Текст книги "Give Me Yesterday"
Автор книги: K. Webster
Соавторы: Elle Christensen
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
“It’s a support group. And Claud’s a great lady but she’s not interested in ever remarrying,” I clip out and cut my eyes over to her. She’s slicing an orange to garnish our beers with and she’s lost in thought. When no one’s looking, she drops her playful demeanor. Loss and heartache plague her features. But the moment she lifts her chin and her eyes meet mine, she forces a grin. I smile back. “Anyway, what’re you doing your topic on?”
Cort narrows his eyes at me but respects my blatant subject change. “Personality and Psychopathology. Thought I might figure out ole’ Daddy,” he grits out.
His parents divorced when he was a senior in high school, when his mother found her best friend in bed with her husband. It was a bitter, nasty divorce that pulled both him and his younger sister into it.
“Psychopathology isn’t the same as psychopathy, man. Hate to burst your bubble there. Your dad’s just a cheating asshole. That’s my professional opinion,” I tell him with a shrug.
He laughs and soon we’re past tense subjects while we devour fried pickles and beer that Claudia’s long since brought to us.
My laptop sits on the coffee table in front of me, open to Blackboard. Most of my students have already inputted their topics, a few brave souls—Mack included—challenging me by taking on ‘Power and Dominance.’ But my gaze isn’t on my computer, instead it’s on the wall in front of me—a wall I’ve painted countless times. Clamping my eyes shut, I attempt to conjure up the exact shade I remember. Everything is sketchy in my memory bank and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get it right.
One thing’s for sure, though.
It’s the wrong goddamned shade.
With a huff, I rise to my feet and stalk over to the bookshelf in the corner. On the top shelf, sits a color palette booklet. Snatching it up, I thumb through the colors of the rainbow until I find the one color that always alludes me yet is perfectly imprinted in my brain.
I count through the Xs over each wrong color.
Sixteen.
The seventeenth shade gets a big fucking X too.
Since I only instruct Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week, Tuesdays and Thursdays are my play days. Tomorrow, it would seem, I’ll be playing in the paint section of the hardware store.
I carry over the palette to the bar and drop it beside my wallet. Tomorrow I’ll attempt, once again, to find that color.
The color that haunts my dreams.
The color that should bring joy but instead drags out depression from the depths of my soul.
A color that will always be perfect in my head but no matter how hard I fucking try, I’ll never bring it to life on my living room wall.
“Life’s not fair,” I mimic Mom’s words.
I cringe at her harsh words that were meant to mend my heart and push me back into reality. Back then, despite her unyielding personality, she was there for me. Tough love, she used to say. But, she eventually lost the bite of her rigid nature, the moment Alzheimer’s started playing tricks on her. Little by little, it stole my strict mother away and in return gave me this confused, lost woman. One of the only three people I’ve ever truly loved came to a point where she couldn’t remember if she loved me back or not. Now, I feel as though I’m all on my own, facing reality, without my mother’s guiding hand and advice.
My head throbs in unison with my broken heart and I run my fingers through my hair. Gripping at it, I slam my eyes shut.
Discombobulated shards of my brutal past stab and slice through my head. I force my eyes back open and with it, the sadness that ever attaches itself to my psyche withdraws into the shadows of my mind.
Tomorrow, I’ll visit her.
Tuesdays they have fresh daffodils at Schrage’s Florist, and just like I do each week, I’ll bring them to her.
She doesn’t have to tell me she likes them because I know.
Pain once again slices through my chest and I stumble into the kitchen, on a desperate mission to dull it. Yanking open the cabinet door above the stove, I grab the amber colored whiskey bottle and unscrew the cap. I bring it to my lips and take a long swig, enjoying the burn as it races down my throat.
It burns in my chest and chases away the hurt.
But for how long?
Another pull of the whiskey.
Life’s not fucking fair.
The wind whips at my hair and rogue strands plaster against the front of my face. Damn it. I tuck them back, irritated that I didn’t put on that extra layer of hairspray this morning. It’s a rare spring day in Chicago, the weather in April often swinging from fifty degrees to seventy-five day to day.
I walk swiftly up Whacker Drive toward my office building, barely noticing the river, still green from the St. Patrick’s Day celebration. I don’t see the other people around me, taking in the sites, eating a Chicago dog from a street vendor, the sights and sounds of the city that excite so many people. I miss it all, my thoughts focused on my upcoming meeting.
