Page 48 of Following His Orders

“There is no truth to these claims, though, is there?” Xavier questions me, while leaning forward in his seat on the other side of my desk.

My eyebrows scrunch up. “I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.” My voice rises. “You think I’d embezzle fucking funds from a client?”

“No, I don’t. However, it’s my fucking job as your representation to ask, Nathan.”

“I’ll represent myself,” I tell him.

“Like fuck you will,” Alistair says as he walks into my office and claims the chair beside Xavier. “Catch me up. What’d I miss?” he asks.

“Just that Xavier here thinks I’m guilty,” I huff.

“No, I fucking don’t. I’m just covering all the bases.”

“Of course, you’re not guilty. How the fuck would you embezzle funds from a company anyway. You’re their fucking solicitor, not an accountant.”

“I’ve already put in a request for a hearing date. This will be thrown out of court before we even sit down. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie. I know I’m innocent, but whenever you’re being sued, there is always that chance of losing. If I lost this case, I’d be kissing my career goodbye.

“Good, because this is bullshit.” Alistair reaches forward, plucks the typed claim from my desk, and crumbles it up.

I look through the glass and see Bentley storming towards her office. She glances in my direction before quickly averting her eyes. Xavier and Alistair both turn in their seats to see what’s captured my attention.

“Fuck, she looks pissed. What’d you do?” Xavier turns back around to face me.

“I didn’t do anything. Last I saw her, she was passed out and fully satisfied.” I smirk, thinking of just how I left her. Naked, in my bed. I was hoping that’s how I’d find her when I returned home tonight.

“For someone so smart, you really can be daft sometimes, mate.” Alistair shakes his head and pushes to his feet.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Yeah, you’re on your own on this one.” He directs a finger my way, before pointing at his own chest. “I’m getting the popcorn ready; you get the drinks.” He gestures to Xavier, then walks out.

“Done,” Xavier agrees and follows him.

“You two are fucking idiots. Whatever’s pissed her off has nothing to do with me,” I call out after them.

I stand at the same time my phone rings on my desk. I glance down and consider ignoring it. Whoever it is can wait. Tracey can take a message. However, when I look up and see my secretary pointing at the phone in her hand, I slump back into my seat and press the intercom.

“Tracey, on a scale of one to ten, how important is this?” I ask her.

“Ten. I have Luke Gallah on the line for you,” she says.

I rub a hand over my face and sigh. I need to take this. Luke Gallah is the client going after Mark Kemp—the man responsible for putting Bentley’s father behind bars. Just the thought of what Kemp did to Bentley’s family has me seeing red. There is nothing I want more than to see him in that green fucking jumpsuit and behind bars. Where he belongs.

* * *

When I lookup at the clock, it reads six thirty p.m. The office is quiet. It’s been a couple of hours since I saw Bentley walk in. I haven’t had a chance to go and see her yet.

That phone call from Luke Gallah opened a whole new can of worms that threw me into a rabbit hole as I dug for any documentation that would confirm what he suspects is true. He’s claiming that Bentley’s father didn’t commit suicide, that Kemp had put a hit on his former business partner. I haven’t uncovered anything that suggests this yet, but if it is true, I will find the evidence needed to convict Kemp for his crimes. I’ve put in a request to have all of the legal files, Mr Johnson’s inmate files, everything I could think of sent here. There’s not much more I can do now, other than wait for the documents to make their way to me.

Standing, I loosen my tie and roll my neck. It cracks, relieving some of the built-up tension that’s taken residence there. I make my way over to Bentley’s office and find it empty. The lights are out. She left and she didn’t come and see me first?

I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. Just as I think it’s about to go to voicemail, the call connects. “Hello.” Her voice is strained.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?” I question her.

“Nothing’s wrong, and I’m at home,” she responds.

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