His Temporary Assistant

Not that anyone in the raucous bar gave one whit what we were talking about. The Yankees were far more entertaining.

Dex knew the basics, but when I told him exactly the kind of compensation on the table, he got a whole lot more interested.

Time went by quickly as we rolled through a few of my other larger cases. Dex drank just that final beer as we went over some of the high points, and then we circled back to Donnelly vs. Donnelly. His mind was definitely operating on all cylinders once that payout was on the table.

We sat on those stools long enough that my ass went numb.

My very pinchable ass, if scuttlebutt could be believed. I was good with just Ryan taking advantage of me.

Hopefully soon.

“I’ve been eyeing this place on the lake,” my brother mused much later, nursing his glass of ice water as if it was another beer. “It looks like a damn chalet. Has a couple levels and an outdoor hot tub and boat launch and shit. Can you imagine the pool parties? It’d be like summer all year long.”

“You do remember we live in central New York. Half the year it’s practically like Antarctica.”

“But a hot tub, my man.” He turned to vigorously clap my shoulder. And Dex worked out a hell of a lot, so he had some grip. “With enough room for like six.” He smiled dreamily, picturing things in his mind’s eye I did not want to guess at. “Maybe eight if it’s near bikini season.”

“That can be yours and more if you take lead on this.”

“You really don’t want it anymore?”

“No. I really don’t.”

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My phone vibrated in my pocket and I dragged it out to see a picture of a sliver of moon and a sprinkle of stars in a dark blue sky over what appeared to be rolling hills in the distance and a long ribbon of road. Makeshift campsites covered the land off to the side.

Before I could text, another picture came in. This one had flares set upon the road and bright orange traffic cones arranged behind what looked like a large Airstream slightly tipped to one side. That might have been an optical illusion.

Or not.

Miss Moon: Our shitty luck. Had to move camp & we hv a flat. We’re gonna see if 1 of our new friends in the nearby camps has a towing membership or whatever. If u text and I don’t get back, that’s y.

PMS: No. What? No. Is that safe?

Miss Moon: Of course. Ttyl. Hope your ass is still virgin.

There had been way too much talk about my virginity tonight, in inappropriate, non-applicable ways. But that wasn’t important right now.

PMS: No, don’t do that. It looks like a hippie commune. They could be on drugs or a sex brigade or I don’t even know. And it’s dark out. Shelter in place until daylight.

Miss Moon: They knit, PMS, among other things. And there’s nothing wrong with a lil recreational ganja.

PMS: You work for a lawyer, Miss Moon.

Miss Moon: I quit, remember? And I didn’t say I was smoking any. I’m too busy trying these neat lil shrooms I found…

I pressed a finger to the pulsing vein in my temple. I knew I was overreacting. I could feel that I was drifting into pure ridiculousness, but I could not seem to stop myself.

Was this love? Or maybe I really was insane.

Possibly they were actually the same exact thing.

Dexter moved his face close to mine. “You all right, Pres? You look like you’re going to stroke out.”

“No, I am not.”

“What did she do now?”