Screwed Page 4

  I approach the sleek wraparound marble desk in the lobby’s corner, and take a deep breath. Here we go. The receptionist looks much younger than I would have predicted, maybe even around my age. Her thick black hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid tangling in her headset. She wears tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses¸ a loose rose-colored pullover blouse, and khaki slacks, which makes me wonder if I should have wasted so much time and energy on my own outfit. Her plum-painted fingernails fly over the keyboard, tackity-tacking like a train rattling over railroad tracks.

  It takes her a moment to realize I’m standing there before she looks up from her work. “Can I help you?” she asks with a plastic smile.

  “Hi, I’m Emery Winters. Is Mr. Pratt here yet?” He’s the partner I had corresponded with the most, but if he hasn’t arrived yet, I can still talk to the others and get started. The joys of a workplace where every other employee is your superior.

  There is no spark of recognition whatsoever in the receptionist’s green eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”

  I chuckle; someone has dropped the ball here, and it clearly wasn’t her. “In a way. I’m the new summer intern.”

  Genuine pleasure enters her smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, her happy tone at odds with her words. Maybe she’s relieved that her duties will be shared with someone else now. “I’ll call to tell Mr. Pratt you’re here. I’m Trina, by the way. Would you like any coffee or water while you wait?”

  “No, thank you. I can grab something after I get started.” After all, I work here now.

  The thought fills my stomach with butterflies. Calm down, Emery, this isn’t summer camp. I’ll be fine.

  I consider one of the caramel-colored leather chairs, then decide I’m too nervous to sit down. Instead I watch Trina buzz the senior partner’s office, then announce, “There’s a Miss Winters here to see you,” in a singsong voice before she resumes her furious typing.

  After a minute or two, a man walks in from the hallway to the left of the reception desk. He looks like he’s in his early sixties and desperately trying to cover that fact up: iron-gray hair, a slight paunch, skin like tanned leather, and a neatly brushed mustache. Glossy brown wingtips and an olive shirt with black suspenders complete the picture of a man who was hot shit about thirty years ago. But there’s no ring on his left hand, making me wonder if he’s divorced, a “confirmed bachelor,” or just really unlucky.

  As the man comes closer, he gives me a toothy grin that shows off thousands of dollars in dental veneers. “You must be Miss Emery Winters. Welcome to Walker, Price, and Pratt.”

  I smile back at him, hoping there’s no lipstick on my teeth, and extend my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pratt. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

  He gives my hand two firm pumps, a textbook handshake, the greeting of someone who knows how to charm and intimidate without saying a word. “Please, call me Larry. I don’t like to stand on ceremony in this office.”

  Somehow I’m not sure whether to believe that. Powerful men, especially if they’re old and rich, like people to perceive them as laid-back—but when it comes to how they actually prefer to be treated, most of them want deference. At the same time, though, I can’t just blatantly ignore what he said. “Okay, then . . . Larry.”

  He looks me up and down, still holding my hand. “My, my. I knew from your phone interview that you had a lovely voice, but the rest of you is even more so.”

  Say what? I blink at him, trying to figure out how to respond, and quickly decide to pretend he said something else entirely. “Um, I’m glad my attire is appropriate for the office.”

  “A little too appropriate, if you ask me.”

  I can feel his eyes surveying me up and down, and when they settle on my chest, I have to look to make sure I didn’t miss a button on my blouse.

  Larry continues with an amused tone. “You’ll find that California is much more casual than the Midwest, even in our line of work. Let loose, have a little fun . . . I certainly won’t mind.” He winks and I try not to let my lip curl in disgust.

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say in a carefully neutral tone. In deference to the mindboggling heat, I may take this excuse to ditch my blazer tomorrow, but I’ll be damned if I give this guy any more of a show than he’s already getting.

  Just when I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to rip my hand away, he finally releases it. “Before you get started, honey, I’d like to show you around the office. Meet our other lawyers, get acquainted.” He turns toward the hall entrance and I start to scurry after him . . .

