“Okay.” Robolibrarian claps her hands. “This is going nowhere.”
The suits go back to arguing and I go back to fantasizing. It’s the only way I’ve been able to get through these sessions without being drunk or high. Eric Stevens, smarmy asshole, is an obnoxiously sexy smarmy asshole: high cheekbones, square jaw, eyes brown like chocolate, and a toothpaste smile half of our town paid handsomely for. If he wasn’t so bloodthirsty, he would have made a great actor. Instead, he gets his jollies off by harassing me in this stuffy office twice a week.
My daydreams evolved from make-out sessions on his desk to crawling across the table, Whitesnake-style, and ripping off his jacket. All while David watched. His stupid face would freeze in terror while I hiked up my skirt and mounted his jackass lawyer. Nothing sweet, just a good old-fashioned fucking as we smeared sweat and body fluids all over the lacquered table.
“The whole point of these meetings is to avoid a trial over assets.” Robolibrarian’s voice cuts through. “If you aren’t willing to compromise, why the fuck are you at my office?”
“Good question.” David and I say together.
I bet if David watched me fuck his lawyer, he’d like it. He sucks, so of course he’d like to watch someone else plow me. From what I’ve learned in our previous counseling sessions, it’s what he really wanted anyway. Maybe I should have taken him up on those offers so I could have had a good lay for once in my freaking life.
My daydreams resume. Each time smarmy lawyer Eric opens his mouth, I slap it shut. I make him obey my every whim and tell him I’ll only stop if he says the safe word.
“What’s the safe word?” He gasps, so turned on by my feminine wiles he can barely breathe.
“I’m not telling.” I laugh coyly and rip off his pants.
Vivian nudges me to signal this blood bath is finished, for now. Sitting in a chair while someone who doesn’t even know me paints me as a trampy gold digger after my asshat husband cheated and lied and stole everything away from me is unbearable. Mentally banging the opposition was all that got me through it. Vivian knew it and did her best to lead the conversation while I mentally fucked Eric Stevens into a corpse.
Or probably something less gross, if I weren’t so desperate for him to die in a fire, David burning next to him.
We take a separate bank of elevators on the other side of the floor even though David hangs back with his attorney to suck up to a mediator who isn’t going to sway me into settling. Vivian slides out of her heels as soon as the door closes and sighs.
“He’s a dick.”
“Limp as the one in his pants.”
“My condolences. What happened today?”
“Whitesnake. It was amazing.”
“Whitesnake? That is some serious white people shit.” Vivian coughs through a laugh. “Next time, wear a low-cut shirt. Maybe he’ll only screw you mentally from now on.”
I grin. “Oh, it will be my pleasure.”
CHAPTER TWO
ERIC
“And boom goes the dynamite.” Paxton slides a tray of shots to the middle of our table and drops to his seat. “Drink up, gentlemen, for tonight we celebrate.”
“You gotta cut that 300 bullshit out, man.” I grab a glass and a salted lime. “No one thinks it’s cool anymore.”
“Your mom isn’t cool anymore.” Geoff snickers next to me. We cut him a look and he quiets down. No one ever invites him formerly, yet he’s always here.
“To the boards we passed, the broads we fucked and the bros we know.” Paxton holds out his shot glass.
We clink glasses and shoot the tequila. The two pathetic excuses for men at my table suck the lime but I throw mine over my shoulder. Geoff frowns, Paxton roll his eyes and I shrug.
“Tradition, fuckers. Deal with it.” I gesture with the hand now holding a neat whiskey. “I need eight more of these. Becky! Another!”
The waitress shoots me a wink and disappears behind the bar to work her magic. I only come here for Becky and her huge ass crammed into tiny shorts. It’s the highlight of my fucking day, no matter what day it is. I could win the lottery and quit my job tomorrow — Becky would still be my crowning glory.
“One of these days, boys, I’m going to take her home. Maybe Tamara too,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth the image of Kate sitting across the table today pops into my head from out of nowhere.
“I don’t think Becky or Tamara would appreciate you sleeping with either of them, being that they are coworkers.” Geoff’s face screws up again and I briefly consider, for the hundredth time, why we let him play with us in the big leagues.