In Your Corner (3 page)

My lungs tighten. Outfoxed and outmaneuvered. He’s clearly been planning this for a long time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. And I just gave it to him.

A whiff of Bordeaux breath assails my nostrils, and I fight the nausea roiling in my gut. I am NOT going to puke on the navy blue, Farnsworth & Tillman embossed carpet.

“And even if you were foolish enough to pursue a lawsuit,” he continues, “how will you fund it without a job? I have an entire law firm at my disposal. I can have hundreds of associates working twenty-four hours a day to destroy you before you can file your complaint.”

“Go. To. Hell.” I take a step back and then another. Seemingly unperturbed, Farnsworth slides off his desk and drops his hand to his belt.

“I’m sure I will one day. But I plan to make the most of my time before I do. And so should you. Look what you have to gain. I can brush that file under the carpet. I can make sure your father and none of the other partners ever see it. And I can talk to the right people and ensure you make it through the partnership selection process. All I want is a taste of that honey you’ve been spreading around.”

My nose crinkles in disgust and I back right up to the door. I might have lost everything, but I haven’t lost my self-esteem. His choice is no choice at all.

“I don’t do blackmail,” I snap. “You want to send that file around, then send it and I’ll deal with the fallout. But there is no way on this earth you’re getting anything from me.”

Greed and lust flicker in his eyes. And anger. A lot of anger. Just like Evil Reid, Farnsworth won’t take no for an answer.

“There are women in this firm who were grateful for the opportunity I offered them.” His lips curl in a snarl. “You walk out that door and you’ll lose the partnership, your career, your father’s love and pride, and the regard of your friends and colleagues. You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.”

“I’ll have my self-respect.”

Farnsworth gives a bitter laugh. “Really? What self-respecting woman takes a new lover every month…or is it every week? The file is so thick, I can’t remember. Wake up, Amanda. Self-respect does not mean running the gauntlet through every dick in the city.”

His words are aimed to cut, and although this is not a part of myself I ever share, I am not ashamed of the choices I’ve made. I pull on the frosted glass door and throw a derisory glance over my shoulder. “Consider this my notice. I’m done with the firm.”

Farnsworth tightens his belt and narrows his eyes. “You may be done with the firm, but the firm is not done with you.”

***

A week goes by.

At least I think it’s been a week. Time has no meaning in the pit of despair or at the bottom of a vodka bottle. At least it’s finally dark outside, more fitting with my mood, and I don’t have to pull the covers over my head to evade the evil reach of the sun through the cracks in my curtains.

I tried to be good. I really did. After the shock of losing Jake, for a while I dated only parent-approved doctors, lawyers, and accountants. I stayed away from all but the most conservative clubs and bars. I tried to be who my parents wanted me to be. Uptight. Monogamous.

But it didn’t work. I couldn’t resist my attraction to the “unsavory” characters they had so despised when I was in high school—gritty, rough, and dangerous. The opposite of me. Apparently, however, even the scaled-down version of my reprobate behavior was enough to fill a blue file and give Farnsworth all the wrong ideas.

With a defeated sigh, I throw the covers off the bed, grab my cell, and flip to Drake’s number. Since I no longer have any hope of garnering my parents’ approval, I might as well embrace my chosen lifestyle. Go big or go home.

“Long time no sex.” I don’t even give Drake a chance to say hello.

Drake’s sharp inhale is clearly audible when I use his favorite line on him.

“Amanda. Where have you been? What happened last Friday night? You weren’t at work. You haven’t returned my calls all week…”

Talk. Talk. Talk. I don’t want talking. I want oblivion, kinky style, and Drake is the man to deliver. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I interrupt his monologue of worry by giving him the basic facts: Jake, Farnsworth, quitting. No need to tell him about the blue file or the harassment. Some things are better kept under wraps, especially from busybodies like Drake.

“So, you want to come over?” I try for a light, breezy tone that belies my desperate need for mindless fucking.

Clearly, it isn’t enough because Drake’s voice drops to a horrified whisper. “You quit your job?”

