Sustained (The Legal Briefs 2)

home, and you’re too much of a fucking idiot to listen.”

He stands up, his face turning from white to an angry pink. “You can’t talk to me like that! My father pays your salary.”

I stand too—and I’m a lot scarier at it than he is. “Sit. Down.”

He does. I stay standing. “I did just talk to you like that, asshole. And lightning didn’t strike me, so get over yourself. As for your father, no, he doesn’t pay my salary. But even if he did, I wouldn’t hesitate to call you the stupid, dickless moron you are.”

He gets more flushed with every word.

I sit back down, my tone turning more philosophical. “Do you know what happens to boys like you in prison, Milton? Wealthy, pretty, sweet-smelling boys?”

And he goes from pink to pale in no time flat.

“Unless you have a secret fantasy about getting your ass torn apart, you need to get it through your thick skull that the only thing standing between you and a cellmate named Chewbacca is me.”

He finally looks frightened.

“And because it’s my job, I’m going to keep your undeserving ass out of prison whether you want to cooperate or not. Got it?”

He nods and smartly keeps his mouth shut.

“Now—are your fingerprints on any of the heroin bags?”

He shakes his head. “No. I never touched them.”

Perfect. Chances are I’ll be able to work around his latest arrest.

I take out a business card from my top drawer. “When you leave my office, go straight to this address.”

He examines the card. “What is it?”

“It’s a monitoring company. They’ll fit you with an ankle monitor that will tell them if you leave your house. If you do, they’ll notify me.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

“Not a fucking word, Milton. This is your last chance—you screw this up, it’s plan B all the way.”

“What’s plan B?” he asks, like it’s an option he’d rather consider.

“I beat the ever-loving shit out of you. You can’t get into trouble if you’re in traction.”

He swallows so hard, I hear it. “O-okay,” he stutters. “For real this time, I’ll listen.”

My expression remains stony; I’m not giving an inch. “For your sake, you damn well better.”

• • •

Two hours later, I’m in an exam room at my doctor’s office, sitting on the table with that stupid paper crinkling under my beige slacks. I check my watch. He’s late. As if my mood wasn’t black enough, I really hate to be kept waiting.

With nothing better to do, I glance around the walls of the room. Framed medical certificates from Yale, a poster on proper hand-washing technique, an advertisement for the flu shot, and a reminder to get your prostate exam.

Just shoot me now. Put me out of my misery.

And for the thousandth time in two weeks, I swear I’ll never find myself in this position again. No more nameless hookups. No more jilted girlfriends with self-esteem issues looking to lose themselves in a stranger fuck. From here on out, it’s dating only. I’ll get to know them. I’ll become goddamn choosy, no matter how unappetizing it sounds.

Finally the door to the room opens, and in walks an unfamiliar face in a white coat. Light brown hair, tiny dark eyes, a smooth chin that appears to have never met a razor.

He looks fucking twelve.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He glances up from the file in his hands, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Becker, I’m Dr. Grey.”

I fleetingly look at the door, expecting his father to walk in behind him. “You sure?”

Good-natured teeth flash. “Yes, I’m sure I’m a doctor. I’m new to the practice. Dr. Sauer had a family emergency so I’m covering for him today.” He turns a page in the file, scanning the contents. “Before we discuss your test results, let’s go over the recommended protocols for safe sexual intercourse, including condoms, spermicidal lubricants, birth control—”

I hold up my hand. “Let’s not. I’m good with all that. Just give it to me straight—are my results good or bad?”

• • •

I raise my bottle of beer, clinking it against the three raised glasses. “Clean as a whistle.” I haven’t smiled this much since I won my first case. I’m practically giddy, for Christ’s sake. My cheeks are getting sore.

“Congratulations,” Sofia tells me happily.

“Healthy, wealthy, and wise,” Stanton says. “Here’s to stayin’ that way.”

“Damn straight.” I take a drag from the bottle. I don’t usually drink at lunch—and I never get drunk, even on the weekends. I’ve always associated being wasted with weakness, a lack of control, hazy thoughts, and regrettable actions. But this is a special occasion.

“So what’s your plan now?” Brent asks. “As if I didn’t already know, you randy bastard. I’ve seen the way you’ve been leering at poor Mrs. Higgens. Desperate much?”

I flip him off. Mrs. Higgens is pretty much the only female in my radius who’s exempt. Which leads me to my next question. “So . . . what’s the typical schedule with the whole dating thing? How long before one gets to the actual fucking?”

