Screwed
Page 12
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?
“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?
