In Your Corner
Page 8
“There are women in this firm who were grateful for the opportunity I offered them.” His lips curl in a snarl. “You walk out that door and you’ll lose the partnership, your career, your father’s love and pride, and the regard of your friends and colleagues. You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.”
“I’ll have my self-respect.”
Farnsworth gives a bitter laugh. “Really? What self-respecting woman takes a new lover every month…or is it every week? The file is so thick, I can’t remember. Wake up, Amanda. Self-respect does not mean running the gauntlet through every dick in the city.”
His words are aimed to cut, and although this is not a part of myself I ever share, I am not ashamed of the choices I’ve made. I pull on the frosted glass door and throw a derisory glance over my shoulder. “Consider this my notice. I’m done with the firm.”
Farnsworth tightens his belt and narrows his eyes. “You may be done with the firm, but the firm is not done with you.”
***
A week goes by.
At least I think it’s been a week. Time has no meaning in the pit of despair or at the bottom of a vodka bottle. At least it’s finally dark outside, more fitting with my mood, and I don’t have to pull the covers over my head to evade the evil reach of the sun through the cracks in my curtains.
I tried to be good. I really did. After the shock of losing Jake, for a while I dated only parent-approved doctors, lawyers, and accountants. I stayed away from all but the most conservative clubs and bars. I tried to be who my parents wanted me to be. Uptight. Monogamous.
But it didn’t work. I couldn’t resist my attraction to the “unsavory” characters they had so despised when I was in high school—gritty, rough, and dangerous. The opposite of me. Apparently, however, even the scaled-down version of my reprobate behavior was enough to fill a blue file and give Farnsworth all the wrong ideas.
With a defeated sigh, I throw the covers off the bed, grab my cell, and flip to Drake’s number. Since I no longer have any hope of garnering my parents’ approval, I might as well embrace my chosen lifestyle. Go big or go home.
“Long time no sex.” I don’t even give Drake a chance to say hello.
Drake’s sharp inhale is clearly audible when I use his favorite line on him.
“Amanda. Where have you been? What happened last Friday night? You weren’t at work. You haven’t returned my calls all week…”
Talk. Talk. Talk. I don’t want talking. I want oblivion, kinky style, and Drake is the man to deliver. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I interrupt his monologue of worry by giving him the basic facts: Jake, Farnsworth, quitting. No need to tell him about the blue file or the harassment. Some things are better kept under wraps, especially from busybodies like Drake.
“So, you want to come over?” I try for a light, breezy tone that belies my desperate need for mindless f**king.
Clearly, it isn’t enough because Drake’s voice drops to a horrified whisper. “You quit your job?”
Tongue loosened after drinking too much vodka, the words that have been bottled up inside me all week spill out. “Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, I made a rash decision and threw my career away, ironically, for what I believed to be self-respect. However, upon further reflection, I have determined that I do not, in fact, have any self-respect and so I called you.”
“I feel honored,” he says dryly.
“So do you have some time free tonight? I believe I left you hanging last Friday and I want to make it up to you.”
Drake chokes. “Do you really…?”
“I do really. Desperately. I need it hard and I need it fast and I need it without any emotional strings. I’m embracing who I am and I want to get started right away.”
“Tsk. Tsk.” Drake chastises me with the tone one would use on a wayward child. “Sex isn’t always the solution. And you’re not thinking clearly. This is an opportunity and not a reason to run away. You have a chance to remake your life, choose a new path. We can talk…”
My head falls back on the pillow and I groan, cutting him off. “Are you coming over or not?”
Drake sighs. “Actually, I’ve just been paged and I’m en route to the hospital. How about I come to your place after I’m done? We’ll talk.”
There’s that word again. Talk. Drake and I don’t talk. We have sex. That’s what friends with benefits do. And I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to lose myself in the void of mindless physical pleasure.
I make my disapproval audible with a soft grunt. Drake snorts a laugh.
“You’ve been drinking. All the more reason to stay home and let the doctor take care of you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Might not be until the early hours of the morning though. Just don’t go out and do anything stupid. You don’t sound like yourself, and this is the kind of situation that often leads people to self-destructive behavior.”
“Sure.”
After he hangs up, I stare at the clock and the half-empty bottle of vodka. Then I call a cab.
***
“So, where are we going tonight?”
The cab driver pulls away from the curb and into the endless traffic of the Marina District as he glances at me through the rearview mirror. With his soft, round face, brown hair fading to gray, and twinkly blue eyes, he looks like a family movie dad.
“Hellhole. It’s a bar in Ghost Town, you know, in West Oakland.” I want to get drunk since my earlier buzz has worn off, and I want to get laid, and I plan to take home the first decent guy who wants nothing more than to show me a good time, no strings attached. And there is no better collection of commitment-phobes than in Hellhole. Rough, gritty, but not particularly dangerous since I know the staff well, Hellhole is only a few blocks away from Redemption but suits my mood to a tee.