Tongue loosened after drinking too much vodka, the words that have been bottled up inside me all week spill out. “Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, I made a rash decision and threw my career away, ironically, for what I believed to be self-respect. However, upon further reflection, I have determined that I do not, in fact, have any self-respect and so I called you.”

“I feel honored,” he says dryly.

“So do you have some time free tonight? I believe I left you hanging last Friday and I want to make it up to you.”

Drake chokes. “Do you really…?”

“I do really. Desperately. I need it hard and I need it fast and I need it without any emotional strings. I’m embracing who I am and I want to get started right away.”

“Tsk. Tsk.” Drake chastises me with the tone one would use on a wayward child. “Sex isn’t always the solution. And you’re not thinking clearly. This is an opportunity and not a reason to run away. You have a chance to remake your life, choose a new path. We can talk…”

My head falls back on the pillow and I groan, cutting him off. “Are you coming over or not?”

Drake sighs. “Actually, I’ve just been paged and I’m en route to the hospital. How about I come to your place after I’m done? We’ll talk.”

There’s that word again.
Talk
. Drake and I don’t talk. We have sex. That’s what friends with benefits do. And I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to lose myself in the void of mindless physical pleasure.

I make my disapproval audible with a soft grunt. Drake snorts a laugh.

“You’ve been drinking. All the more reason to stay home and let the doctor take care of you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Might not be until the early hours of the morning though. Just don’t go out and do anything stupid. You don’t sound like yourself, and this is the kind of situation that often leads people to self-destructive behavior.”

“Sure.”

After he hangs up, I stare at the clock and the half-empty bottle of vodka. Then I call a cab.

***

“So, where are we going tonight?”

The cab driver pulls away from the curb and into the endless traffic of the Marina District as he glances at me through the rearview mirror. With his soft, round face, brown hair fading to gray, and twinkly blue eyes, he looks like a family movie dad.

“Hellhole. It’s a bar in Ghost Town, you know, in West Oakland.” I want to get drunk since my earlier buzz has worn off, and I want to get laid, and I plan to take home the first decent guy who wants nothing more than to show me a good time, no strings attached. And there is no better collection of commitment-phobes than in Hellhole. Rough, gritty, but not particularly dangerous since I know the staff well, Hellhole is only a few blocks away from Redemption but suits my mood to a tee.

“A nice girl like you shouldn’t be going to a place like that.”

Ha
ha.
Little does he know the girl in his cab is anything but nice and not-nice girls belong in not-nice places. “It’s not
that
bad. When I lived in Oakland, I used to go there for drinks with my friends. They spin the best metal and thrash.” And right now I’m in the mood for some down and dirty.

“You sure? It’s changed over the last coupla years. Gone downhill. And it’s a half hour drive over the bridge on a good day. Ten o’clock on a Saturday night means you’re looking at at least forty-five minutes through traffic.”

I fall back in my seat with a groan. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

We drive through the city for no more than five minutes before he starts again. “I have a daughter around your age. If I found out she was going to Hellhole, I’d be down there in two seconds to drag her home. And then I’d have something to say.”

“If someone told my dad I had gone to Hellhole, he would sit at his desk and start typing a new version of his ‘I’m bitterly disappointed in you’ speech.”

Lights flicker around us, blurring as we whizz through the streets. I close my eyes to block out the sight of irritatingly happy people. Finally, I begin to relax. Maybe I should have called Makayla, but she would talk me out of indulging my sorrows in meaningless sex, or worse, offer to come along. And the last time that happened, she almost lost Max. I couldn’t do that to her again.

By the time I open my eyes, the Foster Hoover Historic District aka Ghost Town is in sight. Broken lights. Rundown buildings. Youth gangs lurking in the alleys. We pass Redemption and my chest tightens at the sight of the unassuming metal warehouse with the new Team Redemption logo painted on its side.

“That’s one of the top MMA fight gyms in the Bay Area.” The cab driver slows the taxi to a crawl. “My son trains there and teaches some of the classes. He’s with the Oakland police. My wife and I are so damn proud of him. Neither of us finished high school.”

My mood takes an even deeper nosedive. I hate proud parents.

“What’s his name?” Not that I care because I will never step foot in Redemption again, but curiosity is an insatiable beast. “I used to…hang out there. My best friend is going out with the owner.”