After the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to attend Northwestern, so I transferred to the University of Chicago and was eventually accepted into their law program. I didn’t have a specific track in mind, but when it came time to apply for positions as an associate, the best offer was from the firm Abbott & Taft. They are one of the most prestigious firms in the city, but the opening was in the specialty of divorce. It ended up being an area where I excelled.
Perhaps there is some irony there, helping others to see what I already knew—love brings nothing but hurt.
I dedicated myself to the job one hundred and twenty percent, leaving no time for family or friends. The result was to become the youngest junior partner in the history of the firm.
My upcoming appointment is with my most wealthy client. I represent a Chicago Cubs outfielder whose wife violated the fidelity clause in their prenup. Repeatedly. Apparently, he was head over heels because he kept forgiving her until she unexpectedly filed for divorce three months ago. For some reason, the hussy thought by being the one to file, it would negate the rules. He got himself a smart one there, didn’t he?
Once I met with her overly confident lawyer—idiot—and laid out the ironclad—and I say ironclad, because it just so happens that I was the one who put their prenup together—agreement with her lawyer, I sent him back to her with his tail between his legs.
If I had my way, the bitch wouldn’t get one single cent, but they have a kid together, and David wants to settle this out of court. I don’t handle cases where children are involved and my boss, Larry, knows this. Due to the deep background checks they do on all possible candidates for an associate position, he is aware of the accident and subsequent loss. I’ve never talked about it, but he knows. So, I was monumentally pissed when he laid this one on my doorstep.
I have a reputation as an ice queen, a bitch, a pit-bull, and many other terms that probably seem unflattering. But, I don’t give a shit. To me, those names represent my ability to effectively do my job without any emotional crap getting in the way. I’m a merciless negotiator. I’ll take on the toughest of cases, and even though I follow the letter of the law, that doesn’t mean I fight fair.
And, I always win.
At the end of a case, my clients don’t become my friends. I don’t get Christmas cards. Instead, I get a big, fat bonus, and the promise of becoming an equity partner in the next few years. That works for me just fine.
Kids are where I draw the line, though. I don’t do custody issues. However, my boss came into my office all those months ago and basically told me to take one for the team. David offered the firm an astronomical retainer in exchange for having me handle his divorce. Another lawyer on my team is mediating the custody arrangements, but he had a family emergency take him away, and now it’s in my hands until he returns. The timing couldn’t be worse. May is approaching, and even after ten years, on that day, I haven’t been able to completely seal the wall around the empty chasm where my heart should be. Somehow, there are a few beats, each one more agonizing than the rest. Every other day of the year, I am able to master the ability to live without my heart, to avoid attachment, feelings of any kind.
I reach the tall, glass building, each window reflecting the change in the weather. The sky is becoming clouded, and I can smell the scent of rain in the air. Just fabulous. It matches my fucking mood. Once inside, I stop at the ladies room in the lobby to make sure my appearance is perfect. My long, blonde hair is swept into an elegant chignon, and I smooth every hair into place, unwilling to accept any rebellious strays. My wide, rounded blue eyes are lined with black kohl, a subtle mixture of browns on the lid, and black mascara that fringes the top and bottom, making the color of my irises look especially icy. Lips glossed, cheeks lightly rouged, and my complexion completely smooth, without a single blemish. I pay a fortune to keep my appearance perfect, but it’s worth it when I can use it to intimidate the opposing council.
I run my palms down my ivory, silk blouse and navy pencil skirt, eradicating any wrinkles. Pearls in my ears and nude, five-inch fuck-me heels, elevating my five-foot-seven frame to give me a height advantage. I check the time on my dainty gold Rolex and see that I have thirty minutes to spare until my meeting.
Perfect.
I’m ready.
Exiting the bathroom, my heels click against the marble tiles, each tap a reminder that I’m a force to be reckoned with. A machine. I approach the elevator just as the doors swoosh open. I stand aside as it empties where I’m greeted by a few co-workers; giving them nothing more than a perfunctory nod, or clipped hello. Once I step inside, the doors begin to slide closed, until a large, masculine hand shoves in between them forcing them open again.
