Blindfolded Innocence
Page 8

"I'm not buying the nobility you paint divorce attorneys into."
"Hey - it normally works for chicks at the bar." He grinned, making the statement a joke, but I saw truth in his jest.
"Were you faithful?"
"To Hillary? No. I had an affair that lasted the last year of our marriage. It ended before my divorce, but was the straw that broke the camels back."
"She found out?"
"I didn't make much of an effort to hide it. I think I wanted to get caught, wanted a way out. She overlooked it for a while, until my affair starting leaving her voicemails describing our indiscretions."
"Why?"
"She wanted a relationship. My wife got in the way of that. I tried to break it off, and she got mad. Thought that she might have a chance if Hillary dumped me. Can we discuss something else?"
"Sure. Your turn. Ask away."
"What's the deal with Bob?"
"Bob is a guy I met Monday night at a bar. That's about the extent of the story."
"Did you sleep with him?"
"What?! No!"
"Really." His voice was laced with disbelief.
"Yes, really. I went home with him, but all we did was make out. I took a taxi home afterwards. I'm not a slut - I had just met the guy!"
"Yet you made enough of an impression that he tracked you down at work?"
I looked at him cockily over half a slice of pepperoni. "I guess I make quite an impression." His eyes darkened and he looked so f**king hot I had to look away. Easy Julia.
"How many men have you slept with?"
I swallowed hard, willing the chunk of pepperoni down my throat while my mind raced. I pretended to chew and waved my hand in front of my face, making the "wait a minute" sign. He looked on with amusement, enjoying my discomfort. Damn man. What is the rule with this? I multiply the real number? Or is it divide? Holy hell.
In my panic, I just decided to go with the truth. "Two."
His look was slightly confused, and then sharpened. "Two? How old are you? Did you have a long-term relationship?" His questions came out in a clump, and faster than I was able to answer them.
"Yes, two. I am 21. I was 19 when I lost my virginity, and was engaged to the second guy I slept with. We broke up about six weeks ago."
He nodded slowly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He missed a big glob of marinara, and it stayed on the corner of his mouth. "Two people huh?"
"Yes. I don't believe in sex without commitment and love." I tried to stay serious, but he looked ridiculous with the red sauce that was beginning to drip down his chin.
"And you loved those two guys?"
"I thought I did. I was young."
"And you are so wise and old now?" He grinned. I handed him a paper towel and indicated the offending area.
"I'm wiser. Still young and vibrant." I said tartly.
"Do you enjoy sex?" The atmosphere in the room changed.
"Of course." And I did. I enjoyed the power and control it gave me.
"Then why would you limit yourself? Why require that love be attached to the act? There is no sense in living a dry, sexless existence while you wait the years it could take to find your next "love", in the meantime missing out on some of your peak sexual years! Most people don't truly fall in love. As you admit yourself, your first two loves probably weren't "loves" at all. If you follow that thought process, you will probably just get sexually frustrated and convince yourself that you love someone simply so you will allow yourself to sleep with him, which will only end in an unnecessary long relationship that will end with someone getting hurt." He looked at me in frustration, his pizza forgotten.
"Look, for you sex might be a sexual release, but I don't function the same way. Sex for me is more of an emotional thing, not anything that I NEED."
"Bullshit. Everyone needs sex."
"That is a man talking. You have a need to release your…. stuff. We don't operate that way, or at least I don't. Like I said - it's emotional, not physical."
"You make love, not fuck." The explicative sounded dangerous and incredible sexy in his voice.
"No. I fuck. I just do it more for the control aspect rather than the physical." This was the most honest conversation I had ever had with anyone. There was a certain freedom with knowing that this was the last time I would see him, and that anything I said couldn't be used against me.
His eyes narrowed. "You've never had an orgasm."
"What?!"
"Orgasm. Have you ever had one?"
I didn't really know how to answer the question, and it wasn't because I was being evasive. I rolled my paper towel on the table until it formed a straw-like shape. "I don't think so. Sex feels good, but the way I hear orgasms described, it seems to be this earth-shattering experience, and I feel like that is something I wouldn't be unsure of having." I shrugged nonchalantly. "Some woman can't orgasm. Like fifteen percent of the population. My gyno says not to worry about it. Sex can still be enjoyable, and it is."
He chuckled to himself and then placed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, looking at me. "You can orgasm."
"Oh, because you know so much about the inner workings of my body in the 45 minutes you've spent with me."
"All women can orgasm. Your gynecologist and whatever women's magazine you got that ridiculous statistic from doesn't know what they are talking about."
"You are so bullheaded! You don't know everything about everything!"
He leveled me with a confident stare. "I know everything about sex, and pleasing a women." I'll bet you do.
"I'm sure you don't. Maybe your conquests were faking."
"They weren't faking."
"How would you know?"
He sighed, exasperated. "I don't need to try and convince you of something that I could easily show you, if you weren't so obtuse on the whole idea."
"Whatever. My turn, you just had like nine questions." I pushed the pizza box away from me, worried that I would keep eating it if I stayed in close proximity. I reached over and grabbed Brad's can, feeling its weight, and got up to get us both fresh Dr Peppers. I mulled over my next question as I bent over the mini fridge, reaching in to get our drinks. Feeling eyes on my ass, I quickly glanced over my shoulder, and caught him staring. A normal individual would avert their eyes and play it off, but he let his eyes linger, smiling slightly and letting me see his appreciation. Pig.
"Has anyone ever sued you for sexual harassment?"
He was offended. "That would assume that harassment had occurred. I assure you, I don't make advances unless they are clearly receptive."
I stalked back to the table with the sodas and set/slammed them down on the table. "Do I seem CLEARLY receptive?"
He shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. "I figure you are a work in progress."
"Uh-huh. Would you allow that to fly in court?"
"Point for the prosecution." His teasing tone was back.
He was the kind of man who, when talking with you, made you feel like you were the most important thing in his world. He put off this ridiculous magnetism that I couldn't stay away from. For the first time this evening, I wondered if this was the last time that I would be seeing him. I didn't entirely trust myself to stay away.
"So, why does Broward hate you so bad?"
"I think a better question is why does Broward want to protect you so much?"
"Evasive."
He sighed and opened the can. I cringed, wondering if my dramatic slam of the soda earlier would cause it to foam or explode, but it opened with little fanfare.
"I hate to use the whole "everyone hates me because they are jealous" bit, but I think Broward looks at my life and compares it to his. He buries himself in work to, I suspect, avoid his home life with his sweet and intelligent, but incredibly boring wife. He chose a dull focus, corporate law, and I think he is burnt out. He sees my wing as "not real work." We play as hard as we work, and I think that irks him. He also has access to the billing and payroll system. My income dwarfs his, and considering we are equal partners and I work half the hours he does… the dislike is understandable."
"Do you envy yourself?"
He looked at me quizzically, but I knew he knew exactly what I was referring to. "I live the life, Julia. The life I choose for myself. The women, the parties, the power, the money. It is everything I always wanted."
"Is that why you are sitting here eating cold pizza and talking to me? You could be elbow deep in pu**y at the Silver Nugget."
He chuckled. "It's the Gold Nugget. And you are a conquest. It is part of me mixing it up." His honest and offensive answer should have angered me, but it didn't. I knew what he wanted. I was just beginning to worry that I wanted it too.
"Would you ever remarry?"
"No. I have needs that one woman can't fulfill. I fooled myself when I was younger, but I know better now. It's not fair for me to promise happy ever after to a women that I would be unfaithful to."
"Why? Are you a sex addict?"
"That's a bullshit clinical term. I love sex. I don't believe in restricting myself in order to conform to society's standards."
"Sheila thinks you're a sex addict."
"Sheila and I have had sexual tension for the last 5 years."
I gaped at him and he started shaking with controlled laughter. "God, Julia. You're too easy."
"From what I hear about your standards, it's not like Sheila is out of the question." I retorted.
He stopped laughing and looked at me with a grin. "Go with me to Vegas."
"No! This is supposed to be our last hurrah. My wild days are over. Starting tomorrow I am back to being a good girl." I slapped my hand on the table to emphasize my resolve. My sub-conscious was already packing a bag and choosing the proper shoes.
He slapped the table back at me. "Start Monday. Have you ever been to Vegas?"
"No. My parents preferred exciting locale such as Palms Springs and Bismarck, North Dakota."
He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, pulling it to him. He looked solemnly in my eyes, and desire curled in my belly. "Come to Vegas with me. Please. I promise you won't regret it."
I couldn't find anything to say and stared wordlessly into his eyes. I had so many conflicting thoughts running through my mind and didn't know what to listen to.
“No.” I glared at him.
CHAPTER 13
"You're going to Vegas?!" Olivia's shocked expression increased my stress level.
"Yes, I mean, I think so."
"When?"
"Tomorrow, after work. Our flight leaves at 6:45."
We were in my living room, a bottle of wine open on the coffee table. When Olivia had seen my face, she had walked in straight past me, into the kitchen, and opened the fridge - grabbing the first bottle she had seen. We were now taking turns swigging from the bottle. I know. Super Classy.
"What do you know about this guy? I mean, other than the dire warnings from all members of the CDB staff."
"That's really about it. I looked him up in the State Bar directory. He is active, so he has no criminal history."
"Yet! A rape, kidnapping, and murder charge might be added after this weekend!"
I rolled my eyes at her. "I called you over to calm me down, Olivia. If I had wanted hysterics and gross exaggerations, I would have called Becca."
"Did you Google him?"
"Of course. But the first five pages were all news reports about big cases. I didn't want to look through eight million google results."
"Alright then, let's focus. If you're going, then we just need to make sure you do it right. Have you packed?"
I grinned at her. This was more what I had had in mind.
---
One hour and another bottle of wine later, we were surrounded by sequins, leather, and pink. Over half of my closet was on the floor, more clothes were on my bed, and we had both come to the same conclusion. I had nothing to wear. My clothes fit one of three genres: business attire, college-bar dressy, and sorority theme party costume. Too bad we had never had a Vegas-themed social. Hey, that's an idea. Help me remember that at our next Chapter meeting.
"Maybe I shouldn't go." I flopped down on the bed and promptly sank through three layers of girlyness.
"Or maybe we should call in reinforcements."
I looked at her in dread. "Becca?"
She nodded firmly. "Becca."
---
I may have mentioned earlier that Becca's family is just a few decimals places short of Rockefeller money? Well, her parent's generous monthly allowance supports two main things - alcohol and clothes. Becca lives in a two-bedroom apartment, and one bedroom is solely dedicated to clothes and shoes. We took a brief appraisal of our intoxicated states, and then called a taxi. We planned on showing up unannounced, with a large suitcase and a bottle of cheap wine, the only thing left in the fridge.
It was a Wednesday night, and one in the morning, so we didn't have to wait long for a cab. By 1:15 we were ringing Becca's bell. She answered the door with music blaring in the background, and a phone pressed to her ear. Her gaze traveled from our pajamas to my suitcase to the bottle. "Jen, I gotta go." She snapped the phone shut and threw the door open.
It took about five minutes to fill Becca in on the situation and I was surprised to see that she was in full support of the trip. I should have known that stupid impulse decisions would resonate as logical to her.