“I’m sorry, but I have plans. The girls can’t be short a Samantha tonight. I mean, it wouldn’t make any sense if it’s just Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda.” She shrugs, completely unaffected. “Maybe I’ll be able to stay later another day?”
Good God. No wonder she’s getting work out of a temp agency.
She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she bends over to pick up her fucking nail file and steps back out of my office, closing the door behind herself.
Blind with rage, I pick up the phone and dial the only woman’s number I know by heart. Up until this point in my life, she’s been steady. Constant. Dependable.
It rings three times before her voice mail picks up, and I wait dutifully for the beep to prompt me to talk.
Beep.
“Liz, what the ever-loving hell? The assistant I’ve ended up with in your absence—if you can even call her that—is completely unacceptable. She’s filing her fucking nails and talking about Sexy City and women I’ve never heard of, and instead of working, she keeps taking pictures of her coffee cup and tits, and I need you to come back in for a few days until you can find a replacement for her. Call me back, call me back, call me back.”
I’ll deliver her baby myself if it means I don’t have to deal with the woman who’s been taking duck-face selfies all day behind her desk.
I glance at the clock to get an update on the time now that Hillary isn’t here to remind me of it and her goddamn margaritas, and its numbers glow their evil red truth like a demon’s eyes.
It’s five after four, and the law library closes at four thirty.
Fucking hell.
I jump up, swing my suit jacket off the coat hook and over my shoulders, and grab my keys, wallet, and phone, and charge toward my office door. When I step outside, what should be Liz’s desk is devoid of the vapid, margarita-loving nail-filer. Apparently, after our encounter, quitting time came even earlier for Hillary.
Or should I say Hell-ary? Her presence in my office has certainly made it feel like Satan decided to pop in today and fuck my shit up.
Son of a bitch. This day is a disaster.
With absolutely no choice but to get shit done myself, I run for the elevator and push the call button six times, as if my enthusiasm will make it arrive faster. It’s going to take a miracle to get me there on time. But I can’t get anywhere in the Huffman Industries case without looking up the jurisdiction parameters of a similar case with the same judge ten years ago, and I promised Gene Huffman some kind of insight by tomorrow.
And I keep my fucking promises. I do what I say, and I get results. It’s what’s gotten me this far—it’s what’s made me the most sought-after corporate lawyer in North America—and there’s no way in hell I’m going to start presenting some mediocre bullshit now.
The elevator comes, and I jump inside and start pushing the door close button manically.
It does close—eventually—but I’m almost certain I’ve just confirmed that the door close button isn’t actually wired to anything other than a light. It’s there just to make you feel like you’re doing something.
Time ticks as an annoying collection of flutes plays something reminiscent of funeral music in the background—something I’ve never noticed before.
It’s a good thing I didn’t hear it for the first time on the way into the building. I might have taken it as a sign that I was free to live even more recklessly.
I smirk at the thought. My friends would absolutely shit themselves if I got any crazier than I am now.
Luckily, when I get to the lobby, my driver is at the front desk chatting with security. He looks up and sees me and, used to my pace, starts walking toward me and the door immediately.
“Hey, Vin,” I greet as he holds the front door of the building open for me.
“Mr. Hawkins.”
“The car is here?” I ask, and he nods.
“Got the spot right out front.”
“Great,” I murmur as I scan for it. “I need to get to the law library in the next fifteen minutes.”
Traffic in New York is never anything other than awful, but Vinny Hugano is the best goddamn driver available.
There’s never been a time he hasn’t gotten me somewhere on time, no matter the circumstances. I’m talking pigs flying, fat lady singing kind of obstacles, and still, he’s made it happen. I’m not sure if he’s a magician or immortal or maybe somehow related to a vampire or deity, but I’m not stupid enough to look Edward Cullen in the mouth.
So, today, I’m almost positive he’ll manage. Bolstering our chances for a timely arrival, the law library is only five or six blocks away.
Vinny opens my door, and I slide inside as he rounds the front and climbs in the driver door. The Suburban is fired up before I’ve even got my door closed all the way, and we’re pulling away from the curb.
I take out my phone and glance through emails before dialing Liz again. It goes to voice mail once more, but this time, I don’t bother leaving a message. I’ll just demon dial her until she answers as soon as I’m done with this errand.
And I find a few new text messages inside a group chat with my closest guy friends.
Thatch: Poker night is tonight, and you clowns better be there.
Kline: This has to be the twentieth text message you’ve sent about poker night in the last twenty-four hours. We get it, T. It’s tonight. We’ll be there.
Wes: You planning on sending out invitations you got off Etsy next? Make us RSVP and shit?
Thatch: Don’t tempt me. I’ll send a singing-fluffing-telegram to your office, Whitney.
Smartasses. The whole lot of ’em. I laugh to myself and continue reading the rest of the exchange.
Trent: We’ll be there, Thatch. We’ve all said we’d be there one million times.
Milo: Well, most of us will be there. Cap might not be able to come because he’s swamped at work. Liz is out on maternity leave, but I think his new assistant Hillary might be able to play a few rounds once she finishes up margs with the girls.
Fucking bastard. I roll my eyes and type out a response.
Me: Aw, poor Milo. Are you feeling insecure because I hung up on you? You know ole Cap still loves you, sweetheart.
Milo: Aw, thanks, honey. That means a lot. And you know what? Don’t be too hard on yourself that you’re currently out running your own errands because your new assistant left work early and is busy consuming her first marg…
Me: Funny fucking ha-ha.
Sadly, he’s not far off from my reality, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Of course, though, my bastard friends aren’t finished trying to razz me.
Thatch: Cap, before you get too busy running your own errands, can you give me Hillary’s number so I can call her and see if she’ll fill in for you? We can’t be short a player.
Me: You bastards better bring extra money tonight because I’m going to clean you the fuck out.
I lock the screen of my phone and grin.
I’m a fucking corporate lawyer. My poker face is aces, and there’s no doubt I will steal all their damn money tonight.