  Only for his hand to fall securely on my lower back, just a couple of inches above my ass.

  Oh, hell no. I suppress a full-body shudder.

  Mr. Pratt steers me like a show dog through the hallways, stopping to knock at each door. The two “junior” partners are both in their fifties; Mr. Walker is round and balding, while Mr. Price has salt-and-pepper hair and impressive jowls. They both glance away from their laptop screens, cough out a distracted “pleasure to meet you” without getting up, and go right back to work. The four associate lawyers—Misters Ingersoll, Morton, Kemp, and Mendoza—are only slightly younger and more gracious. It’s exactly the sausage-fest that I expected.

  Lucky for me, it’s also clear that my new coworkers are way too busy to care whether I’m a young woman, yet another old fart, or a flying purple people-eater. All they see is an extra set of helping hands. That attitude may become a pain in the ass if I ever need something from them. But for now, them aggressively minding their own business is downright refreshing, compared to Mr. “please call me Larry” Pratt and his creepy wandering hand. He obviously wants to bury his face in something other than his work.

  Finally our tour is over and we end up back in the lobby. “Last but not least, my dear,” Mr. Pratt announces, “this will be your office.” He points to a narrow whitewashed door, across the hallway entrance from the reception desk, that I had assumed led to a broom closet.

  My eyes widen. Holy shit, I get my own office? With a door and a desk and everything?

  “Normally we have two or three interns who share that room, but for now, you’ll have the place to yourself. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door if you get lonesome.” His leering grin kills any excitement I may have felt at my new private domain.

  “I’ll be sure to come by if I have any questions,” I say, forcing my face to stay blank. Translation: I’ll only talk to you if everyone else in the office has suffered a gruesome death. Maybe I’m the only intern because the other ones gnawed off their legs to get away.

  His hand finally leaves my back, only to land on my shoulder like a giant leech. “I promise I’ll let you get to work now. But I want to take you out to lunch today. Just the two of us, so we can get to know each other. I like to know all my employees . . . especially the ones who are as pretty as you.”

  Over his shoulder, I see Trina stand up and start frantically cutting her hand at her neck, giving me the universal gesture for Abort! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is pulled down in an exaggerated grimace of horror.

  I quickly look back at Larry before he follows my gaze. “Uh . . . you know, I’d love to, but I brought my lunch today. I mean, I always bring my lunch. Saves money.”

  “You can put your lunch in the fridge and save it for tomorrow. Don’t worry about the money—this is my treat, sweetheart.”

  One more minute with him and my skin is going to crawl right off. Would that get him to leave me alone, or would he just compliment my bone structure?

  “I actually already told Trina that we’d eat together,” I blurt. Thank God she said her name earlier, or this lie would be even more unbelievable than it already is. “We were going to talk about . . . you know, girl stuff.” Babies. Boys. Makeup. I have a tampon in my purse and I’m not afraid to use it.

  Mr. Pratt frowns, looking annoyed and confused. But all he says is, “Well, that’s too bad. Let me know if you’re ever in th
e mood for male company.”

  I nod solemnly at him. No, it isn’t too bad. It’s the best thing ever.

  With one last damp squeeze of my shoulder, the slimy creature finally retreats to its lair. Trina waves me over to the reception desk as soon as his office door clicks shut. Now that she’s on her feet, I realize that she’s freaking tiny. I am by no means tall, but she stands maybe five foot one, even in her heeled sandals.

  “Sorry if that was weird,” Trina says softly. “I figured you wouldn’t want his hand on your knee for a whole goddamn hour. And even if he insists on paying, it’s always a trap. Turn him down and he acts like you’re the rude one, but if you let him spend money on you, he starts thinking it’s a down payment, if you know what I mean. Obviously, you should start packing your lunch for real, but for today, you can share mine. Gives me an excuse to buy chocolate out of the vending machine later. I hope you like linguine with garlic sauce and feta cheese . . . stinky breath will keep him out of your face. It’s a real life-hack.”

