The East Wing, unless they were partying, never stayed past 6:00 p.m. The North Wing, Clarke’s domain, worked till about eight-thirty most nights. We, the West Wingers, were the night owls. Most Broward paralegals stayed till about 9:30 p.m. I stayed till Broward left, which normally ended up being sometime between ten and eleven. It was better than manual labor, but still mentally exhausting. I went straight home each night, showered, crawled into bed and fell asleep before my head hit the bed. Eat, sleep and work had been the past two weeks of my life. I leaned my head on Sheila’s shoulder and signed dramatically.
“There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I promise you, you’ll get used to it.”
* * *
The first weekend of my internship I had wallowed in bed the entire time, eating Sour Patch Kids and watching Cameron Diaz movies. Seeing as how texts and Facebook posts from my friends had started to drop off, I figured I needed to spend this weekend back in the land of the living. Friday evening, getting home at a remarkably early 8:00 p.m., I returned two weeks’ worth of missed calls. After begging for forgiveness and promising to do better, I cajoled my two closest friends into margaritas and Mexican food at Los Amigos, a run-down college hangout four blocks from my house. My plan was to get sloshed on margaritas, then stumble home—the perfect “college girl gets snatched by a serial killer” scenario, but at twenty-one years old, it sounded like a reasonably good plan.
At 9:30 p.m., dressed in a blue sundress and heels, my hair loose and makeup subdued, I wrestled through the line outside the bar and made my way inside. My skin was paler than usual due to my recent inability to spend any time outside, but I still turned a few heads. I saw Olivia and Becca perched at a high-top in the corner. The bar was filling up, and it took a few minutes of squeezing through people to get over to them.
“Hola!” I said enthusiastically, giving them both hugs before climbing onto one of the stools. They both had ridiculously huge margarita glasses with goofy straws in front of them, and I looked around for the waiter. He came over shortly, took a cursory look at my ID and then disappeared to get us some queso and chips. Becca didn’t wait long to start chewing me out.
“So, seriously,” she snapped, glancing at her imaginary watch, “it’s been almost two weeks since we’ve seen you. Unacceptable!” She slapped her well-manicured open palm on the table to emphasize her point.
“Go easy on her, Becca,” Olivia chided. “She’s working—something you wouldn’t understand!” She shot a playful smile in Becca’s direction.
Olivia was right—working was something Becca would probably never understand. Her wealthy parents and their generous funding pretty much guaranteed Becca an easy ride to whatever wealthy husband she’d eventually marry. With Becca’s perfect body, classic bone structure and disarming personality, she had basically won the genetic lottery.
Olivia was more like me—from working-class parents, barely surviving on student loans and part-time jobs. I was especially tight at the moment, due to my full-time unpaid internship. We were all prelaw students, but I was a semester ahead of them, and therefore the first to undergo the intern experience.
“Really, Jules, how’s it going?” Olivia said.
I shrugged. “So far, it’s a lot of menial work. My boss is okay, just a complete workaholic.”
“Oh, please!” Becca said. “Tell me what he’s really like. Is he Mr. Sexy-Aggressive Attorney, or the nerd you’d like to bang some freakiness into?” She grinned at me across her margarita.
“Uhh...neither. Try happily-married-plus-I-wouldn’t-hook-up-with-someone-at-the-office sexuality. If that even exists.” I smirked at her, taking a big swig of my drink.
Olivia laughed, and Becca’s eyes rolled. She leaned forward and pointed at me. “Don’t give me that high-and-mighty routine. You make it a profession to tease half the men in this town into drooling oblivion, and leave them high and dry. Don’t tell me you would pass up the opportunity to have the upper hand in the office.”
I pasted an offended look on my face. “Why, Becca! I can see why you think it’s easier to ‘actually’ have sex with guys, but I enjoy the chase more than the actual rewards. If I slept with every guy I made out with, can you imagine my reputation? Not to mention I’d be pregnant with six kids!”
Olivia cut in. “Sweetie, you have a reputation anyway—as the biggest tease this side of the interstate. There’s not a guy on campus who doesn’t know your game by now.”
They were right in their harassment. I teased guys all the time—got them worked up to the point of excitement and then stopped the action. My methods may have been frowned upon, but it allowed me to preserve my relative innocence and get a confidence boost at the same time. “I assure you, there are plenty of guys on campus who have yet to find out about my teasing ways. I’m not going to fuck guys just because they’re worked up.”
Becca snagged a chip, dipping it into the cheese, and shrugged at me. “At least suck them off, Jules. Then they’re not left hanging, and you can sorta retain your moral high ground.”
“Becca, then she wouldn’t have the power over them. She wants them to continue wanting her. Wants them to imagine ‘what could have been.’” Olivia nodded knowingly.
“Oh my lord—are we done with my pysch evaluation?” I asked. “Why does it matter that I’m a tease? I don’t see us giving Becca the third degree when she decides to bang half the lacrosse team!”
Becca was in the middle of a strong rebuttal when I felt an arm slip around my shoulders. “Hey, beautiful,” a voice said in my ear. I pulled back and stared into Todd Appleton’s face.
