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Julianna
I stare at the placard on his desk. It reads "J. Henry Edgar, Attorney at Law." The man sitting behind the mahogany table top taps his pen against the wood and flips through pages of documentation. He is in his 50s and has a smoker's cough, but he still has a head full of hair. You can tell he takes great pride in it. It is peppered with grey, and he slicks it back in what appears to be one, big brushstroke. He is a round man—no, the word round doesn't even begin to describe him. His girth is so profound that he doesn't seem to have a neck, just a head sitting on top of shoulders. Supposedly, he's the best lawyer money can buy. I hope that's true because at $500 an hour, he better be the best.
I sit in a dark brown leather chair facing Mr. Edgar's desk. The leather is stiff and shiny and my gaze rests on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind him—all filled with old, leather bound tomes. Does he even use those books? I wonder. Isn't everything digital these days? I think that maybe the books are there for decorative purposes and that he probably uses Google like the rest of us. At least I hope he does.
"So, tell me. What would you like to see to evaluate my case?" I ask, growing impatient. I want to speed things up. With so much on my mind, I am having a hard time sitting still. I am not sure how long I am able to sit in this dark office. I want to go for a long run through the city to clear my mind.
He doesn't bother lifting his gaze from the documents. "I think I have everything that I need to see," he says, stifling a cough. "Ms. Heaton, given your history, I'm afraid to say that this won't be easy."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, for starters, the video footage leaked to the media captures you fully engaged in sexual relations with these two men whom you have professional, working relationships with."
"Here's what I want to know, Mr. Edgar. What percentage of your practice is in the area of expertise that I need? Because right now, you're not telling me anything that I don't already know, and I feel like I might be wasting my time."
"I assure you—"
"Spare me the bullshit! Actions speak louder than words. And I need results. Right now I have an NFL team in disarray and a media shit storm that is out for my blood. So cut to the chase. How long will it take to bring this matter to a favorable conclusion?"
J. Henry Edgar brings his fist to his mouth and coughs into it. "Like I said, it won't be easy. To win a defamation of character lawsuit, we will have to prove that false statements have been used by the media with the intent of harming your reputation."
"But isn't it obvious? Look what this media frenzy has done! There is now a petition being signed by people wanting me removed from the New York Nailers! Removed from the team that I have given my blood and sweat to! Do you think this petition is circulating because we've lost games? Hell no! It has nothing to do with that—teams lose, and that's a fact. No one likes to lose, but it's nothing new. It happens, and that's football. This all comes down to people wanting to pass judgment on my personal sex life."
"Ms. Heaton—"
"Let me finish. It's nothing new though, is it? Admit it—if a woman is putting herself out there and freely enjoying herself—fucking who she wants to fuck, it's the end of the world. People can't wrap their heads around it. It doesn't fit their mold. Women should always be this, or women should always be that. But I'll tell you something Mr. Edgar, at the end of the day, who I want to fuck has nothing to do with my ability to own a football franchise."
"It's not just the recent SportsNation leaks that are adding fuel to the media fire," he continues. "These old pictures are now circulating as well."
I watch as he pulls copies of pictures from a manila folder and hands them to me. Seeing the contents of this folder is shocking. In one photo, I am sitting naked on a lounge chair by a pool. It is an aerial shot, so I figure a drone must have taken the photo. I see that they didn't bother blurring out my nipples—every detail shows, even the crack of my pussy, and a man is rubbing what appears to be lotion all over my body. I remember this day. It was a few years ago. The man's name was Maximilian Smith. We met at a charity event. I liked his philanthropic outlook on life and his green eyes, and I decided to go back to his house when he asked me. I remember his pool. Yes, we fucked. He was a nice guy, but he was a little too granola for me. A modern day hippie. And so what if I decided that he wasn't what I wanted to wake up to every morning?
The next photo shows me at a nightclub a few years back. I remember this night too. I was wearing a black mini dress and boots that went up to my knees. Damn, I looked good. In the picture I am holding a martini in one hand, and in the other holding the ass of a dark-haired man in his 30s with his mouth on my neck. I am smiling, and I am clearly having a good time in this picture. I'll admit that I may have had a few too many drinks that night, but I had a great time nonetheless.
I am now looking at the third photo. This one is even more personal. It is much more granular than the first two photos, but it clearly shows me in my own bed, naked and riding another man's cock with my head thrown back and my mouth open. Suddenly, I know I do not want to see anymore. It is a disgusting invasion of privacy. I close the manila folder and push it back to my lawyer. It slides across the table.
"If I thought about it too much, I'd be so paranoid that I'd never be able to leave my house. I would start covering the camera lenses on my phone and computers in tape. I'd never open my window curtains. I'd shut down my social media presence entirely. My paranoia could grow exponentially, and fill a whole laundry list of items." But I am not going to let these fuckers win. No fucking way.
"Every one of these photos has been taken without my consent," I continue. "It's clear that the media has been following me for quite some time, and I intend to sue those assholes and teach them a lesson they should have learned long ago," I say.
"The thing is, the story that all of these pictures paint of you isn't a good one."
"Whose side are you on Henry?" I ask.
"I'm just trying to be objective. Please hear me out. Have you considered slowing down? If you are in fact in love with these men, choose one and end the scandals. Settle down. There's nothing wrong with a stable, quiet life."
"Slow down? Are you kidding me? I came in here for legal advice and now I'm paying you $500 an hour for you to lecture me on how to live my life? This is unbelievable. Are you going to personally handle my case, or am I going to have to pass this off to another lawyer in this firm?"
"It was just a suggestion, Ms. Heaton. I hate to see you in this predicament."
I roll the window down as I drive and I let the wind twist its fingers through my hair. After leaving J. Henry Edgar's office, his words keep playing through my mind like a song on repeat: have you considered slowing down? Choose one and end the scandals. Everywhere I look, I see couples walking blissfully down the sidewalk. Then I turn and notice two tall men walking hand in hand. They have short, dark hair and are dressed in tailored suits. They have broad, muscular chests and I can't stop gazing at their well-built bodies. I start undressing them with my eyes, wondering what it would be like to fuck both of them. Would it be like fucking Colt and Ethan? Shit. Why does it feel like I'm losing my mind? I've been with lots of men, so why does it feel different this time, with these two? Why can't I stop thinking about Colt Stackford and Ethan Blake? I never let myself get attached to people. Why now? I shake my head and look away from the two men walking down the street. I can't. I work hard and play hard, but at the end of the day, my career comes first.
But just as quickly as that thought appears, a
nother enters my mind. Maybe the lawyer is right. Maybe I should slow down. I notice I'm now speeding and I release my foot from the gas pedal so that the momentum of my car slows to the legal speed limit. I take a slow deep breath. My life feels like it's spiraling out of control. Things aren't looking good. I don't want to lose Colt and Ethan and I don't want to lose ownership of the New York Nailers. This team means everything to me, but is this what my life has really become—one scandal after another? Should I choose and settle? I realize I'm holding my breath anxiously, and I exhale. After a few tense moments I whisper to myself, I think I know what I need to do.
The next day, I walk onto the administrative floor of the Nailers headquarters. There are not many people around and I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Just as I am about to open my office door, I hear my secretary call out. She is running after me down the hallway, her heels clicking against the thin carpeting.
"Ms. Heaton, I'm so sorry! He insisted on a meeting."
