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There was no way I was going to get that Brownstein report done by the end of the day.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my messages—realizing that Thoreau hadn’t responded to my morning texts. Sighing, I decided to call him. I needed someone to tell me that my life wouldn’t end today when I was fired.
It rang once.
It rang twice.
It went to voicemail.
He hit ignore?!
I sent him a text. “What the hell is wrong with you lately? Is your lack of sex forcing you to act like a jerk toward me? Is the withdrawal THAT BAD? Talk to me.”
I waited for a response, but none came, so I slumped onto the couch. There was no point in even attempting to finish that report. I was just going to sit here, relax, and when it was five o’ clock I was going to collect all of my things and leave.
I could find another internship in two weeks, or worst case, ask the department chair if I could shadow my mother and father around their stuffy firm for credit.
Ugh...God...
I shut my eyes and lay back against the cushion, wishing I could fall asleep.
“Aubrey?” Someone shook my shoulder just as I was drifting away.
“Yes?” I opened my eyes. It was Jessica.
“I’ve been looking for you forever. Mr. Hamilton wants to speak with you.”
I raised my eyebrow. “More coffee?”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “He’s been a bit off lately. Just come on, you don’t want to make him angry.” She held the door open and I stood up, making my way past her.
I debated whether I should even go to his office. Then again, seeing the look on his face as I said, “Fuck you. I quit.” was too good of an experience to pass up. I forced a smile and knocked on his door.
“Come in.” His voice was stern.
I slipped inside, expecting to see him holding an empty coffee cup, but he was sitting at his desk–glaring at me.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I sat in front of his desk, waiting for him to scold me about something, to unleash more of his seemingly bipolar tendencies, but he didn’t. He just kept staring at me.
I hated the effect he was having on my body right now, and as much as I wanted to ask him what the hell he wanted, I couldn’t get my mouth to say a thing.
Without addressing me, he suddenly stood up and walked around his desk, sitting on the edge of it, letting his knees touch mine.
“Lawyers are supposed to be people with integrity, are they not?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Do you think you have integrity, Miss Everhart?” He emphasized every syllable of my name.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” He leaned forward. “So, would you ever willingly withhold the truth from someone you supposedly cared about?”
“It depends...” My breath hitched in my throat; my heart was racing a mile a minute.