I stiffen when I see that it’s Kyle, a fifth-year associate who has been on my team for David’s divorce. Kyle is well within his rights to be bitter about my position above him. He has been with the firm a year longer than me. However, for some reason, he has taken it all in stride and is the hardest worker in the group. He’s the only co-worker who makes an effort to scale my walls. He has even indicated his desire to take me out several times, though I have made it abundantly clear that it will never happen. Regardless, he makes the offer subtly from time to time, while never doing so in a pushy manner. Always kind. If I were even remotely interested in having someone fill the hole in my chest, I might have accepted his offer at some point. But, I’m not. I want nothing to do with relationships and emotions.
Kyle smiles warmly at me and says hello before turning to face forward, seemingly unaware of my standoffish attitude. When we reach his offices, he wishes me good luck with my appointment and leaves me with another smile. The tension remains when I’m alone, steadily growing as I rise up each level. The ping alerting me that I’ve arrived on the forty-fifth floor startles me and I jump just a fraction of an inch. I tell myself to calm the hell down and find the steel inside.
When I step off the elevator, I’m once again the Ice Queen, ready to put the fear of God into David’s slutty, soon-to-be ex-wife. Stacey, my assistant, stands as I approach her desk, handing me a small stack of papers.
“Here are your messages. Your eight thirty meeting will be in conference room B, and I’ll have coffee and refreshments placed in there ten minutes prior. Also, your mother called. She wanted to remind you about your cousin’s rehearsal dinner coming up,” Stacey says hesitantly.
She’s toeing the line by giving me my mother’s message verbally and she knows it. The only messages I want given immediate attention to are from Larry or a current client with an emergency.
I give her a stern look, then thank her and walk into my office, thumbing through the messages. When I come across a handwritten reminder of my mother’s message, I toss a dark look at Stacey through the glass wall that separates my office from her workspace. She doesn’t see it, because her head is down, looking as though she is engrossed in her task. I sigh and make a mental note of having a word about it with her later.
I read the note again. Rehearsal dinner. Right. Danielle is getting married. I’ve told my mother I would make an effort to attend, but we both know I won’t. That doesn’t stop her from trying, though, nor from her pestering me about losing out on family memories during our obligatory, once a month conversations. I always bite back a scoff at that; reminders of family are the last thing I need.
The rest of the notices aren’t urgent, so I spend the next twenty minutes prepping, going over the details one final time, despite knowing them inside and out. At eight twenty-five, Stacey buzzes on the intercom to inform me that my client has arrived.
“Send him in, Stacey.”
My door opens and David walks in, looking tired and defeated. The season has just started and I can only imagine how much this stress will affect his playing this year. The Cubs are struggling as the organization is being rebuilt.
Okay, so I’m a fan.
I didn’t lose every single part of the girl I was. Being a Cubs fan is in my blood. In any case, I hope he can get it together and be an asset to the team. Just another reason for me to get this divorce done and over with quickly.
“David,” I greet him, walking around my desk to shake his hand. “Are you ready for today?”
He runs his hands through his dark hair, the already messy mop cluing me in to the fact that he’s been doing this repeatedly all morning. I put my hand on his shoulder attempting to garner his undivided attention, an act which emphasizes my message much more, seeing as how I rarely make physical contact, other than a handshake.
“I need you on your A-game. There is no room for weakness when you face Janessa. You need to store up your armor and put on a stone cold façade. Got it?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders strengthen and I hold in a sigh of relief, my job is a lot harder when the client doesn’t back up my power play. “Let’s do this. I want it done and over with.”
I grab my files and we walk to the conference room where Janessa is seated with her attorney. She has her patented bitch face on, but I suspect some of that is permanent from too much Botox. Her clothes are ridiculous—leather and leopard—her blonde hair curled and puffed up like she just walked off the set of Pretty in Pink. Her attorney, however, looks like a frightened little boy and I give myself an internal fist bump for succeeding in making him cower before me.
I take my seat at the table and glance over at David as he does the same. His face has softened the tiniest amount, so I slap a folder down on the table, drawing his attention. My eyes narrow and his face hardens once again, returning to face the greedy, airhead across from him. Janessa is an idiot in most regards, but when it comes to David, she knows the weapons she wields to get to him and I don’t want him displaying even the minutest indication that she has any leverage at this negotiation.
I place a recorder on the table and give the necessary spiels required to avoid lawsuits. Then we get down to business. After two hours, we’ve hammered out a settlement that is highly in David’s favor, leaving Janessa seething with rage. The last point of contention is the custody arrangement. Currently, their two-year-old little boy, Jacob, lives with David full-time, and sees Janessa on the weekends. Well, the few weekends that she doesn’t cancel. I’m confident that she has no desire to be tied down with being her son’s permanent residency and David has no desire to keep her from Jacob. Piece of cake.
