A Thin Line (4 page)

preid1: yeah. did u? ever think about it I mean

angiec: not it til you did it. but i liked it.

preid1: me too. i should go. i want to get off before my mom hears me typing.

preid1:  pick u up at the same time for school

angiec: ok. still coming over later?

preid1: 7. 

angiec: 7. bye.

I signed off, stupidly giddy, and checked the time. 4:34AM. It was going to be the longest day ever.

At 7pm sharp that night, Preston was at the kitchen table, two books spread open before him, a notepad flipped to a blank page and a pencil stuck between his teeth. I sat across from him with the same setup, listening to my parents rush around the house because they were late for their meeting.

Under the table, Preston kicked at my feet. I looked up and met his eyes. He winked. Then whispered, "When are they leaving?"

I opened my mouth to answer but my parents came bustling around the corner. "Okay, kids. We're off. We'll be back kind of late, so get to bed on time," my mom chirped. "You'll need a good night's sleep for your test. What is it that you're studying anyway?"

"French," I said.

"Geometry," Preston said.

Confused, her gaze bounced from Preston to me, but she let it pass. "You're good kids to help each other out." She followed my dad out of the kitchen door to the garage. We stayed put until we heard the car's light rumble make its way down the street.

Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief. "I thought they would never leave!"

Preston threw his pencil down on the table and slammed both books shut. "I didn't even have any homework."

"Me either. By the way, Geometry?"

He laughed. "It was the first thing that came to mind! French? Showoff."

"Shut up." I got up from the table and walked around it to the refrigerator. "You want anything? Soda, water, milk–"

Preston stood next to me, an arm slung over my shoulder. He’d mowed the lawn earlier so he smelled of sweat and fresh cut grass and… guy. He smelled like a guy.

"I don't want anything in here."

"Oh." I stepped back, closed the refrigerator door and turned to face him. I was nervous but unsure why. This was Preston, the guy that lives two houses down, the same guy I've known for years that I used to play in the dirt and ride bikes and catch frogs with. Same guy. Right?

No. This Preston was different. I didn't know what to expect from this tall, almost man standing in my kitchen. The fact that I couldn't predict him was exciting.

"So what do you want to do?" He asked.

I bit my bottom lip, smiled, then lunged toward him, throwing my arms around his neck and pressing myself against him. Once he regained his footing, he wrapped me up tight in his arms and tipped his head toward me. Our lips met in a crush of pants and moans and shuffling of feet as we moved to the living room and landed in a heap on the couch.

Preston wiggled his way around so he was on top of me, between my legs like the night before, except tonight, wasn't being polite. His tongue was swirling around mine and his hips were gyrating, rubbing his hardening dick into me. It felt so good to buck my hips and meet his thrusts and stare up at his face while he moved. He was concentrating, deeply, eyes closed, cheeks flush, breath coming in fast, hard puffs.

"Wait, wait, wait. Stop." I started to sit up, so Preston stopped and moved to the side, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Sorry," he said, his voice gruff. "I'm sorry, I'll stop. You just...you feel good."

"I don't want us to
stop
, stop."

Preston's head snapped up. "What?"

"I want to move... uhm... upstairs."

"Oh." Relief washed over his face and he stood up, ready to go. "Okay."

We climbed the stairs, Preston following me closely down the hall to my room.  He stepped in, looked around and smiled.  "I haven't been in your room in forever. Where's all the pink stuff you used to have?"

When I was younger, my mother mourned the fact that I was a tomboy. She decorated my room in pink and white and it was so sickeningly sweet, I eventually refused to sleep in there. I'd had the white eyelet comforter and curtain set for a few years and while it was plain, it was better than pink.

"Got rid of it. I'm not a little girl anymore."

"Good. That pink shit was ugly."

We laughed, relaxing a little. I sat on my bed and kicked off my shoes, then gave a soft pat-pat to the bed next to me. Preston sat next to me, tucked his hands underneath him and stared at his feet for a few seconds.

