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Fuck. Me.
I’m about two minutes from jumping down on that ledge with her and finding my way under that little dress and making both of our dreams come true.
“Oh, about two weeks after I left, Nigel had what he called a ‘crisis of his conscience.’ But really, what he meant was that he wanted to fuck me again.”
My dick deflates. “Please spare me the detail
s.”
“Oh, stop being a prude,” she says, misunderstanding my request. “Nothing even happened. I got home from another awful interview and found him sitting in his car outside my building. I lost it. I took my briefcase and started pounding his car. I broke his headlights and put a good dent in the hood before he drove off.”
“Did he leave you alone after that?”
“Yeah. He sent the police to me instead.”
“Shit.”
“Yup. Then, I got a call from my old partner,” she says.
“About him?” I ask.
“No. When I was fired, we were waiting for a ruling on a pro bono case I took on for the firm. Flood victims suing the insurance company for failing to pay legitimate claims. The ruling came back and we won. Big time. There was an appeal filed by the insurance company, and they wanted me to help with it,” she states. “Said they could get the DA to drop the charges if I did. So, I did. I could have been disbarred if I’d actually been prosecuted,” she says.
I whistle, impressed at their nerve. “Why didn’t they just assign another attorney?”
“I’m regarded as the foremost expert in the area of disaster relief financing for municipalities and regulated businesses like property and casualty insurance companies,” she says.
“That sounds impressive as hell, but it’s all Greek to me. Tell me, in plain English, what that means,” I ask her.
“Well,” she sighs. “When I was in law school, I wrote this article for a prestigious law review about the economics of hurricane disaster relief and how wrong we get it. That we focus on the bulk of the money of the issues that are sexy and headline worthy. Like helicopter rescues and helping resettle displaced people in new cities and states. But what about the people who stay? Whose homes aren’t washed away, but simply flooded. The news cameras ignore them. It’s not sexy to sit in your house and suffer quietly. No one wants to tell stories that would force us to really think about how we treat poor people in this country. So instead, we see the people lifted out of their homes by helicopters, moved to entirely new cities, given new clothes, new lives, and that makes us look benevolent. And I’ve been advocating for the litigation of cases that will force the federal circuits to take a position. Or maybe even make it to the Supreme Court.” She shakes her head. “Gah, sorry, I could talk about this all night,” she says.
“I could listen to you talk about this all night,” I confess.
“Because of you, I’ll never get my Nobel Peace Prize. I had so much potential,” she cries and shakes her fist up at me.
“Stop speaking of yourself in the past tense,” I chide her gently.
“You’ve ruined my life,” she yells up at me. “And you know what’s worse?”
“What?”
“Forget it,” she says.
“Forget what?”
“Nothing,” she responds sullenly.
“Okay,” I acquiesce.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you now,” she grumbles after a few seconds pass. I smile but hide it in my voice when I speak.
“Shit or get off the pot, Confidence. Tell me or stop talking about it,” I say.
“See? You’re rude. But, because I’m stupid when it comes to men, I like you.” She says it like it’s a fate worse than death.
“You do?” I ask, completely surprised and pleased.
“Of course, I do. I saw you and thought, yes, he’s mine.” She leans her head against the wall and gazes up at the stars.
