No," he says hurriedly. "It's just . . . I don't like the thought of you putting your license at risk. That's your livelihood. Your life. It's never worth the risk."
Reeve's eyes are wide and worried, and yet he's not truly getting me. And that just won't do. After what we just shared when he was making love to me, I need to make sure he gets me.
I swing a leg over Reeve, straddling his pelvis. Placing my hands on his stomach, I peer down at him, his face lit up by the bedside lamp. "Remember I told you a little bit about my childhood? Grew up poor, yada, yada, put myself through school, blah, blah, blah?"
He nods at me, his hands coming up to stroke my knees resting at either side of his rib cage. "I expect there's a little bit more than yada, yada, and blah, blah, blah."
"There is," I tell him. "I lived in a dusty trailer park in a tin can with a leaky roof and feral dogs fighting in the dirt streets outside. We subsisted mostly on ramen noodles, and on a good day our elderly neighbor would throw us a few veggies from her garden to go with it. All my clothes came from the thrift store, and by that I mean I had one pair of jeans, a few shirts, and maybe three pairs of underwear. The lack of clothes meant doing laundry more often, and by laundry I mean using the kitchen sink to wash them. We didn't have money for birthday presents or Christmas, and I didn't even taste my first bite of steak until I was in college and my boyfriend took me out to dinner one night. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. My childhood was rough. Wouldn't wish it on any child. I was teased and bullied because I was poor, and the only pleasure I really got in life was escaping into books through the school library."
Reeve doesn't say anything, but his eyes burn with anger and sympathy.
"I had it rough, but despite having hardly anything at all, the one thing I did have was love. My mom provided me with so much love, none of the other stuff really mattered."
"I don't know what to say," Reeve says in a raspy voice, his hands tightening on my knees.
I continue my story. "My mom worked odd jobs. She didn't have a high school education, having dropped out of school after falling in with a bad crowd who liked to party hard. She got pregnant with me, and I don't know my father because my mom doesn't know who he is. He was a passing face, a faded memory from a night when she was so high on drugs she didn't get his name and didn't insist he use a condom."
"Jesus," Reeve whispers.
"But she loved me. More than anything. She gave up drugs and alcohol when she got pregnant with me, never used again. But work was hard to find in eastern, rural North Carolina. We had good times that would provide the occasional mac and cheese. We had bad times, though, when she was out of work, and by bad I mean I would go days without eating unless it was a school lunch. My mom had choices to make. She'd have just enough money to pay the electricity bill, and during the winter, we had to have heat, so that meant no food. We were always giving up something to get something else."
Reeve's hands leave my knees and travel up my arms, stroking me with reassurance as I continue my story.
"I remember a few times that I was so hungry I couldn't stop crying, which would make my mom cry." I take a deep breath, push it out, and bare a very personal fact about my life. "She'd have men come over to our trailer. They would disappear into her back bedroom, and I would hear noises coming out of there and the bed knocking against the wall. I was too young to really know what it meant, but I know that when the men left, my mom would have money and she could buy me food."
"Fuck," Reeve mutters.
"You understand what I'm saying?" I ask him quietly.
He nods, his eyes swimming in sadness.
"My mom would have done anything, and I mean anything, to nourish me. There is nothing she wouldn't have sacrificed, nothing she wouldn't have risked, to try to keep me fed and sheltered. She did that because she loved me."
"She loved you very much," Reeve murmurs, lacing his fingers through mine.
"She taught me my most important lesson in life," I tell him so he starts to understand where I'm coming from. "There are some people you risk everything for. So going back to the question Danny asked me in my interview . . . yes, in a heartbeat I'd put my license at risk for my mother or someone I loved. It's a no-brainer to me."
Reeve knifes upward in the bed, his arms banding around me and pulling me close. His mouth crushes onto mine, and he kisses me so deeply I know I'll still feel it tomorrow. He seems desperate, as if he's trying to convey his understanding with his tongue and teeth. My arms wrap around his neck, and I feel him start to swell underneath my bottom.
Pulling away from the deep connection of the kiss, he leaves his lips resting gently against mine. "I think you might be the most amazing person I've ever met."
"Do you get me now?" I whisper, my lips moving against his.
"Yeah . . . I get you now," he says and then kisses me again.
CHAPTER 14
REEVE
I'm sitting in Leary's large conference room, flipping through my presentation. I was the first to arrive this morning for the mediation because I always like to take extra time to set up and skim through my notes. Any moment I'm expecting the others, including Leary and Jenna as well as Tom Collier and retired judge Peter Goetge, who will be the one who will direct and mediate any potential negotiations today.
I don't expect that Tom will offer much money, so this is probably all just a formality. After today, it's crunch time.
We're just shy of a month from the trial, and I'm starting to get stressed.