"We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," I said. "We can talk." Mentally, I crossed my fingers that he would want to do more than talk.

"I want to."
Thank God.
"I don't know how to start." He tipped his head up to look at me. "Do you want to?"

"If you want to." I shrugged. "Did you bring.... uhm... anything?"

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a tri fold wallet, ripped the Velcro flap open and fished out a small disc wrapped in plastic. I took it and inspected it.

"How old is this?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I found it."

I felt the color drain from my face. "You found it? And you brought this to use with me? What if it has a hole in it or something?"

He grabbed it from me and held it up to the light. "It doesn't have a hole in it. See? Anyway, I couldn't get one from my dad. He had a vasectomy; they don't use them."

"It could still have a hole in it." I sighed and rolled off the bed, stomped down the hall, down the stairs to my parents' bathroom, reached deep into the closet for the basket of things my mother didn't know that I knew about. I fished out a couple of condoms and went back upstairs. Preston still sat in the same place. I handed one to him and threw the other one into the drawer in the night stand.

Preston looked from me to the small square package and back to me. "You want me wear your dad's condoms."

"It's brand new."

"Okay. So. Should I... I should take my clothes off?"

"If you want."

Off came his shirt, which he laid out carefully along the edge of the bed. He stood to unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans and kick off his shoes. I watched with amusement and amazement at him, his body and what we were seriously about to do.

"Are you going to take your clothes off?"

"Oh. Yeah." I pulled my t-shirt over my head and unzipped my jeans, letting them fall to the floor and stepping out of them. We were in our underwear, in the middle of my bedroom, staring at each other.

"So...we should..." I gestured toward the bed and we climbed on top of the comforter and sat there. "Maybe we should pull the covers back. In case... I mean, I'm a virgin and I heard–"

"Okay." We got up again, pulled the cover back and stared at the crisp white sheets. "You should get–"

"–a towel," I finished, then rushed to the linen closet next to my bedroom and dug out a dark towel.  I spread it over the middle of the bed. "Okay. We just have to stay on that."

We climbed back up onto the bed and sat on the towel.

"Let's lay down," I suggested. "And if we feel like doing something, we will."

"Right," he agreed, lying down next to me, flat on his back and then immediately rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow. Despite the fact that we had yet to do anything, he seemed pretty proud of himself. "You're a virgin?"

I nodded. "Are you?"

His eyes dropped and he shrugged a shoulder. "I wanted you to be the first."

"You did?"

He nodded, his cheeks flushing again. That made me want to kiss him. I wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him on top of me. I felt him through his boxers. He felt bigger...harder. Way different than through two pairs of jeans.

We kissed and humped and moaned for a few minutes before Preston sat up, rolled the boxers down his hips and reached for the condom that he had set aside. His erection raged, the shaft sticking straight up from his body. I'd only seen one penis before and it was okay. Preston's was fun to look at.

I laid back and lifted my hips so I could roll my panties down. My bra disappeared over the side of the bed. I was bare-naked in front of him and he seemed to be enjoying the view. I pulled at his arms and encouraged him to lie back down, which put him exactly where he needed to be.

"Will this hurt?"

Morgan and I had talked a lot about sex.
A lot
. I knew more about Nate than I'd ever wanted to know about another boy. I also knew what their first time was like. It sounded like fun... eventually... and I had been looking forward to doing it myself. At the time, I didn't have a boy in mind but ever since Preston kissed me the night before, he was the only one I wanted to touch me.

"I heard it hurts, but only for a second."

"Okay. I'm sorry if it hurts." Before I could answer, I felt him at the entrance to my body and lifted my hips to accept him. He moved slightly, thrusting gently, going deeper with each stroke, watching my face. He looked so scared, it made me almost laugh, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"I’m okay," I said, encouraging him. "It doesn't hurt much. You can go in more." He took instruction well, pushing further than before, then pulling back and pushing in until he was buried inside me and moving without obstruction, just delicious friction.

He smiled down at me. "We're having sex."

"Uh huh."

