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Systematic and/or continual unwanted and annoying pestering, which often includes threats and demands.
Andrew
The prosecutor shook my hand over coffee and tea the next night, batting her light brown eyes.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to stay for a few weeks, Andrew,” she said. “This is going to be a real help in this case.”
“I’m sure…” I stood up and walked over to the window, looking at the snow covered streets below.
“Your old partner has definitely hired the best lawyers money can buy, and has paid fines and suffered penalties for years, but I think we can finally send him to prison with the new evidence that we have. That, and your testimony, of course.”
I said nothing.
“I’m not sure how you would feel about this, but…” Her voice trailed off, and seconds later she was by my side. “Would you like to catch up on all we’ve missed since you’ve been gone?”
“Excuse me?”
She rubbed my shoulder. “You left New York and you never looked back. You didn’t call anyone or keep in touch…We were such good friends and you—”
“Okay.” I cut her off and grabbed her hand, moving it away. “First of all, no, I do not want to catch up on shit. I don’t give a damn about what I’ve missed.” I looked her up and down. “But from the look of things, it hasn’t been much. Second of all, yes, we were friends. Past tense. You didn’t call or keep in touch with me when everyone in this city was dragging my name through the mud, did you?”
Her cheeks reddened.
“You didn’t even call to ask me if the rumors were f**king true.” I pointed to the door. “So, please don’t think that just because I’ve agreed to help put an ass**le where he belongs, that you and I are, or will ever be friends.”
“I’m so sorry…”
“It’s six years too late for that.” I turned around. “I’ll be in court when I’m needed. You can leave now.”
I waited until I heard the sound of the door close and called the town-car driver. “What time do I need to leave for the gala if I want to be there once it starts?”
“Now, sir.”
I hung up and slipped into my coat, taking the penthouse’s private elevator to the lobby. Rushing through the hotel’s exit doors, I spotted the car across the street and headed over.
“We should be there in about thirty minutes, Mr. Hamilton.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you meeting a date at this event tonight?”
“No,” I said. “Why are you asking?”
“Because if you were, I was going to suggest that we stop at the floral stand that’s three blocks down.”
“We can stop.” I looked out the window as he pulled off.
I’d thought about telling Aubrey that I was in town, or “good luck” for her performance tonight, but I didn’t see a point. Besides, last night, in a moment of weakness, I sent her a rather vague email and her rare response didn’t encourage further conversation.
Subject: Happiness.
Are you happy with your current life away from GBH? Are you pursuing your ballet dreams finally?
—Andrew
Subject: Re: Happiness.
Please stop emailing me and delete my number.
Thank you.
—Aubrey