“Todd!” I said, surprised to see him out of the office. I hadn’t seen much of him in the past two weeks since I was banned from entering the East Wing. He had stopped in once or twice, but I’d always been too busy to chat.
“This seat taken?” he asked, gesturing to the empty stool.
“Not at all!” Becca said, smiling brightly. She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, flashing Todd her best megawatt smile.
I looked to Olivia for approval, and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly and smiled agreeably at me.
Todd introduced himself to my friends, and then slid onto the stool. He motioned for the waiter, and then leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. Grabbing a handful of chips, he turned to me.
“All the interns have been going out a few times a week,” he said, biting down on a chip covered in cheese. “You should join us sometime.”
I shot him a look. “Sure, I’ll just swing by on one of my three bathroom breaks.”
“Oh, so Julia’s been ignoring you, too?” Becca said, leaning forward and showing her ample cleavage.
“Aw, I’m just kidding her,” Todd said. “I know that her attorney buries her under work.” He brushed the back of his hand gently down my arm, sending a shiver through me. I moved away, catching myself before I smiled at him. Flirting is fine, but I’m not about to take it further...even though you are so damn hot!
Becca shot me an inquisitive glance and I sent back a “he’s all yours” look. The waiter swung by with a platter of dirty glasses and plates, and Todd put in a drink order.
“So,” I said casually, “what’s it like working for De Luca?”
Todd snorted and nodded enthusiastically. “It is awesome. The guy is an absolute animal! You should see him in the courtroom. He rips these guys to shreds!”
“The courtroom?” I interrupted him. “You’ve been to court?” This is bullshit! Todd gets plush hours and courtroom experience?
“Yeah! He took me with him last Monday. It was awesome!”
Five minutes with Todd and I was already a little sick of the word awesome. Maybe I was just bitchy about my current situation. Either way, I tried to appear cool and offhand. “What was going on there Wednesday?”
“Wednesday?” Todd’s face scrunched up, as if he was concentrating hard. Seriously! I wanted to scream at him. Smith & Wollensky, lobster, music, two days ago, and you can’t remember?!
“Oh!” He slapped his head. “The Hatfield deal! You know the Hatfield family—the media tycoon? Mr. Hatfield finally settled so De Luca threw a mini celebration for the missus.”
“That was a mini celebration?” The words popped out before I could stop them.
Todd looked at me, surprised. “Yeah, well, you know, De Luca throws some big parties. We have a huge client party planned out at his house this weekend.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.
“Are you going?”
“Of course!” He snorted again. “It’s going to be, like, awesome! I heard he’s hiring strippers!”
WOW. Super Classy. De Luca seemed to live up to the reputation. I took a big sip of margarita and thanked God I hadn’t been assigned to him.
* * *
One giant margarita later, Todd was still hot, but now not quite as annoying. My drunken haze had turned his juvenile antics into sexy cool. I was starting to weaken, letting his hands do some roaming, when Olivia pulled me aside.
“Seriously, Jules, I’m going to do you a big favor and send you home.”
“Whaat...? Why?” My slurred voice sounded drunk, even to me. I waved my hand in front of my face, stopping Olivia from responding. “Never mind, you’re right. I’ll go.” I moved over and hugged Becca, gesturing over the music that I was heading out. She blew me a kiss and waved goodbye.
I hugged Olivia and Todd goodbye. He held the hug a few seconds longer than necessary, then gave me an extra squeeze. Olivia walked me out and offered to call a cab. I waved her away and pulled off my heels, starting the drunken stumble home.
Six
In every successful swinger relationship, there must be a set of rules so that everyone knows their place, and so that no one is offended or taken advantage of. Different couples practice different rules depending on their own preferences.
Seven
Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.
A file folder sat in the center of my desk. I walked into my office and stopped short, staring at it. I instantly knew it didn’t belong. It was red. Files on my desk were usually in the blue or green folders that were used for civil litigation or corporate filings. I picked it up hesitantly and thumbed through it. Immediately, I could tell it was a divorce file—Custody and Division of Assets were prominent tabs. I closed the file and tapped it on my desk, thinking, What to do...
I could call Ancient Dorothy, tell her that a file had been misdelivered, but that was just silly. I was less than twenty feet from the East Wing. I could just walk over there and deliver it to the first secretary I saw. It would take less than a minute, and then the file would be properly handled. It was the obvious and responsible course of action.
Except that Broward doesn’t want you going to the East Wing, my conscience nagged with a know-it-all tone. What am I, five? I countered, getting irritated at my conscience. I’m perfectly capable of returning a file without getting into any trouble.
Decision made, I grabbed the file and strode out of my office, ducking past Sheila and practically jogging past the remaining open doors. I felt as if the red folder was a giant Look at Me! sign advertising my destination. Which, of course, it kind of was. I tucked the folder under my arm and willed myself to be invisible. My concern was unnecessary. No one even looked up, everyone absorbed in the ever-present pile of work. Broward being out of town didn’t mean the presses stopped.