Ordinarily, trials don't cause me any worry. Some lawyers get physically ill, the prospect of standing in front of twelve strangers more than they can bear. Add in an irate judge, and the anxiety level increases tenfold. Add in high-stakes money, and some lawyers have to medicate.
Not me.
I love the adrenaline rush, the spotlight, and the competition of it all.
Normally.
Not with the LaPietra case, though.
I'm getting stressed because every day that the trial looms closer, it means that Leary is going to find out just how devious I can be in the cou
rtroom. When she learns of my deviousness, and when it causes her case to fail, she's going to hate me for it.
There's not a day that hasn't gone by when I don't argue with myself over what to do. Half the time I think I should just throw my professional ethics out the window and divulge to her what I know about Jenna. The other half of the time, I keep hoping that something else will happen to save me from it all. Like, maybe a comet will strike the earth. Or TransBenefit will fold into bankruptcy. Or Jenna will hit the lottery and this case won't matter anymore.
Ironically, the only real thing that has kept me somewhat sane has been Leary herself. Every moment I'm with her is complete and absolute escape from the harsh realities of my job. I don't think about anything else. I concentrate only on her. I want to live in a world where there's only Leary and me . . . and Mr. Chico Taco, too.
All silly pipe dreams.
So I continue on, taking advantage of every precious second with this beautiful, sexy, and complex woman.
Luckily for me, there are a lot of seconds, minutes, and hours when we're together. We've fallen into a natural routine. Leary has started staying at my house every night, mainly so Chico doesn't have to go stay with Vanessa. This has been at Leary's insistence, and I thought it was very sweet of her to consider his feelings. But then she did something one day that I'll never forget.
I walked into my living room. She was sitting on my couch with Chico's head in her lap. She was rubbing his ears and making cooing noises at him. She bent over and whispered in his ear, "You love me more than Vanessa, don't you, buddy?"
I had to turn around and walk back into the kitchen and place a kitchen towel in my mouth so she couldn't hear me laughing. It had become clear to me that Leary was staying at my house to gain favor with my dog and turn his allegiance from Vanessa over to her.
Fucking adorable.
After that night several weeks ago when she told me about her mother and the things she did for Leary's well-being, things changed between us. She opened up to me, I accepted the gift, and from that moment forward, I entered into a committed relationship with her. Not just in a monogamous sense, but committed to this woman's emotional well-being.
Everything about her became important to me. Every touch from her, every sound out of her mouth, every nuance of her day. It all became mine. I possessed her and she consumed me. But for this stupid fucking trial, my existence would be absolutely perfect.
Unfortunately, Leary did not stay with me last night because she had work to do. So did I, for that matter. In fact, we were both holed up in our respective offices, working on the LaPietra case because we're holding the mediation today.
Fuck, I missed her in my bed last night. She's fast becoming a necessity to me. While I was working, I couldn't help reaching out to her.
I sent her a text around 10:00 p.m. Still working?
Her response was immediate. Yup. Hey. What page of the deposition of Dr. Summerland did he admit that he pulled a double on-call shift before Jenna's surgery?
I had to laugh before I responded. I'm not helping you prepare your case against me. Bad girl.
She wrote me back a smiley face but nothing more.
I went back to work, finishing up a few notes on my PowerPoint presentation for the mediation. I played around with font sizes and tweaked a few sentences. But something started niggling at me.
Why was Leary focused on Dr. Summerland's on-call shifts before the surgery? I mean, all doctors worked hard hours, went with little sleep. Even surgeons.
Clearly she was searching for some type of angle, and I guessed she was going to try to attack him at trial on not being fresh enough to do the surgery. But she needed more than just circumstantial evidence that he might have been too tired after the on-call shifts. I didn't remember her asking him any actual detailed questions about his stamina during his deposition, so maybe she'd found something else.
I put aside my mediation materials and pulled out a binder that held all of Dr. Summerland's surgical records, including the hospital nursing notes. I started flipping through them again. I read everything, word for word, yet nothing jumped out at me.
But then I saw it.
A small, barely legible note from one of the nurses: 12:18 p.m. Dr. S and R.V. step out.
Then another note. 12:32 p.m. Dr. S back. Surg in progress.
It was a bit odd. Could be nothing. I mean, sometimes doctors needed a break. As long as the anesthesiologist stayed in the operating room, there's nothing inherently wrong with that.
But what if it did mean something? What if Leary found out something?
I flipped through the notes and read all of the nurses' names that were involved in pre-and post-op, as well as the surgical nurses. R.V. was Rhonda Valasquez, one of the surgical nurses. I put a task on my calendar to try to interview these nurses and make sure there wasn't something going on of which I should be aware. We hadn't intended to call the nurses as witnesses, but I have no clue if Leary is going to.