“I’ll have my self-respect.”
Farnsworth gives a bitter laugh. “Really? What self-respecting woman takes a new lover every month…or is it every week? The file is so thick, I can’t remember. Wake up, Amanda. Self-respect does not mean running the gauntlet through every dick in the city.”
His words are aimed to cut, and although this is not a part of myself I ever share, I am not ashamed of the choices I’ve made. I pull on the frosted glass door and throw a derisory glance over my shoulder. “Consider this my notice. I’m done with the firm.”
Farnsworth tightens his belt and narrows his eyes. “You may be done with the firm, but the firm is not done with you.”
***
A week goes by.
At least I think it’s been a week. Time has no meaning in the pit of despair or at the bottom of a vodka bottle. At least it’s finally dark outside, more fitting with my mood, and I don’t have to pull the covers over my head to evade the evil reach of the sun through the cracks in my curtains.
I tried to be good. I really did. After the shock of losing Jake, for a while I dated only parent-approved doctors, lawyers, and accountants. I stayed away from all but the most conservative clubs and bars. I tried to be who my parents wanted me to be. Uptight. Monogamous.
But it didn’t work. I couldn’t resist my attraction to the “unsavory” characters they had so despised when I was in high school—gritty, rough, and dangerous. The opposite of me. Apparently, however, even the scaled-down version of my reprobate behavior was enough to fill a blue file and give Farnsworth all the wrong ideas.
With a defeated sigh, I throw the covers off the bed, grab my cell, and flip to Drake’s number. Since I no longer have any hope of garnering my parents’ approval, I might as well embrace my chosen lifestyle. Go big or go home.
“Long time no sex.” I don’t even give Drake a chance to say hello.
Drake’s sharp inhale is clearly audible when I use his favorite line on him.
“Amanda. Where have you been? What happened last Friday night? You weren’t at work. You haven’t returned my calls all week…”
Talk. Talk. Talk. I don’t want talking. I want oblivion, kinky style, and Drake is the man to deliver. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I interrupt his monologue of worry by giving him the basic facts: Jake, Farnsworth, quitting. No need to tell him about the blue file or the harassment. Some things are better kept under wraps, especially from busybodies like Drake.
“So, you want to come over?” I try for a light, breezy tone that belies my desperate need for mindless f**king.
Clearly, it isn’t enough because Drake’s voice drops to a horrified whisper. “You quit your job?”
Tongue loosened after drinking too much vodka, the words that have been bottled up inside me all week spill out. “Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, I made a rash decision and threw my career away, ironically, for what I believed to be self-respect. However, upon further reflection, I have determined that I do not, in fact, have any self-respect and so I called you.”
“I feel honored,” he says dryly.
“So do you have some time free tonight? I believe I left you hanging last Friday and I want to make it up to you.”
Drake chokes. “Do you really…?”
“I do really. Desperately. I need it hard and I need it fast and I need it without any emotional strings. I’m embracing who I am and I want to get started right away.”
“Tsk. Tsk.” Drake chastises me with the tone one would use on a wayward child. “Sex isn’t always the solution. And you’re not thinking clearly. This is an opportunity and not a reason to run away. You have a chance to remake your life, choose a new path. We can talk…”
My head falls back on the pillow and I groan, cutting him off. “Are you coming over or not?”
Drake sighs. “Actually, I’ve just been paged and I’m en route to the hospital. How about I come to your place after I’m done? We’ll talk.”
There’s that word again. Talk. Drake and I don’t talk. We have sex. That’s what friends with benefits do. And I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to lose myself in the void of mindless physical pleasure.
I make my disapproval audible with a soft grunt. Drake snorts a laugh.
“You’ve been drinking. All the more reason to stay home and let the doctor take care of you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Might not be until the early hours of the morning though. Just don’t go out and do anything stupid. You don’t sound like yourself, and this is the kind of situation that often leads people to self-destructive behavior.”
“Sure.”
After he hangs up, I stare at the clock and the half-empty bottle of vodka. Then I call a cab.
***
“So, where are we going tonight?”
The cab driver pulls away from the curb and into the endless traffic of the Marina District as he glances at me through the rearview mirror. With his soft, round face, brown hair fading to gray, and twinkly blue eyes, he looks like a family movie dad.
“Hellhole. It’s a bar in Ghost Town, you know, in West Oakland.” I want to get drunk since my earlier buzz has worn off, and I want to get laid, and I plan to take home the first decent guy who wants nothing more than to show me a good time, no strings attached. And there is no better collection of commitment-phobes than in Hellhole. Rough, gritty, but not particularly dangerous since I know the staff well, Hellhole is only a few blocks away from Redemption but suits my mood to a tee.