I couldn't say much more because I was in awe of him inside me, filling me up. I felt every pulsing vein and throbbing muscle, not to mention my own body arching up to him, in rhythm with his thrusts. I heard moaning and realized it was coming from him. The sound of him enjoying himself, with me, inside me–I felt powerful.

That we'd done this first with each other, for each other, meant the most to me.

He yelped and then went wild, bucking and gyrating which made me buck my hips into him harder. Seconds later I felt what I can only describe as an explosion–like someone left a livewire inside me. I might have screamed, I don't remember... I did wrap my arms around Preston's shoulders and hang on for dear life while he pounded into me until he gave out a loud moan and collapsed on top of me, dripping wet with sweat, hot to the touch and panting so hard I thought he was about to pass out.

Afterward we lay next to each other, both staring wide eyed at the ceiling. I couldn't help but smile, even through the aching at my core and the soreness in my thighs.

I had sex! I had sex with
Preston
. Eat your heart out, Stacey Fullmer.

"Hey," I whispered to him. He grunted in reply but turned his head toward me.  "That was way better than I thought it would be. I'm so happy you were my first."

Preston blinked a few times and then smiled. "Yeah," he answered, his voice gritty. "Uhm... I'm glad… you were my first too."

That was the first lie he ever told me.

The more I think about this case, the more I seethe with anger and compassion and just plain...
this isn't right
. Not only because my client is so obviously wronged, but because his landlord is so obviously a slimy piece of shit.  And so is his attorney. I am embarrassed that I even know the card carrying, dues paying member of the Florida Bar Association that agreed to represent him.

Carlos Sanchez is a hard working father of three. In his late thirties, he and his wife have lived in the US their whole lives. Not that it matters, because the adherence to tradition is tight–families take care of each other, no matter what.

In my first meeting with my client, he recounts his story of multiple run-ins with the manager of Bay Ridge View, the midrise apartment building where he and his family have lived for the last three years. Since the beginning, Phillip Bailey has given Carlos trouble-raising the rent mid-year, refusing to fix broken appliances, leaks and machinery in the building and filing multiple noise ordinance violations with the police department, citing ‘neighbor complaints'.

"I'm not saying I'm an angel," Carlos says, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He glances at his wife, who clings to an arm and nods in agreement. "You know, we have three young children, we have a lot of family and sometimes life is louder than we would like, but on nights that we were home with the kids, watching TV and reading stories before bed, the police would show up and want to look around and investigate. It was happening all the time."

Though I am recording the session so I can listen to it again and again, I’m also furiously taking notes. I finish scribbling a sentence, then look up at the Sanchez's and nod, prodding them to continue.  "So what happened that made you file the housing discrimination complaint?"

Carlos shifts in his seat and licks his lips. "It's like this. My sister, she married a man that beats her. It's bad. She would never leave because she has two children with him. But one night it got very, very bad and..." Carlos raises his shoulders and spreads his hands in a
what could I do?
gesture. "She ended up at our place. She was scared. The kids were crying. I told her she could stay for a few days..."

Gloria Sanchez picks up where Carlos leaves off. "That pig Emilio comes, yelling and screaming, drunk, pounding on the door. Finally Carlos opens the door to get him to stop, but he forces his way inside and he goes right for Christina! The babies see this... it's so terrible...."

Carlos picks up again. "We called the police and he was arrested. My sister and her kids stayed two nights at our place. Our lease says we can have overnight guests for a period of forty-eight hours. We were well within the terms, but we got a notice from Mr. Bailey that we had thirty days to vacate due to lease violations.

"When I called him to have a discussion about it, he said he was not going to have a bunch of...
spics
sharing one apartment and everyone living cheap on his dime."

My eyebrows lift at the way Carlos spits out the racially charged word and I can only imagine how it feels to hear it.

"I told Bailey, it's only my family living in the apartment. My sister came to visit, but we moved her and her children to my mother's house. There would be no more issues with guests. But..."

He shrugs. "He doesn't want to hear it. He says too many police complaints on file and that we are responsible for the damage, too. He says we have thirty days to get our
dirty asses
out of his building or he will have us removed."