He glances at me through the rearview mirror. “My boy’s name is Theodore, but we always called him Tag. His ring name is Fuzzy.”

“Don’t know any Fuzzys. He must have joined after I…stopped going. They’re good guys, though. Like a family.”

The cab driver pulls the cab over to the curb and turns around. “Why don’t I drop you at Redemption? You can hang with your friends and I can introduce you to my boy. Not that I’m trying to set you up or anything, but…you know…it would be safer than Hellhole.”

“If I wanted that kind of safety, I would have stayed at home.”

His look of consternation makes my stomach clench, and for a brief second I’m afraid he won’t take me to the club. But after a few moments, he sucks in his lips, pulls away from the curb, and we leave Redemption behind.

“Something happen to you?” He throws the question out almost casually, but I can hear his concern in the tightening of his voice. And since I’m slightly inebriated and don’t give a damn who knows how badly I fucked up my life, I give him the same story I gave Drake, leaving out the bit about the blue file.

He commiserates with me until we reach Hellhole, and then he turns around, worry lines creasing his forehead. “How about I wait outside? I’m almost done with my shift and I’ll be here in case you change your mind. It’s not easy to get a cab out here at this time of night…”

My heart squeezes in my chest. I’m a stranger and he’s more worried about my safety than my parents ever were. “It’s okay. Really. I know the staff. They’ll help me out.”

After the warm glow of the cab’s taillights fade into the distance, I knock on the familiar metal door inset in the crumbling brick wall of the building at the corner. Two of the streetlights are burnt out, and with no other businesses visible in the area, the street is dark and deathly still.

I wait and wait. A cool breeze rustles my coat, sending a chill down my spine and bringing with it a faint whiff of piss and stale beer. Just as I’m second-guessing my decision to come to Hellhole, a viewing slot slides open.

“You got a membership card?” The rough, leering voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end but not enough to scare me away, despite the fact that I have left my membership card at home.

“Look at me.” I wave my hand over my white sheath dress—chosen simply because it makes me stand out—the lamb offering herself up for slaughter. “Do I really need a membership?”

The door creaks open and a bald, burly bouncer steps to the side to let me pass. His face is pierced everywhere a face can be pierced and then in places I wouldn’t have considered piercing.

“Cover is forty bucks.” He holds out a hand. Also pierced. I slap a few bills in his palm and he points me down a long, dark, narrow flight of stairs.

“Welcome to Hell.”

THE DEVIL’S NAME IS BOB

Hell doesn’t disappoint.

Decorated in peeling shades of black and red, the dank underground club boasts a cluster of scratched wooden tables, a tiny dance floor, and the delightful aroma of pot, sweat, and stale beer. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the bar, I weave my way through the assorted punkers, bikers, and Goths, slapping away the occasional stray hand and ignoring the lascivious winks.

The violent ear-smashing riffs of the thrash metal band Evile scream through the cheap speakers, and the tables vibrate against the black painted concrete floor as I cross the empty dance floor. A few greasy metalheads pound their fists in time to the beat. Even rougher than I remember. The cab driver was right. The place has gone downhill.

“We don’t do girly drinks,” the bartender snarls before I even open my mouth. Big, burly, and bald, he looks like the bouncer’s twin brother but with an overabundance of facial hair and an extra few rolls around the gut.

“Good thing I don’t drink girly drinks.” I place my white beaded clutch on the bar. “Vodka straight up.”

He pours. I pay. He pours again. I pay again.

“Is Dave working tonight? Or Stella?” I don’t recognize any of the staff, readily identifiable as denizens of the underground in their black T-shirts with a red devil logo emblazoned across the front.

“Don’t know Dave or Stella. The bar has been under new management for the last year. They mighta got booted out when the place changed hands.”

A scuffle breaks out in the corner, and a tall Goth crashes backward into a table only to be manhandled out the door by one of the bouncers. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “The atmosphere has certainly changed.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, you a good girl lookin’ for a bad boy? Rebelling against your parents? Wanting to walk on the wild side?”

“None of the above.”

“So what’s the story?”