“Three dates,” they all answer simultaneously.

My eyebrows rise. “Three dates? Seriously? Are you guys, like . . . more religious than I ever knew?”

“You’ve never heard of the three-date rule?” Sofia puts a forkful of Caesar salad into her mouth.

When I shake my head, Stanton explains. “The first date, you talk, see if you can stand to be in the same room together for more than an hour. The second date is like . . . verification that you’re both actually the person you seemed to be on date one. And the third date is the sweet spot—let the good times roll.”

Seems like a lot of effort just to get laid. I wonder if the pussy is better if you actually know the girl’s name.

“Wait a second,” Sofia pipes up. “Does this mean you’ve never dated? Never had a girlfriend? Even in high school?”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t exactly boyfriend material in high school. And the girls I hung around with weren’t interested in that kind of thing.”

“That’s kind of cute, Jake,” she teases. “It’s almost like you’re a virgin.”

I frown. “Except, not at all.”

“I’ve got a date on Friday,” Brent tells us. “With Lucy Patterson from Emblem and Glock.”

Emblem & Glock is another DC firm with whom we regularly compete for clients.

“Sleeping with the enemy, huh?” Stanton asks him.

Brent shrugs. “She’s smart, gorgeous, and doesn’t think I’m a prick when I complain about a newbie prosecutor who refuses to make a deal. Plus, the professional competition thing is kind of hot.” He looks my way. “I could see if she has a friend. We could double.”

I do the calculations in my head. “That means the earliest I’ll be getting any is Sunday. And that’s only if I blow my whole weekend on a woman I haven’t even laid eyes on yet.”

That doesn’t work for me.

“You have an alternative?” Brent asks.

As a matter of fact, I do.

• • •

Some guys have a problem hooking up with a woman they work with. They’re afraid it could turn awkward. Complicated. But not me. And especially not in this case. I figure already knowing each other’s names, having seen each other come and go for the last seven years, shaves at least one date from the three-date rule. Gotta love the efficiency.

Camille Longhorn works in the billing department of my firm. Single, five ten, about a hundred and twenty pounds, long legs, fantastic rack, dirty-blond hair, and a face that resembles a young Elle Macpherson. When I asked her out to dinner four hours ago, I was desperately hoping her hair wasn’t the only thing dirty about her.

But that was then.

Now? Not so much.

Because after listening to her drone on about things I could never care about

; after hearing the high-pitched snorting laugh that makes me flinch involuntarily every fucking time she does it; after watching her compulsively twirl her hair and scratch her head, to the point where I feel like I’m crawling with an infestation of angry invisible spiders—I’m just not interested anymore.

At all.

It’s like that fat-suit Gwyneth Paltrow movie a few years back. Now she’s hot . . . now she’s not.

“And then I said, that’s above my pay grade!”

Squeak-snort.

Squeak-snort.

Squeak-snort.

Oh god. Please, stop talking.

I try to block it out. To focus on the important things—like the round fullness of her tits straining against her beige sweater. I imagine how they would feel cupped in my hand, between my lips, under my tongue with her thighs around my waist and—

And there’s spinach in her teeth. Or arugula, maybe.

My dick hangs his head. And yet I somehow manage to keep my face impassively polite as I point at her mouth and say, “You have a . . . something . . .”

“Oh! Thanks.”

She lifts a knife and picks her teeth in the reflection.

I never realized that the downside of getting to know a woman before I screw her is the possibility that I might not want to screw her after I know her. That a personality could have such a devastating effect on desirability. It’s depressing. My whole worldview is blown to bits.

When the check comes Camille starts to take her wallet out of her purse, but I wave her off. I toss a couple fifties on the table and together we stand, put on our coats, and head out onto the sidewalk. We walked here after work, so the good news is, I don’t have to drive her home.

“Thank you for dinner, Jake.” She smiles up at me. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

I open my mouth to tell her no thanks. Honesty has always been my policy. I don’t have the time or will for sugarcoating. But I stop myself—because this is dating. Spin, half-truths, white lies, keeping options open and bases covered are what you do when you’re dating. And maybe she’s having an off day. Maybe the next time I see her she won’t be annoying and I’ll actually want to fuck her brains out. It could happen. And I’d hate to shoot myself in the cock if that is even the slightest possibility.