"It's not like we have no place to go," says Gloria. "We have family and friends that would take us in. But it's the principle. We did nothing wrong and what he's doing, I am sure, is illegal. And if he can do it to us, he will do it to the next family."

"You are most certainly right, Mrs. Sanchez. This is illegal. It is discrimination by definition. Not only is he breaking housing laws but he's denying you a basic civil right. We are going to fight him and we are going to right this wrong."

"How long does it usually take to fight a case like this? We... don't have much money and I'm worried that we will have to move if there isn't a decision before-"

I hold up my hands and give the Sanchez couple a small smile. "Let me give you the good news. We get a grant from the Housing Authority for these kinds of cases. Our fee will be subsidized in part by that grant. We would be happy to work with you on the balance. Our accounting department can work out a payment plan that won't hurt too much.

"As for how long it takes?" I shrug, tossing up my hands. "It varies. I've had some cases settle very quickly. I had a case that went on for a year. The good news is that this complaint halts any eviction proceedings. That's a legal process he has to file. He's barred from doing that until this complaint has been settled because it will look like retaliation if he does."

Relief crosses both of their faces, and they sink back into their chairs. "So, let's talk about our game plan."

A few hours later, I'm in my office transcribing notes for my time sheet. At Flanning & Rourke, I bill at minimum 1,800 hours annually. Firms like Perry consider associates who bill under 2,000 hours a year to be slackers, so they bill for bullshit like ‘
File
Review
', which is nothing more than having a file open to review it. I don't personally bill for thinking about a case unless it's within the confines of a strategy session like earlier this morning with the Sanchez's.

I feel sorry for them, sure. But I also feel angry for them. They're in the prime of their lives, living the American dream, providing a good life for their children. I've passed the building they live in. It's in a nice area, surrounded by suburbs and small businesses. There's a nice neighborhood feel, with a park a few blocks away. I always see people playing Frisbee and walking dogs and riding bikes. I'd want to raise my children in such pleasant surroundings. Too bad the building owner is a scum bucket.

"What a dick," I mutter to myself, listening back on the recorded session and adding to my notes.

"Who's a dick?" I hear behind me. I turn to see Troy standing in the doorway of my office. It's either that the room is really small or Troy is really big but he seems to take up so much space.

"Hey, kiddo," I say, an old nickname for him slipping out of my mouth. I instantly grin, because I'd forgotten our agreement that I wouldn't call him that inside the building. "I mean... Troy. What's up?"

"Nothing," he says, stepping into my office and around my desk, settling into the only other chair in the room. "Who's a dick?"

"Oh. The landlord in this case I'm working on."

"The one I can't know anything about because my brother is opposing counsel?"

"The one and the same." I point at him, then begin putting away my notes and tape recorder. "I can't risk him hearing our strategy. I like the element of surprise to be kept intact."

"I would never say anything," Troy says, but he doesn't seem hurt at the insinuation that such a thing could happen. "I get it though. Better to be safe."

"Exactly. So what are you working on right now?"

"Besides carting shit to the basement? My first case."

"Really? That’s great!”

He nods, his head dipping in a moment of shyness. “It's a little thing. I only have to go to court once with the client. Easy."

"Easy isn't bad money at all, Counselor." I raise my hand and he slaps my palm in a high-five.

"Yeah, I'm feeling good. So..."  He grins. "How's that wedding planning going?"

I groan. "I really hate your brother. I hope you don't mind me saying so." He chuckles, as he often does. "He did come up with a good location idea but I'm not admitting to him yet that I like it. His head will blow up so big he'll never get out of his house."

"You guys have a funny relationship."

"We do not have a
relationship
. We haven't had a
relationship
in eighteen years."

"I get that, but...you're still around each other all the time."

I start packing up my notes and files and laptop to take them home for the weekend. It's Friday night and I am living the wild and swinging single life. "Not by any of my doing, I promise you. If I had my preference, I'd never see him again in my life."

