It’s not in New York. I’ve walked the streets at sunrise and sunset and at all hours in between, and it’s definitely not in the city. It’s not in downtown Austin, where the bars and the music stages spill out onto the streets. I’m not even sure it’s in London, the city I love, where I grew up with a loving family and wanted for nothing.
The more emails I reply to—the more days I huddle under my duvet with my laptop, opting to work remotely instead of going into the office, the more of the CEO’s messes I have to clean up—the more I’m convinced it’s not in IP law, either. But fornow, at least, it’s keeping a roof over my head and food in my belly, so once I get out of the airport, I order myself a rideshare, check into my hotel room, and then head straight to the office.
It’s dark by the time I return to the hotel. I’ve spent the last five hours trying to do damage control, mitigating the absolute disaster that the executives and board of directors have found themselves embroiled in. And all because of a few dumb comments, some foolish ideas, and one or two ill-conceived plans. And a CEO who doubled down on his misogynistic, everything-phobic bullshit. As it stands, the backlash is definitely going to hurt, but it won’t be nearly as bad as it would’ve been if I hadn’t come in to clean up the mess.
Again.
It’s not even my job.
There’s an entire legal department working alongside me, with lawyers on the payroll specifically for cleanup. But somehow, it always falls to me. I’m not saying the rest of them are no good at their jobs, but no one else ever seems to be able to get things done. In the seven years I’ve worked at Trenton Langley, I’ve cleaned up more messes than I can count. I’ve been instrumental in the negotiation of some excellent contracts on behalf of the copyright team. But I’ve also handled more than my fair share of shit, most of it far outside my remit of intellectual property, and it’s starting to get old. I need a damn break.
Or a new job.
When I was eleven years old, I decided I wanted to be a lawyer. Jay had joined the army, and he was about to ship out on his first deployment: a training mission in southeastern Europe. For all intents and purposes, he’d be safe. But at eleven, I was terrified of losing my big brother—my protector, my best friend, my guide.
He was the one who met me at school to walk me home every day, because our parents couldn’t get out of work in time. He wasthe one who sat with me in the back room of the shared bakery and butcher’s shop our parents ran, helping me with my homework whilst he hurried through his own. The one who dried my tears and carried me the rest of the way home when I fell and skinned my knees halfway between school and the shop, and sat holding my hand and stroking my hair whilst Dad fetched the first aid kit and Mum cleaned out the cuts.
He was the one who told me that it was lawyers and politicians who decided when war happened, and therefore, when and where he’d have to go to fight it. That afternoon, I told my parents I was going to become a lawyer, so I could decide to stop wars and keep my brother safe at home. They laughed a little, but they told me I could do, be, and love anything or anyone I wanted, and they’d love me no matter what.
Mum took me to the library the next weekend, and I borrowed some books with words far too big for my pre-teen brain to comprehend. Twelve years later, I graduated with my LLM and embarked on my law conversion course to specialise in intellectual property.
Shortly after that, I landed my first grown-up lawyer job, drafting contracts in the human resources office at a media company. Then I moved into advertising and publishing, which is where the bosses at Trenton Langley first heard my name. And then I found myself headhunted, additional classes and my US bar exam paid for, all to work for Walter Langley himself, the CEO who speaks mostly to my tits but pays me handsomely for my expertise.
But I’mtired. I’m tired of cleaning up the messes of a homophobic, racist, misogynistic, chauvinist board of directors, and I’m tired of negotiating contracts that they don’t deserve. I’m tired of exploiting loopholes we should be avoiding like the plague. The more messes Iclean up for them, the more they make—and they play the game like it’s a sport and they’re gold fucking medalists.
Once upon a time, I loved the idea of practising law. I thought I’d spend all my time in a courtroom like the lawyers on TV, yelling things likeobjection!and winning pivotal trials, sticking it to the man and doing it for the little guys. Then I fell in love with the intricacies of contracts and copyright law.
And today—or maybe a little while ago, if we’re being completely honest about things—I fell out of love with it.
The best thing about my job is that I get to see the world—even if that does mean flying. Because Trenton Langley is a multinational company with regional headquarters across Europe and the USA, I get to make periodic visits to a variety of places and spend a couple of days in each office. The worst thing about my job is that I only get to spend a couple of days in each office. It leaves depressingly little time to see the sights and even less time to acclimate to a different time zone. That’s why, less than seventy-two hours after touching down in Austin, I’m back in the airport, waiting to fly back to London.
Amie has already been and gone, so I know I won’t be seeing her on the flight home. I’m early enough to sit and relax before my flight, and I definitely could use a drink. I check my watch and glance up at the sign above the large double-doorway, then back at my phone screen. This is it. This one is the lounge that my business class ticket grants access to. I roll my red carry-on case alongside me as I pick my way through the plush sofa seating area to the bar, and slide onto an empty stool.
“Itisyou,” a voice says. It’s warm and familiar, comforting, with a richness that travels all the way to my core. A voice I never thought I’d hear again. I snap my head to the side, my brown eyes colliding with storm-grey ones.
“Everett,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I imagine.” He winks as he swallows down the rest of the liquid in his crystal tumbler and signals to the bartender. “Catching a flight. You’re a margarita girl, right?”
I nod, shell-shocked.He remembers my drink.
“Bu-but—you were in New York,” I stammer. Thirty seconds ago, I had all the confidence in the world. Well, as much of it as I could muster, anyway. I’ve never stammered over anything before in my life, but somehow, bumping into Everett again has my palms sweaty and butterflies in my stomach.
“My little sister is in New York,” he explains, then turns to the bartender, empty glass in hand. “Another for me, please, and a margarita for my friend. I live here. In Austin. Outside Austin.”
I nod, trying to make sense of it all. He lives here—Austin—he’s been here this whole time. He’s probably been here every time I’ve been in the city, too. And of all the billions of people in the world, and the millions of them in Texas alone, I’ve bumped into him twice now. He smiles lazily at me, pushing a beer mat towards me for the drink.
“I gotta say, Ruth, this is the second time I’ve bought you a drink and I don’t even know your last name or where you live, or how I’ve managed to find you in two different cities now—the same two cities I travel between, too. I’m startin’ to wonder if either you’re stalkin’ me, or if maybe this is some kind of fate.”
The bartender slides a drink towards me and I snatch it up immediately, chugging half of it at once.
“I live in London. My last name is Bevan. The shitshow I work for has offices in New York and Austin.”
His smile spreads.
“So I might see you around here again.” He considers it for a minute. “Maybe next time you’re here, you could stay an extra day or two, I could show you around.”
Those butterflies in my stomach? Storming all the way down between my thighs, fluttering their slutty little wings.
