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I can’t imagine that would go over well. Then again, from what I’ve gleaned, the majority of their cases don’t go to court.
This is not a job I want. Six months ago, I would have laughed off the idea of working with the smile-happy legal beagle. It’s obvious the people at this firm spend all their time pushing paper. They probably have office parties with supermarket sheet cakes and white elephant Christmas parties.
I’ve defended a lot of guilty assholes, but at least it always came with a bit of a thrill. I was playing a high-stakes game, and I knew it.
This place isn’t like that.
This place is a joke.
But if I get a job here, then I might be able to get a different job after Myles & Lee loses the case that compelled me to quit. People will realize I was intelligent for having left a sinking ship—the first rat smart enough to run.
I’m glad you’ve realized you’re a rat, I hear Ruthie telling me. Her voice likes to pop into my head now and then to let me know when I’m being a tool.
Mentally shaking the thought off, I have to acknowledge an alarming possibility: Myles & Lee might not lose the case.
Myles is a mummy, but his conscience is smaller than Jiminy Cricket’s dick, and that’s basically a superpower when it comes to crafting a cutting defense for someone who is very obviously guilty.
Even so, it’ll probably be easier for me to get another job once Myles’s ire cools down—or he gives up the ghost and retires. Then I can move on or, hell, maybe I can conquer this firm and make it my pet project.
Freeman is still studying me, his perusal making me a little uncomfortable. Finally, he says, “Why don’t you wear your wedding ring?”
Well, shit. That’s the kind of direct question it’s hard to duck or banter your way out of.
I grin back at him, my mind working the problem. Then I open my mouth, hoping like hell the right words fall out. “Lost it down the sink a month ago. Truth is, I’m not much of a plumber. I tried to get it out and sprayed the whole bathroom full of water. Ruthie wasn’t too pleased with me. Started keeping her rings off in protest.”
There it is…the actual lie. I should feel guilty for letting it slip—for doubling down when I should be backing off—but I don’t. Maybe my conscience isn’t much bigger than Myles’s at this point.
Freeman chuckles, “Oh, I know how that goes. Reminds me of when I was first married. Except my wife’s the one who lost her engagement ring. I searched the whole house for it, top to bottom, spent hours looking, and it turned out she’d left it at work.”
I give a little chuckle—the chuckle of a man who knows, even though I haven’t got the first clue. That sweat continues its descent down my back, and my expensive white shirt probably has pit stains.
Freeman gives his desk a little slap. “Well, Shane, I’m pleased as punch you’re interested in joining this firm. Donnelly’s on vacation, but I’ve got his blessing to invite you on board. What do you say?”
There’s a moment when I can do the rational thing and back down. I’m relieved by his offer—massively relieved—but the fact remains that I don’t really want this job, and if he knew the truth, he wouldn’t want to give it to me. Lying about something like this is, objectively, wrong.
But that doesn’t stop me.
“I’d be honored to join the team.”
What do you know? It’s another lie.
Chapter Three
Ruthie
“Come on, come on, come on,” I say, trying to turn the engine over again. It gives a dying growl. “Dammit, you piece of shit, asshole, dick-licking—”
My neighbor walks by on the sidewalk, lifting a hand in greeting. Her face is not friendly, which isn’t surprising for three reasons. Reason Number One: She probably thinks I’m an unfit mother because she saw me carrying a bag full of empty fast food containers to the dumpster last week. Reason Number Two: She’s a sour old woman who survives only on nicotine and finding fault in everyone around her, and Izzy and I just so happen to live directly across from her in this crappy apartment complex. Reason Number Three: She could hear everything I just said. Vanny’s driver’s side window stopped closing all the way last week, and now I have to wear mittens every time I bring him anywhere.
“Hello, Mrs. Longhorn,” I say in a syrupy sweet voice. “Lovely to see you.”
Her answer is a snort so loud it causes a couple of crows to fly off.
“You had another Amazon package waiting outside your door this morning,” she adds, pausing. It’s phrased as an accusation.
“Yes,” I say, my fingers flexing around the keys. Maybe my desire to run her over will make them magically work this time.
“Awful lot of packages you’re ordering for a single mother with a child to take care of.”
