Mr. Pratt pauses beside my seat. “In fact, our client is so pleased with our work, they’ve invited us to their annual company get-together in Omaha. We fly in next Monday afternoon, stay at the luxury hotel they’ve booked, and fly back first thing on Thursday morning.” He speaks over the burst of muttering among the other lawyers in the room. “There’s a few loose ends to tie up—some business is best done in person, as I’m sure you all know. But primarily, we’re celebrating a job well done. All expenses paid. You can even bring a guest.”
He plunks his hand down next to mine, looming over me and brushing his arm against my shoulder. He’s close enough for me to smell tuna when he exhales, and my gag reflex kicks in like a motherfucker. I just barely keep down my latte.
Everything about this moment is so disturbing. It’s not even ten in the morning—why the hell does he have fish breath? I wonder if I can get away with “accidentally” rolling my chair over his foot. Even if he doesn’t back off, I’d love to see those spit-polished wingtips scuffed.
“And since you’ve been such a valuable pinch hitter, Emery, that invitation includes you.” He winks at me with a crooked smirk. Oh, barf. “I look forward to spending some time together outside the office. Getting to know each other in a more intimate setting.”
My stomach yanks itself inside out. Three nights alone in a hotel with Larry The Creeper? In a strange city over a thousand miles from anywhere I know, anywhere I can easily bail out to? Fuck that noise doesn’t even begin to cover it. There isn’t a swear word in the English language strong enough to capture the sheer depths of my “nope.”
“Um . . .” It’s hard to think over the screaming of my fight-or-flight instincts. Life would be so much easier if I could just knee him in the balls and run out of the room. “You know, I wish I could, but I don’t think I can go. I need to study for the bar, and there’s the other cases we’ve put off while working on this merger . . .”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll look bad if you don’t come. You’re a member of our team, after all. And I’ve already RSVP’d for eight people.”
Somehow I think he’s more concerned about his boner’s feelings than the client’s. The client probably doesn’t even know I exist. But I can’t argue with my boss about how they would hypothetically react. He would just insist that he knows them better than I do, which is true. Whatever excuse I come up with, he’ll just shoot it down—or skip straight to pulling rank on me. He’s clearly hell-bent on trapping me in an Omaha hotel with him.
I don’t think he’d go so far as to try anything, but you never know with a dirty old man like that. And even in the best-case scenario, I’d have to put up with his disgusting come-ons and wandering hands for three nights straight. I might jump off the damn hotel roof.
Think, Emery, think. My eyes dart wildly around the room. The other lawyers are muttering about the arrangements for this impromptu “vacation,” and I hear a couple of them mention bringing their wives. That’s it—I just need a buffer. Someone to keep Mr. Pratt from thinking that we’ll spend even a single minute alone together.
“In that case, I guess I can spare the time.” I look up to give Mr. Pratt a plastic smile. “My boyfriend will be so excited. He’s a big Mavericks fan.” I give Mom a silent thank-you for her obsession with college football; all the sports trivia I absorbed in childhood has helped me bullshit annoying men before, and this won’t be the last time.
“Your boyfriend?” It’s unbelievably satisfying to watch Mr. Pratt’s face fall and crash into a million pieces. “Ah . . . yes, of course he’s welcome.”
I mentally pump my fist. After telling us that we can bring guests, even the master lawyer can’t talk his way back out of this one.
But I can’t savor my victory for long. Now I have to figure out how to talk Hayden into flying halfway across America to sit around with stuffy corporate types in an endless cornfield. We’ve started to become pretty good friends by now, but abandoning his responsibilities for half a week to play bodyguard is a huge favor.
And will this make things weird between us? Will Hayden think I’m asking for more than just a travel buddy? Even if we aren’t expected to share a room, God forbid, we’ll still be isolated in kind of an intimate way. The mere situation may put ideas into his head.
Hell, the party atmosphere and unlimited free drinks may go to my head. I’ve accepted that our sexual tension is both here to stay and best left unresolved. I don’t want to do anything stupid to upset the status quo. Yet there’s no denying that the lack of orgasms is really starting to piss me off. I need things stuck in places, things licked and sucked that aren’t polite to mention in mixed company.
The staff meeting breaks up as everyone heads back to their desks or downstairs for lunch. I grab my brown paper sack—falafel pita with hummus and Bermuda onion today, yum, yum —and make a beeline for the reception desk. Eating with Trina will help preserve my sanity.
The first thing she says to me once we sit down for lunch is, “You look like someone just kidnapped your dog.”
“I don’t have time for this elbow-rubbing crap,” I moan between bites. “The bar exam is in less than three weeks. I need to focus on studying. But does anybody give a damn?”
