Reasonable Doubt 3

“No!” She stomped her feet in a puddle again, splashing me. And then she smiled innocently into the camera before running away—begging me to chase her.

  I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. I turned off the TV and knocked the DVD player to the floor.

  Fuck…

  Walking down the hallway, I straightened the “E” and “H” frames that hung on the wall—trying my best not to look too hard.

  I didn’t need to make myself another drink tonight. I needed someone to talk to.

  I grabbed my phone from the night-stand, scrolling down my contacts for the one person who’d once kept the nightmares at bay. Aubrey.

  It rang four times and went to voicemail.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Aubrey Everhart,” it said. “I’m unable to take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  The second the beep sounded I hung up. Then I called again, just to listen to that small snippet of her voice. I told myself that I wasn’t being pathetic by calling her five times—knowing damn well that she wasn’t there, but when I called the sixth time, she picked up.

  “Hello?” she answered. “Andrew?”

  “Hello, Aubrey…”

  “What do you want?” Her voice was cold.

  “How are you?”

  “What do you want, Andrew?” she asked, even colder. “I’m busy.”

  “Then why did you pick up?”

  “It was a mistake.” She ended the call.

  I drew in a sharp breath, shocked that she hung up on me. I started to type up an email, chastising her for being so rude, but I noticed that she hadn’t responded to my last three in months:

  Subject: Your Resignation.

  Even though the last two words of your resignation letter were ridiculous and unprofessional, I’d like to take you up on your offer to fuck you.

  Name the time.

  —Andrew.

  Subject: My Suit.

  Since you have yet to pick up your final check, should I assume that’s your way of letting me keep it to replace the suit you ruined?

  —Andrew.

  Subject: BALLET.

  I stopped by your dance hall earlier. You weren’t there.

  Did you quit that, too?

  —Andrew.

  I decided that I needed to replace her. Fast.

  I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand and logged into LawyerChat, looking for another Alyssa-type.

  I spent all night roaming the chat rooms, answering questions left and right—gauging the personalities of the askers, but none of them grabbed me. Still, one woman who was listed as a high profile lawyer with ten years of experience seemed promising, so I clicked on her chat box.

  “If you have ten years of experience, what could you possibly need help with on this site?” I typed.

  “You’re never too old to learn new things…Why are you on here?”

  “I’m looking for a replacement.”

  “You’re trolling for an employee?”

  “No, just someone I can talk to and make cum occasionally.”

  She blocked me.

  I tried talking to a few other women—keeping my true words to myself, but ultimately they just wanted to use me for information. They weren’t open to talking about anything else, and since LawyerChat had expanded its site recently, there seemed to be an influx of law students using it as a complaint board about their professors.

  I shut the laptop and took another swig from my bottle—immediately realizing that there was only one “Alyssa-type”: Aubrey…

  Maybe I made a mistake…

  Out the corner of my eye I spotted an envelope under the slit of my door. It hadn’t been there when I first arrived home, and it hadn’t been there a few hours ago when I ordered my dinner.

  Confused, I walked over and picked it up.

  It was an official court summons to testify in a New York hearing, but it wasn’t addressed to my new name. It was addressed to Liam Henderson.

  Remedy (n.):

  The means to achieve justice in any matter in which legal rights are involved.

  Aubrey

  The Firebird.

  Jewels.

  Swan Lake.

  I wrote down the roles I wanted to audition for in my planner, smiling as I ran my hands across my acceptance letter for the umpteenth time. I had ten copies of it—two of them were framed, seven were for inspiration whenever I was feeling down, and one was for my parents. (I just hadn’t had the time or energy to draft an “I fucking told you so” letter to mail with it.)

  I looked at the clock on my wall and checked my phone, trying to suppress the butterflies that were fluttering around my stomach.

  The guy I was now dating, Brian—a fellow dancer in the company, was supposed to call me with something important he wanted to talk about.

  Ever since I met him, he’d been trying his hardest to woo me—taking me on dates in between rehearsals, joining me as I danced on rooftops and icy park benches. He was kind, sweet, funny, and the perfect example of what it meant to be a gentleman.

  He was like the nice guy in the Old Hollywood movies, the type that held your hand for no reason at all, the type that walked you to your door and waited until you were completely inside before stepping away. He was the type that kissed you—softly and tenderly, whispering that he liked your lips, but never taking things any further.

  In other words, he was nothing like Andrew.

  Nothing like.

  Even though his kisses never left me panting and wet, and his touches never set my nerves on fire, he never made me feel like shit.

  My phone vibrated and I looked at the screen. Brian.

  “Did you receive the roses I sent you today?”

  I grinned, looking over at the red and white blooms on my fireplace.

  “Yes.” I texted back. “Thank you very much. I love them.”

  “I placed something else in the vase for you, too...You should use it to relax tonight. I’ll be calling you after I get out of rehearsal.”