It was probably nothing to worry about, but I needed to check it out so I wasn't caught by surprise at the trial. Surprises were not good, and yet . . . I was going to be springing a big one on Leary.
My stomach rolls and cramps.
The conference room door swings open, and my stomach unclenches and my chest starts to squeeze as Leary walks in. I mask my true feelings, instead standing up and shaking her hand professionally. So weird, acting like we're only professional colleagues, considering she gave me an amazing blow job morning before last.
Right after she finished swallowing that morning, knowing we wouldn't see each other again until today, she said, "That was just to give you something to dream about, baby."
I groaned and kissed her hard, but we were both running late, so I couldn't repay the favor.
I will tonight and told her as much.
Peter Goetge walks in right behind, and we all sit around and make small talk while we wait for the insurance adjuster, Tom Collier, to arrive.
Small talk continues for another fifteen minutes, and Peter regales us with a funny case he mediated last week. I keep half an ear on him, the other part of my mind occupied with Tom Collier. He's the guy with the checkbook and the final say-so if his company will offer any money. Not only that, he's required by law to be here. All parties are.
When Peter finishes his story, I pull my phone out and hold it up. "I'm going to give Tom a call. Find out when he'll be here. I'm sorry he's running late."
Peter gives a good-natured smile, and Leary just cocks a beautiful eyebrow at me, causing my cock to thump like a well-trained puppy.
I dial Tom and he answers on the third ring. "Collier."
"Where are you?" I ask in a low voice. "Mediation was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago."
"The LaPietra mediation?" he asks.
"Yeah, the LaPietra mediation," I growl. Fucking moron.
"I'm not coming," he says matter-of-factly. "I'm not going to offer anything, so no use in wasting my time with a trip there."
I glance up at Peter and Leary, who are watching me with curiosity. I cover the phone and apologize, "Excuse me a minute. I need to step out."
When I close the conference room door behind me, I walk a few paces down the hall and growl, "What the fuck, Tom? You have to come. It's ordered by the court."
"But I'm not offering anything," he points out.
"Doesn't matter. You know this. You have to come and at least sit down at the table."
"Well, I'm not. The weather's too nice today, and I've got a round of golf scheduled in an hour."
Sighing in frustration, I already start thinking about how I'm going to handle Leary when she blows her stack over this. "Tom, Miss Michaels is going to be livid. She'll file a motion for sanctions, and the judge will grant it."
"That bitch better not. I showed her courtesy by not filing a motion against her. We're even."
"That's what this is about? About you getting even with her?" I ask in astonishment.
>
"That's the gist of it," he says smugly. "Now, go in there, do your job, and tell them no offer."
He hangs up on me, which causes my blood to boil. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I walk back into the conference room, feeling the proverbial noose around my neck.
After shutting the door, I turn around and place my hands on the back of one of the conference room chairs. Looking at Leary, I say, "I'm sorry. Tom Collier isn't coming."
"Does he understand he's under court order?" Peter asks in a deep voice, letting no one forget he sat on the bench for twenty years before becoming a mediator and deserves respect.
"Yes, sir," I say apologetically, shooting Leary another glance. Her lips are flattened out and her eyes are icy.
Peter pulls out a form from his briefcase and uncaps his pen. "I'm assuming, then, that they are unwilling to make an offer?"
"That's correct," I say, my gaze flicking back and forth between the two of them.
"Well, I'll just go ahead and report that this case has been impassed," Peter says as he starts to fill out the form before him.
"With all due respect, Peter," Leary says as she stands from her chair. "You cannot report an impasse. An impasse only comes when the parties all meet and cannot come to a resolution. Mr. Collier did not show up, thus there has not been a meeting."
"But his counsel is conveying there will be no offer," Peter points out.
"And yet, he is doing so without having seen the benefit of my presentation. Who knows? Maybe I would have shown Mr. Collier something that would induce him to make an offer. We'll never know, though, will we, since he didn't bother to show up."
Peter sighs and puts the form away. Leary is right. Technically, all parties have to be here before an impasse can be called. Technically, she has the right to present her evidence to try to persuade TransBenefit to make an offer.
"Miss Michaels," Peter says with authority, "you are accurately stating the letter of the law, but what good will come of it? Judge Henry will just order Mr. Collier to the table at a later date, he won't make an offer, and you'll be in the same position you are in now."
"Again," Leary says with surety, "with all due respect, the difference is that I spent over fourteen hours yesterday preparing for this mediation to present my case. My hourly rate is three hundred dollars, so that is forty-two hundred dollars in legal fees I've lost out on when I could have been doing something else had I known he wouldn't show up. I also talked to all three of my experts on the phone yesterday to confirm their opinions, and trust me, doctors bill more than I do. I expect I'm out a good ten thousand just in one day's preparation for this mediation. I expect you to report Mr. Collier didn't show up so I can ask the court to sanction him for that amount."