  My head is spinning with Trina’s mile-a-minute diatribe. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I moved here to work hard and become a successful lawyer, not to fend off dirty old men all day.

  “This isn’t a situation you should need to life-hack,” I finally sputter. “You . . . we have the right to do our jobs without having to jump through all these stupid hoops. Creating a hostile work environment is illegal.”

  She shrugs, turning her palms up. “All very true. But what are you gonna do about it? There’s nobody to complain to when the big boss is the rotten one.”

  And such a small company wouldn’t have a human resources department. Or even any real legal protection against employee sexual harassment. Still . . . “There must be something we can do. This is fucking ridiculous.”

  “You can do plenty. Whether you should is another question. The last intern who told him to knock it off got fired. Hell, that’s probably why my job opened up two years ago. So unless you want to jump straight to taking him to court—”

  “And probably lose the case. And then still get fired. Okay, I get the picture.” I rub my forehead hard between thumb and finger.

  Is every man in this city total scum? So far, Trina’s the second friend I’ve made through the watching out for each other clause of the Girl Code. My boss may be even worse than my landlord. I didn’t think that was possible, but at least Hayden isn’t twice my age and has the common sense to keep his hands off me. Is being valued for my brains instead of my breasts really so much to ask?

  I force myself to take a deep breath and set my jaw. I refuse to let yet another man’s bullshit ruin my life. I refuse to waste all the time and money and effort I’ve already invested in this job. Everything from shot-gunning my internship application at a hundred law firms to blowing thousands of dollars on moving to Los Angeles—and even further back, all the sacrifices that Mom made to send me to the best schools. This is my big break, and by God, I’m going to grab it with both hands.

  I expected this internship to be mostly busy-work and acting as a gofer, especially in the first few weeks. But when I finally get down to business on day one, I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself drafting briefs, indexing files, and doing research instead of fetching coffee and making copies.

  In the few moments when he wasn’t sleazing all over me, Mr. Pratt mentioned something about a huge corporate M&A case; evidently the other lawyers are so busy handling it that they’re forced to delegate. I’ll probably learn the details about that case at the next meeting. Right now, I’m thrilled to be treated more like a paralegal than an errand girl. Intellectual challenge is the entire reason I studied law in the first place. And as a bonus, I can cloister myself in my tiny, quiet office like a monk in his cell and avoid Larry The Creeper without too much trouble. If he wants to pester me, he has to knock.

  Around noon, someone does come rapping, rapping at my chamber door. I brace myself for annoyance, but it’s only Trina asking if I want lunch yet. I invite her in and we chat while sharing her pasta. Mr. Pratt never bothered to introduce me to Trina, but he damn well should have. It turns out that she pulls double duty as the firm’s legal secretary as well as its receptionist. Anything that needs to get done around here will probably pass through her hands at some point. And we have a lot in common; she’s studying for her paralegal certification, just like I’m studying for the bar. In an office dominated by old men, she’s a fun, irreverent breath of fresh air.

  But as much as I enjoy lunch with Trina, my mountain of paperwork soon starts calling my name again—and it doesn’t stop calling.

  I arrive home that night at eleven thirty, exhausted but still exhilarated. When I step inside, my foot lands on something that makes a crinkling sound. I look down to see a pile of takeout menus that have been slipped under my door. The topmost one has a note attached.

  Thought you might need these when you’re burning the midnight oil—Hayden.

  Still standing in the threshold, I leaf through the menus. Almost a dozen local restaurants are represented here, and they’re all vegetarian-friendly: Indian, Indonesian, Chinese Buddhist, Ethiopian, Egyptian, Mexican, and Italian, even one called Veg-Love Café. Somehow I doubt he had that just lying around. There’s the predictable but reliable soup-and-salad bar, and a cute little place that sells nothing except crepes, both sweet and savory. There’s even an American-style burger joint specializing in black-bean-and-quinoa patties.