I should have known better. Janessa decides to take this moment to stab David with a proverbial knife and twist it around in his gut to create as much pain as possible.
“I’ve filed for full custody of Jakey,” Janessa purrs, satisfaction oozing on her words. “I don’t think you can properly care for our son with how much you travel.”
Her eyes widen in practiced innocence.
Oh for the love of…
I just barely resist the need to roll my eyes.
“Besides, all that partying you baseball players do… the drugs and liquor and women. That’s just such a bad influence on my Jakey.”
Ew.
She’s making me nauseous with her syrup covered bullshit.
“What?” David yells, jumping to his feet. “You know my life is nothing like that!”
Fuck.
I grab his arm and wrestle him back into his seat, giving him a warning stare. I raise my brows in silent question about whether or not he is going to calm down and let me do my job. I’m itching to bitch slap this hoe up and down the miracle mile, but there are better ways to go about it getting the same result. Her destruction.
He jerks his head up and down and stays silent, but he’s panting out harsh breaths, attempting to cool down. I return my eyes to Janessa, giving her my best withering stare. She shrinks back for a second, then seems to notice her retreat and sits up tall, a sinister smile stretching, what I can only assume are helium filled lips.
“I’ve got affidavits from some of the men on your team, backing me up.”
Guys she fucked around with, no doubt.
Despite my best efforts, anger begins to wiggle its way past my barriers. The lies will be harder to deal with, but not impossible. I’ve already got a file full of proof that she is an unfit mother. The problem will be keeping the kid out of foster care if these two go after each other and neither one comes out looking like a responsible adult.
Janessa stands up and places her palms on the table, leaning forward so that the water balloons on her chest wiggle and almost pop out of her low-cut, skin-tight, leather dress. “I want half of everything, or I’ll make it so you never see your son again, David.”
I continue to lose my grip on my temper with every word she speaks.
“You don’t even want him, Jan.” David’s voice is hoarse, devastation rubbing it raw like sandpaper. Another bit of anger spikes, this time at David for not only giving her leverage through his obvious state but for not trusting me to handle this.
“You’re right. I don’t want to be a mother. But since I know Jacob is everything to you, if I have nothing, then you have nothing. I don’t give a fuck who raises him. He can go into foster care. So long as it makes you miserable.”
Every thread snaps and I jump up from my seat so fast that the chair flies backward, smashing into the wall behind me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I scream. “Your child is not a fucking asset to be traded, you heartless bitch!”
I know I’m way out of line.
I know I’m drawing a crowd.
I know I’m going to pay for this.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
How can God give women like her a precious baby and take one from someone who loved and cared for her more than her own life?
I mirror her stance, leaning on the table and getting in her face. “Listen up, Barbie. I will see to it that you won’t get a thing from this divorce. Not one cent. I will also personally make sure that you never see your son again.” My tone drops, becoming lethal, and I can feel the frost in my intense gaze. “I’ve got mountains of dirt on you and I will bury you. Or, you can shut your plastic lips, march out of here with your broom and sniveling assistant, and one hundred thousand dollars of David’s money.”
Janessa’s face is mutinous, but I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I switch my focus to the pathetic excuse of a man next to her, who pretends to be a lawyer.
“And you, your best option is to get your client to agree, because if she does, there is the slightest chance that I won’t get you disbarred. Anyone who can sit there and let her treat a child as though they were trash, doesn’t deserve to live, but I’ll settle for never being able to practice law in the state of Illinois, ever again.” I take immense joy in the loss of blood to his face, and go in for the kill, “If she doesn’t take the deal, you’ll never practice law anywhere. And you and I both know I have the reputation, and the contacts to make that happen.”
“David!” Janessa whines, “Are you going to let her talk to me like that? The woman you love? The mother of your child?”
It’s the last one that seals her fate. David stands and throws her a disgusted look, then meets my eyes. “Do it. She gets nothing.”
Then he turns and walks out, never looking back. David is well aware of what I have on her but has been attempting to keep the divorce amicable. He’s giving me permission to wreak havoc on her life, then crush her underneath my spikiest heel. My inner devil rubs her hands together with glee.