  “Looking forward to it.” I added a smiley face at the end of my text and walked over to the vase, lifting the flowers up by their stems. There was a huge packet of pink bath beads and rose petals with a handwritten note across the front:

  “The next time you take a bath…Think about me…

  —Brian”

  My heart fluttered and I couldn’t help but want to immediately take him up on the idea. I slipped out of my clothes and headed into the bathroom, tossing the beads under rushing water.

  As I let down my hair, I turned the volume on my ringer to the highest setting, and before I could set it down, I noticed a new email. Andrew.

  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, as it always did when one of his sporadic emails or calls graced my screen.

  Everything in me told me not to open it, to continue ignoring him, and to let him feel just how alone and underappreciated I felt months ago, but I couldn’t help it.

  Subject: Thoreau & Alyssa.

  You once said that you missed when we were Thoreau and Alyssa because I supposedly treated you better. I don’t think I treated you any differently. I just really wanted to fuck you. But when we did meet in person, I unfortunately wanted to fuck you even more.

  I personally prefer us as “Andrew & Aubrey” because on a night like tonight, when there’s nothing I would rather do than fuck you against my balcony until you cum, at least I can actually picture what your pussy feels like and no longer have to imagine.

  Pick up the phone…

  —Andrew

  I shook my head and set the phone down, mentally erasing that message and stepping into the tub.

  I lay back and let the hot water rise to my chest, exhaling as it warmed my skin.

  It was becoming easier to avoid thinking about Andrew now that I was talking to Brian, but it was harder trying to force myself to forget. I still thought about him late at night when I was in my bed, often wishing he was inside of me.


  Nonetheless, I wasn't running back to him and his asshole-ish ways, and I would never allow him to come back to me.

  Never.

  I scrubbed myself clean with a soft loofah, trying my best to ignore the intense throbbing between my legs that always came when thinking about Andrew. I filled a ladle with water and poured it over my head—unable to push away the thought of Andrew washing my hair in the tub, of him telling me to stand underneath the streams and hold the wall as he grabbed my waist and fucked me from behind.

  My fingers found their way to my clit as I remembered him bending me over the vanity in his bathroom, saying “I need you to fucking take it…All of it…” as he palmed my breasts and kissed his way down my spine.

  I rubbed my clit in circles—shutting my eyes as I pictured his lips on mine, moaning as it swelled with every caress.

  “Ahhhh….” I felt my nipples hardening as the water cooled, and I was close—so close, to coming, but my phone rang.

  Andrew?

  I immediately stood up and wrapped myself in a robe, rushing to answer it—telling myself that I could pick up his call “just this once.”

  “Hello?” I held the phone up to my ear without looking at the screen.

  “Aubrey?” It was Brian.

  “Hi…” I sighed, trying to mask my discontent. “How are you?”

  “Is this a bad time? You sound kind of upset.”

  “I’m not upset. I was just getting out of the bath.”

  “Oh, well good,” he said. “Did you use the relaxation kit I bought you?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you also think about me?”

  “Yes…” I lied, feeling slightly guilty. “How was rehearsal?”

  I walked to my dresser and slipped into a T-shirt, listening to him recount the many ways that Mr. Ashcroft was the devil reincarnate.

  “He’s worse than Mr. Petrova.” I pulled my hair into a ponytail.

  “Worse than Paul Petrova?” He laughed. “I don’t believe you. I’ve seen that man’s documentary, seen him make grown men cry.”

  “Well, maybe years ago. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still rude and overbearing, but he has a layer of softness that Mr. Ashcroft lacks.”

  “I’ll take your word for it…” He cleared his throat. “How tired are you right now?”

  “Not too tired, shockingly.”

  “Well…I wanted to talk to you tonight because I needed to know if you wanted to try something new in our relationship.”

  “Sure.” I climbed into bed. “What is it?”

  “Phone sex…” His voice became deeper. “Have you ever done that before?”

  I held back a laugh and quickly took off my shirt, tossing it to the floor. “Yes.”

  “Would you want to do it with me? Like, right now?”

  “Yes.” I grabbed my vibrator from a box and slipped under the covers, happy that I wouldn’t need to think about Andrew to have an orgasm anymore. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  “Good,” he said. “Well…”

  Silence.

  “Well, what? Are you there, Brian?”

  “Sorry, I was taking off my shorts.” He hesitated. “So, what are you wearing?”

  “Nothing…I’m naked.”

  “You’re naked, Aubrey?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe me. “Are you sure you’ve had phone sex before? This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that you have on lingerie. Work with me, please.”

  “Okay…I’m wearing a black thong and a black—”

  “No, not black. I don’t like black. Try blue, navy blue.”

  “Okay, it’s a navy blue thong and a blue bra.”

  “Yeah, that’s more like it. Now, take off the panties with one hand.”

  I lay there motionless, not sure as to whether I should turn on my vibrator or not.

  “Now, imagine me...” He groaned. “Imagine me impaling you with my cock—so deep inside of you, so deep…”

  I sighed.

  “Can you picture it?” His voice became hoarse. “I need you to picture it…and touch your vagina.”

  “What?”

  “Your vagina. Touch it.”