"You don't mean that. I don't believe that."

"Believe it. He follows me around, not the other way."

"But you've never like... moved to get away from him."

"Why should I? I stay in Orlando because of my parents."

By the time I knew I was going to study law, my dad's Parkinson's had begun to show and that put an end to any idea of my leaving Orlando. Every morning I talk to my mother and get a report on my dad. I can do that from anywhere, sure. But when she needs me, it's important to me to be minutes away.

"It's not my fault he won't leave, either. And don't you start with that
he loves you
bullshit. You hear the shit he says to me. There's no love anywhere near his cold, dead heart for me."

"Alright, I won't start with it again. I'm right, though. I know I am."

"You might want to inform him that he's in love with me.”

Troy's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again. "I… might have told him, once. That I thought he was in love with you."

I stop dead in my tracks, my veins going cold for some reason. "And?"

"He almost knocked me out. He was so pissed off. Mom got mad, told me to stop picking at him." Troy laughs. "I thought it was funny."

"When you're in the middle of it, it isn't." I pick up my bags, packed full of material to review over the weekend and inch toward the door.

***

I spend most of Friday night and early Saturday morning reviewing the recorded session, transcribing the conversation, taking notes and doing research into Phillip Bailey. I find quite a bit of information on him, namely that this isn't his first discrimination case. This should be a slam dunk.

Should be. And if I wasn't up against Preston, I'd be more confident in that assertion, but since I am up against him, I still don't know how this is going to turn out.

Though I have the a home office set up in an alcove of my one bedroom apartment, I usually work while sitting on the floor in front of the television, my work spread across the coffee table. My laptop sits to my left, all my notepads to my right, my files directly in front of me. This position means I cramp up a lot so I have to get up and walk around, grab some water, make some coffee.

I decide, around 9am Saturday, to get out of the apartment and clear my mind with a run before it gets hot.

I don't want to make it sound like I'm athletic. Stress is my cardio and I’ll probably lose five pounds planning the wedding and trying not to lose another case to Preston. Running forces me to concentrate on not dying, so I’m not thinking about work.

I change into a tank top and yoga pants, socks and sneakers, grab my phone, ear buds, ID, debit card and keys and shove them into a small sack that attaches to an armband with Velcro. I hop in the car and drive five minutes to a local city park.

I hit the trail and have a long, calming run. The air is clear and clean, the flowering trees and shrubs give me some pretty scenery to focus on while I heave and pant for a few miles.  Since I'm out, I decide to run some errands, then head back home to work. We have a conference with Preston and Philip Bailey next week. I want to be ready.

I dip into a local grocery store, grab a basket and head to the snack aisle. I pick up a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of medium salsa. I'm eyeing nacho cheese dip, but I'm not sure I should get both. I reach for it, pick it up, then shake my head and consider putting it back. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I sniff a familiar scent in the air-wood and musk. Before I can turn around, I hear him.

"Evangeline."

I sigh and my shoulders drop.
Fuck.
Must I see this man every day of my life?

“Preston," I say, without turning around. I put the nacho cheese back.

"Morning," he says, sounding chipper and cheerful. I glance at him and he looks presentable for 10am- jeans, a black button down shirt, far enough open at the collar that I can see tufts of chest hair. If I was looking that hard. Which I'm not. He smells good, like... like he hasn't been home yet from his date the night before. I am instantly disgusted. For what reason, I'm not sure.

"Grabbing a few snacks for the day, are we?"

"Can't get anything past you, Counselor."

"You don't eat this crap all the time do you? I mean, you can't. Not with that body."

I turn to find him eyeing me, head to toe. It reminds me of that day in seventh grade, when he'd made the discovery that I was a girl and he couldn't stop staring. And then he told me I was hot. Except back then, I liked it.

"What do you want? I'm busy." I want to turn around and walk away but that would leave him staring at my ass and I don't want commentary about my ass in the snack aisle. So I stand there with an irritated facial expression and a slight tilt to my head hoping that incites him to leave.