“I’m sorry, you waited too long. My offer expired. So, both of you, get your asses out of my office.” Janessa is at least six inches shorter than me, even in heels, so I stand up straight and tower over her, even from across the table. “Don’t even think about contacting David. I’ll have a restraining order against you for both David and Jacob before you even hit the sidewalk.”
Janessa’s attorney rises and grabs her arm, whispering in her ear and dragging her from the conference room. Once they are gone, I snatch the nearest thing, which happens to be a crystal tumbler of water, and hurl it at the wall. Giving myself just a moment to calm down, I gather my things and face the door. Stacey is standing there, her jaw hanging down, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Call someone to have that cleaned up, will you? I’ll be in my office.”
I stalk past her, ignoring the fact that every pair of eyes I pass are staring at me. Once I reach my office, I hit the button that makes my glass wall turn opaque and drop heavily onto the tan, leather couch on the back wall. I am still boiling with fury, but the hysteria is wearing off and I begin to internally freak out over the reputation I have so painstakingly cultivated which is most likely now in ruins. Ten years. Ten years I have had my emotions capped, never letting them surface.
My office door opens, drawing me away from my internal pity party. Larry fills the doorway, noiselessly watching me. His silence is unnerving, but I’ve known him long enough to stay quiet and let him work out his thoughts before he speaks. Larry is older, at least sixty, and has been managing partner of this firm for over fifteen years. At first glance, you wouldn’t know he is a ruthless, high-powered attorney. He looks like the uncle who sneaks you treats before dinner and takes you for piggy-back rides. If uncles like that were dressed in five thousand dollar suits, had their silver hair styled with a five hundred dollar haircut, and played golf with the governor. Not that I would brag about the last one, seeing as how so many of our governors seem to end up in prison.
“You’re one of the best attorneys I have, Victoria.”
Okay, not what I was expecting.
“Probably one of the most talented lawyers I’ve ever seen.” He’s praising me, not firing me?
“However…” There it is. “Today’s actions were completely unacceptable.”
Again, I know to stay silent until he’s finished.
“It was also completely unlike the woman I know. But the problem I’m facing is that this other woman is somewhere inside you and I can’t have her making another appearance.”
Defeat. Failure. These are not things I’m used to. My head hangs as they burn me up. I fear the minute he lets me go, I’ll burst into flames until I am nothing but a pile of ash.
“Second chances are hard to come by in this business, but I’m going to give you one, Victoria.”
My head whips up to meet his steady hazel eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter, “what?”
“I think you’re worth it.” He is studying me thoughtfully. “I don’t know the details, but I know enough from your files, and the way you stay unattached to everyone and everything... You haven’t dealt with your grief, Victoria.”
Everything inside me withers like a raisin in the sun. Don’t go there, I plead wordlessly. Please, don’t—
“I want you to get help.”
No. no. no. I’m chanting in my head, hoping I’m imagining this entire conversation. Wondering if I wouldn’t rather be fired.
“If you’ll agree to go to counseling, you’ll keep your job and we won’t speak of this incident again.” His eyes are soft with understanding, and I remember that Larry is a widower. But it’s not the same, damn it! His wife was in her late fifties. She passed from cancer. His kids are still alive, they—stop! Stop thinking about it!
Behind his sympathy, though, is an undercurrent of steel, and I instinctively know he won’t budge on this.
“I’m not asking you to go to intense therapy. Just a little grief counseling. I’m going to have my assistant give you the information for a group that helped me when I was dealing with my wife’s death. I’ll also have her register you and tell the person who runs it to expect you.”
Finally, Larry steps into my office fully, and walks to the chair near the arm of the sofa, sitting and reaching for my hand. Habitually, I pull it away, and he sighs, then sits forward, his elbows on his knees. “Three months. I’m requiring you to attend for three months. If you want to stop after that, it’s up to you. We’re done with this now. Moving on. But if it happens again, I won’t be able to save your job a second time. Do we have a deal?”
I’m torn between my relief at still having my career intact and my desperate desire to avoid anything that will require me to openly acknowledge my past. The little angel on my shoulder wins and I choose the career I have worked so hard for.
“Deal,” I croak. I’ll make it work. I only have to be there; he never said I had to participate. So fine, I’ll listen to a bunch of people’s sob stories and their touchy-feely attempts to “heal.” I’ll do what I always do. I’ll shut the door to myself, lock it, and never let anyone in.