  My heart melts a little. Hayden must have spent quite some time putting these together.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I lock up again and climb the stairs to unit 5B.

  I knock on Hayden’s door, smoothing my skirt with my other hand. I probably look like a total wreck after a fourteen-hour day. I should have checked in my bathroom mirror before I came up here. Wait, never mind . . . it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what he thinks of my face. Really, I don’t. We’re just friends, after all.

  The sound of his doorknob turning jerks me back to attention—and for a moment, all I can do is stare. What am I doing here again?

  Hayden has no shirt on. What he does have is full, firm biceps, a washboard stomach, and perfectly squeezable pecs dusted lightly with hair. His loose gray sweatpants hang low on his lean hips, showing a dark happy trail. Is that bulge my imagination, or was he really not lying about having a nine-inch cock? Jesus, what would it look like when it’s hard?

  “Emery? Earth to Emery?”

  I realize I’ve been ogling him like a horny schoolgirl and blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Wow, you’re up late.”

  “So are you,” he replies, holding up a glass of amber alcohol on the rocks. He’s smirking. God damn him, he’s mocking me. The last thing the world needed was for me to feed his ego. “I was just having a nightcap. Want to join me?”

  Definitely. Wait, no. Bad girl. No boner for you. “Thanks for offering, but I’ve had a really long day. I should get to bed soon . . .”

  “All alone?”

  I snort, though I’m smiling despite myself. “Yes, alone. You know, for sleeping? Some people have work in the morning.” Although I may be willing to lose a little more sleep for some quality time with a battery-powered friend, if only to get myself under control. “I just came up here to thank you for the menus. That was really sweet of you.”

  He gives a nod, blue eyes crinkling in a boyish grin that shows his dimples. And this smile isn’t just a show to dazzle my panties off, though it threatens to do just that. It seems genuine—as if he’s pleased that he pleased me.

  “No problem. What with your crazy hours, I figured you wouldn’t have much time to cook.” He pauses for dramatic effect. Or could he be hesitating? “Would you be interested in going to one of those places sometime? You know, in person. Without any plastic sporks.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . real plates and silverware?” I sigh in mock wistfulness. “Sounds too rich for my blood.”

  “Come on. You’re going to
be busting serious ass. Even if you can’t take an early night during the week, you deserve some fun on the weekend.”

  I consider for a minute. I’ll usually work weekends too, but Hayden’s offer actually sounds pretty tempting. After my first week of a new job, it may be nice to unwind with someone to talk to. I can brag about all the Real Lawyer Stuff that I’d never expected to do as a lowly intern. I can vent about Creepy Larry. If he was this bad on the first day, I can only imagine what kind of bullshit he’ll pull in the future.

  Finally I nod. Stealing an hour or two for dinner won’t hurt much. “Okay, you win. I’ll take a break with you. How about five thirty on Saturday, at . . . the burger place I’m totally blanking on?”

  “You mean Sunflower Grill? Sure thing. As long as I don’t have to say that name ever again, and they sell something that tastes like meat.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The caveman never shuts up about his meat.” In more ways than one.

  His smirk should be disgusting, but it just draws my attention to his soft lips. “You don’t like my meat?”

  “Good night,” I call out, already walking away with every ounce of nonchalance I can muster.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I find him still watching me, and a warm tingle rushes down my spine. I go back downstairs to my condo, take a very quick, very cold shower, and fall asleep with a stupid smile on my face.

  For the rest of that week, in the moments between pounding out work and taking my short lunch breaks with Trina, I find myself thinking fondly of Hayden. I’m looking forward to our non-date more than I probably should.

  Chapter Seven

  Hayden

  This place is an absolute zoo, which is no surprise. Beth’s finishing up in the kitchen while I set the table. My niece and nephew are in the living room, arguing about which show to watch on the iPad, and my brother-in-law, David, is due home any minute.