“I feel your pain, babe.” Trina sips her lemonade. Her fingernails are painted forest green this week. “My certification is also coming up fast. Like the label on car mirrors . . . Panic May Be Closer Than It Appears.”
He plunks his hand down next to mine, looming over me and brushing his arm against my shoulder. He’s close enough for me to smell tuna when he exhales, and my gag reflex kicks in like a motherfucker. I just barely keep down my latte.
Everything about this moment is so disturbing. It’s not even ten in the morning—why the hell does he have fish breath? I wonder if I can get away with “accidentally” rolling my chair over his foot. Even if he doesn’t back off, I’d love to see those spit-polished wingtips scuffed.
“And since you’ve been such a valuable pinch hitter, Emery, that invitation includes you.” He winks at me with a crooked smirk. Oh, barf. “I look forward to spending some time together outside the office. Getting to know each other in a more intimate setting.”
My stomach yanks itself inside out. Three nights alone in a hotel with Larry The Creeper? In a strange city over a thousand miles from anywhere I know, anywhere I can easily bail out to? Fuck that noise doesn’t even begin to cover it. There isn’t a swear word in the English language strong enough to capture the sheer depths of my “nope.”
“Um . . .” It’s hard to think over the screaming of my fight-or-flight instincts. Life would be so much easier if I could just knee him in the balls and run out of the room. “You know, I wish I could, but I don’t think I can go. I need to study for the bar, and there’s the other cases we’ve put off while working on this merger . . .”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’ll look bad if you don’t come. You’re a member of our team, after all. And I’ve already RSVP’d for eight people.”
Somehow I think he’s more concerned about his boner’s feelings than the client’s. The client probably doesn’t even know I exist. But I can’t argue with my boss about how they would hypothetically react. He would just insist that he knows them better than I do, which is true. Whatever excuse I come up with, he’ll just shoot it down—or skip straight to pulling rank on me. He’s clearly hell-bent on trapping me in an Omaha hotel with him.
I don’t think he’d go so far as to try anything, but you never know with a dirty old man like that. And even in the best-case scenario, I’d have to put up with his disgusting come-ons and wandering hands for three nights straight. I might jump off the damn hotel roof.
Think, Emery, think. My eyes dart wildly around the room. The other lawyers are muttering about the arrangements for this impromptu “vacation,” and I hear a couple of them mention bringing their wives. That’s it—I just need a buffer. Someone to keep Mr. Pratt from thinking that we’ll spend even a single minute alone together.
“In that case, I guess I can spare the time.” I look up to give Mr. Pratt a plastic smile. “My boyfriend will be so excited. He’s a big Mavericks fan.” I give Mom a silent thank-you for her obsession with college football; all the sports trivia I absorbed in childhood has helped me bullshit annoying men before, and this won’t be the last time.
“Your boyfriend?” It’s unbelievably satisfying to watch Mr. Pratt’s face fall and crash into a million pieces. “Ah . . . yes, of course he’s welcome.”
I mentally pump my fist. After telling us that we can bring guests, even the master lawyer can’t talk his way back out of this one.
But I can’t savor my victory for long. Now I have to figure out how to talk Hayden into flying halfway across America to sit around with stuffy corporate types in an endless cornfield. We’ve started to become pretty good friends by now, but abandoning his responsibilities for half a week to play bodyguard is a huge favor.
And will this make things weird between us? Will Hayden think I’m asking for more than just a travel buddy? Even if we aren’t expected to share a room, God forbid, we’ll still be isolated in kind of an intimate way. The mere situation may put ideas into his head.
Hell, the party atmosphere and unlimited free drinks may go to my head. I’ve accepted that our sexual tension is both here to stay and best left unresolved. I don’t want to do anything stupid to upset the status quo. Yet there’s no denying that the lack of orgasms is really starting to piss me off. I need things stuck in places, things licked and sucked that aren’t polite to mention in mixed company.
The staff meeting breaks up as everyone heads back to their desks or downstairs for lunch. I grab my brown paper sack—falafel pita with hummus and Bermuda onion today, yum, yum —and make a beeline for the reception desk. Eating with Trina will help preserve my sanity.
The first thing she says to me once we sit down for lunch is, “You look like someone just kidnapped your dog.”
“I don’t have time for this elbow-rubbing crap,” I moan between bites. “The bar exam is in less than three weeks. I need to focus on studying. But does anybody give a damn?”
“I feel your pain, babe.” Trina sips her lemonade. Her fingernails are painted forest green this week. “My certification is also coming up fast. Like the label on car mirrors . . . Panic May Be Closer Than It Appears.”
