His reply is the meekest he’s been since this damn call started. “Yes. Clear.”
“Good.” I hang up.
This day has gone from bad, to fantastic, to craptacular, to I don’t even know what the fuck it is now. It’s like soap-opera level shit.
And I still don’t have a fucking cup of coffee.
Claire
“What do lawyers get when you give them Viagra?”
Carl grins like a little boy while chewing his donut, which is a little disconcerting, to be honest. Still, he’s one of the few people I’ll miss when this job is over. He’s silly and a little crazy, but he’s nice enough and he seems to like me. Given how cool things have been between Declan and me since we made the mistake of crossing the line, I’ll take any friendly faces I can get.
I’ve picked out a chocolate glazed from the box, and I’m eating while standing with him. It’s getting to be a bit of a morning routine for us. It was only supposed to be Fridays, but what can I say? I'm weak. A few quiet moments before I head deeper into the maw of the beast. God knows I need all the positives I can find these days. Carl definitely isn’t complaining.
Eying Carl, I sigh and give up. “I don’t know. What do they get?”
“Taller.” He laughs out loud, apparently finding his own joke hilarious.
I laugh, but raise an eyebrow at him. “What about us lady lawyers? Hm?”
He actually cocks his head and thinks about it. “You know, that’s a good point. I’m going to have to get back to you on that one. I might need to update the ol’ repertoire.”
“Well I’ve got one for you then. How is an intern different from a clay pot?”
For once it’s Carl’s turn to look at me blankly. “I don’t know, how?”
“Only one of them wants to get fired.” I give him a wink. “Time to get to work. Declan’s been on my ass lately about being on time.”
Carl chuckles at my attempt to be clever, and licks the last of his donut off his fingers. “He’s the last person who should complain about punctuality.”
I shrug. “Right? But whatever. He’s the boss.”
“The story of my life, girly.” Carl turns back to his desk and then snaps his fingers like he just remembered something. “Oh, you know about the summer party on Friday right? Half day—where pretty much nothing gets done—and then we party the rest of it.” He grins, obviously looking forward to it.
“Yeah, I heard yesterday. Is it really that much fun?” I try to picture Garrett cutting loose and can’t do it. Declan maybe, but his dad? No way.
“You’d be surprised.” Carl wiggles his eyebrows. “Besides, it’s worth it just to get out of wearing the same old thing every day. Say hi to Mr. Grumpy-pants for me.”
I smile and nod, not letting on to how small the chance is that Declan and I will even exchange words in person. We’ve gone email only, and it’s easier on my head and my heart. At this point I’m done trying to figure him out. I’ll be happy if I can just get through the rest of my internship with my dignity intact.
It’s been two days since Michael called, and I haven’t heard any more from him. That video is like the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. If he uploads that anywhere, my life’s basically over. Google never forgets. School, job, family. I shudder at the thought. Can I really stay strong?
I’ve been trying to decide if I should just get it over with and at least tell my mother, because if he sends that out, well... It’d be better if she found out from me first. Right?
Now that’s a mother-daughter talk I’m not looking forward to.
I don’t know Garrett well enough to say if it would screw up their wedding plans or not. How would he react? Would he dump Mom rather than have an amateur porn star for a stepdaughter? I’m not exactly a celebrity, but his business reputation is important to him and people would definitely talk. I almost regret not just going along with Michael's demands, at least until after the wedding is over.
I don’t know what I’ll say on Friday when he calls back, but the idea of Michael taking me out and putting his hands on me, kissing me...
Ugh.
Unlike Declan, who makes my blood boil, but my heart beat faster. I smile and give a wave to one of the paralegals as I pass her desk. Nobody has said anything, but I feel like everyone knows something happened. They must be able to tell we are barely speaking to each other.
Entering my office, I set the donuts down and plop into my chair. Dad’s picture is there, reminding me every morning about the cost a bad decision can make. I trace the frame with a finger, wishing for the thousandth time that he had been around long enough to give me advice.