I took a last-minute detour into the restrooms located just to the right of the elevators and appraised myself in the mirror above the sink. The light in the bathroom was muted, but it was bright enough to show me that it was not my best day. Whether intentional or not, my knowledge that Broward would not be in this week had caused me to dress down and not put as much effort into my appearance. I was wearing khakis, a pressed white button-down shirt and one of my new pairs of sensible, low, open-toed heels. My hair was, as always, up in a bun, and I had opted for glasses instead of my normal contacts. Some people think of glasses as sexy. Those people haven’t seen my glasses. Coke bottles would be a more apt description.
I had neglected to put on makeup, which meant I had pale, untouched skin and dark circles under my eyes. I knelt and opened up the sink cabinet and fished around behind a tampon box, reaching into the dark depths and feeling blindly until my hand bumped against what I was looking for: my small cloth makeup bag.
My first day I had packed an emergency makeup kit, one that included mascara, lip gloss and concealer. I had stored it there in case I ever needed to freshen up before a big meeting, or hadn’t had time to do my face before work. I sent a silent thank-you up to God for blessing me with such incredible foresight, and hauled myself back up to a standing position.
Three minutes later I looked reasonably presentable. I still had my thick glasses, but I had long, plump lashes behind them and my lips had some color. The dark shadows were still present, but minimized by the concealer.
I grabbed the red file folder, opened the door and scolded my nervous butterflies. Then I straightened my shoulders, pulled open the heavy bathroom door and headed for the East Wing.
Eight
Rule 1: She is kept blindfolded for the first meeting. If the blindfold is to be taken off, it must be done by her alone.
The heavy East Wing double doors opened to a sea of noise and activity. People were everywhere, and everyone seemed to be very important, very busy or very emotional. I stopped just inside the doors and tried to get my bearings.
The room was large, dominated by three oversize curved secretarial desks that created a semicircle at the back of the room. To get to the secretaries, there was a wide path flanked on either side by leather seating clusters. Both seating arrangements were full. One seemed to hold a meeting in progress; the other had two leggy blondes and an older man in a suit, apparently waiting for something. To the right was a large glass conference room, another meeting in progress. I could hear muted tones of what sounded like an argument coming from that side. On the left were offices, probably holding paralegals and Todd. Behind the secretaries was a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows through which I could see the downtown skyline. I could also see a man standing at his desk, a phone to his ear. Judging from the size of the office and its view, I assumed it was De Luca’s. Okay, Julia. Get in, get out, and stop gawking.
I moved quickly and—I hoped—confidently toward the secretary cluster. Their three desks were elevated, and I felt like a defendant approaching the judge. The secretaries all seemed cut from the same cloth: old, dignified and spicy. Headmistress-style seemed to be De Luca’s preference. Or perhaps HR’s preference for De Luca. The center headmistress wore a red suit and had a brass nameplate on her desk that indicated her name was Carol Featherston.
She looked up as I approached and her sharp gaze immediately locked on the red folder held in my now-sweaty clutches. She skipped a greeting and held out her hand. I passed the file meekly over. Her phone started to ring, but she ignored it and flipped quickly through the file, then snapped it shut and looked back at me.
“Where did you get this?”
“I’m Julia Campbell, from Broward’s office. I—”
“Where did you get this?” Her piercing gaze and shrill voice told me to get to the point.
“It was on my desk, ma’am.”
“All right, I’ll handle it. Thank you.” The snappy response seemed to indicate that I was done. I couldn’t imagine this woman planning stripper-filled parties. Todd must have been exaggerating. I smiled politely at her and turned to leave. My exit was interrupted by a loud rapping of knuckles on glass. I paused midturn and glanced back at Ms. Featherston. She held up a finger and glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze.
; A bear of a man stood at the glass partition of the large office with the view. He had the build of an ex-athlete—impossibly broad shoulders and muscular arms that his thousand-dollar dress shirt couldn’t hide. He had olive skin and a thick head of hair—strong, handsome features. He would have been too good-looking if it weren’t for the fierceness of his features. He looked like the kind of man who chased confrontation down and then ate it for breakfast. Phone to his ear, his knuckles were still rapping the glass when my eyes met his. He pointed one finger at me and then motioned for me to come, turning his back and pacing away without waiting for a response. Uh-oh.
I must have had panic on my face when Ms. Featherston turned back to me. Her stiff expression softened slightly; her tone was a little kinder, but still firm.
“Go on in,” she said. “He wants you.”
Ms. Featherston returned her attention to the file. I glanced around, looking for an escape, and then, wobbly, made my way around the secretary stand to the door of the office. Brad De Luca was printed on a brass nameplate in the center of the door. Broward is going to kill me.
I opened the door without knocking and walked in, shutting it quietly behind me. I stood by the entrance, hands together in front of me, and waited for De Luca to get off the phone. His office was long, and there seemed to be a silly amount of space between where I stood and where he paced. I’m not moving a damn step closer to this man if I can help it. I seemed to be having trouble breathing. My chest was tight. Beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I tried to discreetly wipe them off. What the hell am I so nervous about? He’s not going to eat me, for Christ’s sake.