  I stood up and put on a pair of pajama pants.

  “Are you touching it, babe?”

  “Ohhh yeah…” I pulled a sweater over my head. “I’m touching my vagina…”

  “Are you thinking about me licking your folds? Running my tongue along your ass crack?”

  “Brian, you’re actually…” I shook my head. “You’re breaking up…”

  “I’m going to stroke you down real good with my tongue, babe. Then I’m going to ram my cock into you again and again—never stopping even if you say no…You can’t say no…”

  I grabbed a sheet of paper and crumpled it next to the phone. “I can’t hear you anymore, Brian…Reception in my bedroom is getting really bad….” I hung up in the middle of his panting and scrolled through my old emails—breaking down and reading the old messages from Andrew, the only man who could ever make me cum with words…

  Whether I hated him or not, I needed a release and I knew this was the only way…

  Stay (n.):

  A court-ordered short-term delay in judicial proceedings.

  Andrew

  “Mr. Hamilton?” The flight attendant tapped my shoulder. “All of the other passengers have departed the plane sir. Thank you for flying first class, and I hope you enjoy New York.”

  “I’ll try.” I stood up and grabbed my briefcase from the overhead bin.

  I’d tried to get out of coming here for weeks, but it was to no avail. The second I booked my ticket, I canceled all of my consultations and meetings, asked for an extension on my current case, and packed one suitcase. Just one.

  I didn’t need to be in this city longer than a day, and I refused to even testify. I was going to submit a written testimony to the judge and immediately return to Durham.

  As I walked through the airport, I noticed that a few things had changed, but not as much as I’d hoped. People still walked at a breakneck pace, the air still reeked of failure, and the top newspaper was still The New York Times.

  I placed a few dollars into the paper machine, twisting the key so it could spit out my copy, and then I flipped to the middle section where the justice pieces were kept.

  There it was. Section C. The story that covered the entire page:

  Another Hearing in the Ongoing Hart Trial:

  Henderson to Testify This Week

  I skimmed the article, slightly impressed that the journalist was writing facts this time and not smearing my name for the hell of it.

  I also noticed there were still no pictures of me.

  Figures…

  “Over here, Mr. Hamilton!” A brunette waved as I stepped off the escalator. “Over here!”

  I walked over and she held out her hand.

  “I’m Rebecca Waters, lead attorney.”

  “I know who you are.” I offered her a firm shake. “How fast can we get to the judge’s chambers?”

  “The judge’s chambers?” She raised her eyebrow. “I’m supposed to check you into the hotel so we can discuss your testimony…You’re supposed to stay here for a couple weeks.”

  “My return flight leaves in fifteen hours.”

  She looked shocked. “You only want to submit a written testimony? After all this time?”

  “I find it quite impressive that you know how to listen and comprehend at the same time.” I looked at my watch. “Where is the town car?”

  She groaned and led me down the bustling terminal, through the gates, and into the executive car lot. She was babbling about how “important” this case was, how it would finally close a chapter on my life, but I wasn’t listening.

  My mind was literally counting the seconds I had left in this place.

  “Good morning, sir.” The driver grabbed my bag as we approached the car. “I hope you enjoy your stay in New York City.”

 
I nodded and slipped into the back seat, rolling my eyes when Rebecca sat next to me.

  “Could you at least stay for one night and think about this, Liam?”

  “What did you just call me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Andrew…I mean, Mr. Hamilton. Could you at least think about it?”

  “I just did.”

  “Fine.” She pulled out her phone, and I looked out the window as the car coasted through the city.

  I winced as we passed a billboard where my old firm once held an advertisement, shut my eyes when we passed Emma’s favorite toy store.

  “Mr. Hamilton…” Rebecca tapped my shoulder. “As a lawyer, I’m sure you know how much more compelling an oral testimony can be over a written one. I am begging you to reconsider this.”

  “And I’m begging you to get over it.” I looked her directly in the eyes. “He and Ava ruined my life and I don’t have shit to gain by sitting in a courtroom full of strangers and explaining how. You want an emotional testimony? Hire a fucking drama student to read my words to the jury.”

  “Things have changed. It’s not like it was six years ago.”

  “That’s why The New York Times still won’t print my picture?”

  “They won’t print your picture because they think you’re an asshole.” She snapped. “You also won a huge and expensive case against them years ago or have you suddenly forgotten that? Take it as a compliment that they’re even mentioning you in a positive light.” She tossed yesterday’s paper into my lap. “They even ran that piece. Looks pretty damn good to me.”

  I picked up the paper and brought it close to my face, and before I could read the article, two words caught my eye: Aubrey Everhart.

  Her name was at the bottom of the page, mixed in with several others, in a beautiful black ad:

  The New York Ballet Company to Celebrate New Cast Members with Saturday Night Gala.

  Tomorrow…

  “I just…” Rebecca was still talking. “I just think you should at least stay for a night, clear your head, and really think about this.”

  “I’ll stay until tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Yes.” I stared at Aubrey’s name again. “Really.”