The ringtone dies as it kicks over to voicemail. I close my eyes and count to three. Maybe, just maybe…
And if you don’t like it, then hey, fuck you
So put a quarter in your ass ‘cause you played yourself
Fuck that guy so hard. It’s three in the morning, on the weekend, and he’s lighting my phone up like a Roman candle.
It goes to voicemail again. I’m not even back in the living room when it starts ringing again. I’m going to have to change that goddamn ringtone.
I’d like to block his number altogether, except McArthur does own my balls, to some extent involving a lot of dollar signs, and I’ve got to handle his shit right now.
I call David back. Because leaving a message at three in the morning is beyond the realm of reason for this fuckwad.
“You better not be fucking any whores.” David says as a greeting. “This case is serious.”
“David, it’s three in the fucking morning.” I shove a little grit into my voice. “What can I do for you?”
David launches into a ten-minute rant about fuck knows what, because I’m not listening. I can tell he’s drunk and just looking to start shit, which means this is an utter waste of my time that still falls into billable hours. Check and mate, asshole.
“Are you even fucking listening, Stevens? The fuck do I pay you for?” David slurs.
“Right here, David. Right here. That’s tragic.”
“So, what I’m saying is….” David drawls to a silence for the first time.
“We’re going to win this.” I assure him, pouring a straight glass of whiskey from my bar cabinet. “You want me to make sure she goes down hard and I will.”
“Get all the dirt you can.”
“Dirt is my middle name.” I immediately wince, because even I feel like a douche for saying it. “Get some sleep, David. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Fucking-a right.”
He hangs up. I toss back the entire glass of whiskey and look down at the glass. I should bill David for it.
I boot up my laptop and resume an image search of Kate McArthur. It can take a while to sort through, but everyone tends to have dirty laundry on the internet if you look hard enough. My job is to look hard enough. I pour another whiskey.
Some fifty pages in, I find a series of topless photos from a beach trip six or seven years ago. Either David changed his hair and his whole damn uglyass face, or she was kicking it in Turks with another guy. Every last photo goes into the McArthur folder on my desktop. I’ll have to cross-check the dates, but if I can get an established history of infidelity, it’ll be a huge score on my part.
Most of the images are really too blurry to be of any use. I start another search for Kate in Turks and stumble across a jackpot: dozens of them, some with great views of her tits. One thing I never understood was how someone as fucking sexy as her ended up with a twat like David. Forget leagues, he’s not even on the same planet as Kate McArthur.
I zoom in on one of the clearer photos. She’s mid-laugh, flashing all her teeth and a set of dimples. Her hair is a mess, tits are in full view. They are my favorite kind of breasts: round, full, perky, with small pink nipples. They look like little old-fashioned candies you eat right off the paper.
Whiskey gone, dick hard, naked tits in front of me. Before I realize it, my cock is out and I’m fucking myself. I run a finger across her digital nipples, wondering if they’d be as sweet as they look. Her whole body was firm, tight, but looked soft enough to plow into.
I love fucking soft women. A quick mental picture of my cock sliding between those glorious tits and I am done for, shooting cum across my table and keyboard, involuntarily grunting louder than I had intended.
I save the photo in a separate, hidden folder on my desktop. For later. Just in case.
CHAPTER FIVE
KATE
Every week is a nightmare scenario. It’s hard to remember it’s only been a month since David demanded the divorce papers be rewritten, because time slips through my fingers like grains of sticky, terrible sand. Some days, it feels like only three days passed. Others, a lifetime.
Robolibrarian tries for a stronger hold on mediation this week. She’s fielding questions, posing possibilities, establishing scenarios. My head hurts and I don’t feel like playing along, so I don’t.
Today, Eric the asshole lawyer and I are mentally involved in another series of compromising positions. I’m wearing a black leather bodysuit, crotchless for when I want him to touch me, and carrying a whip. Every time the real asshole says anything I whip imaginary him.
Dream Eric is tied to a chair, a ball gag dangling around his neck. I pick up the weight of it in my hands and let it drop against his Adam’s apple. He winces and the words stop once more.