“Story is…she’s with me.” A leather-clad arm slides around my waist, and I look over my shoulder to find myself pressed tight against the Devil himself.

Tall and slim, his black hair slicked against his head, my new friend has the unnaturally pale skin and sharp, cruel features of a comic book villain. His eyes are dark, rimmed in red, and his mouth a thin slash between hollow cheeks. Despite his slender frame, he is surprisingly strong and I cannot pull away.

He presses his lips to my ear and nibbles the shell.

Clearly, there is no wasting time in the new Hellhole. No coy looks, brushed fingers, winks, or bad lines. No flirting over drinks or surreptitious feel-ups on the dance floor. See a girl you want to fuck—grab her. Nibble her ear. I can hardly wait to see what’s next. Is he going to bend me over the stool and have his way with me right here? Will he do for the night’s tickle and tease?

“Name’s Bob,” he murmurs.

Dear Lord. The Devil’s name is Bob. Well, better the Devil you know than the Devil you don’t.

“Hi, Bob.”

“You’ve attracted a lot of attention, Angel. We don’t often get your type in here.”

More nibbles. Maybe I should give him some cheese. Unfortunately, I don’t need nibbles. I need dark and dangerous. I need rough, meaningless sex with a man who doesn’t give a fuck about me and will walk away in the morning without so much as a good-bye. I want to hurt on the outside as much as I hurt on the inside.

“Good attention or bad attention…Bob?” I manage to say this in a sultry, non-laughing voice.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the only attention you’re gonna get tonight.” He trails his lips down my neck and bites the sensitive area near my shoulder.

Ah, Bob has bite. Nice. A little bite is just what I need.

But nice quickly transitions into uncomfortable when Bob doesn’t stop at a love bite. His teeth dig in harder until pleasure gives way to pain and a frisson of fear shoots through my body.

“Let go.” I try to pull away but Bob tightens his grip.

“This a game for you, Angel? You picked the wrong place to play. We don’t like cock teases here.”

Suddenly I don’t want to be in Hell. The lights are too dim, the air too smoky, the music too loud. And Bob is a little too extreme, even for me.

I twist in Bob’s grasp, but before I can escape, he yanks my hair, tugging my head sideways to expose the unmarked side of my neck. My pulse takes off down the speedway. God, what a mistake. I should be home in bed, waiting for my kinky friend with benefits to show up with his medical bag full of sanitized sex toys, not offering myself up for feeding time at the zoo.

“Stop.” I stomp my stiletto on his instep and Bob releases me with a howl.

“Fucking bitch.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. Ice floods my veins. Bob’s mouth is still moving but I can’t hear him for the pounding of blood in my ears.

Grabbing my purse off the bar, I edge back toward the rear exit door and give the bartender a beseeching look. He snorts a laugh and walks away muttering, “Good girl just found herself a bad boy.”

Taking another step back, I hold up my hands, palms forward. “Look, Bob…I think we’ve had a misunderstanding.”

“You paid your entrance fee, Angel. It’s my job to make sure you have a good time, unless you got something extra in that fancy purse to buy yourself some time alone.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re the owner?”

He lifts a thin, black eyebrow and smiles.

Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell and at this moment, I don’t care.

Pulse racing, mouth dry, legs trembling, I glance quickly at the sea of tables, chairs, metalheads, and Goths in front of me. A few of them are looking at us. Surely, they aren’t just going to sit around and watch me get robbed or assaulted. Or maybe that’s what they do for entertainment in Hellhole.

“I made a mistake coming here.” I force my voice to stay calm and even despite the violent trembles wracking my body. “You keep the entrance fee and we’ll pretend I had a good time.” Then I whirl around and hit the back door running.

Heart pounding, I take the stairs two at a time, no easy feat in heels. A few moments later, I burst into the alley and race toward the street. But before I make it to safety, the bouncer rounds the corner, blocking my way. Rough hands grab me from behind and pull me, kicking and screaming, behind a Dumpster.

“Her purse is behind you.” The bouncer jerks his chin toward the exit door as Bob pins me against the wall. He covers my mouth with one hand and brackets my wrists over my head with the other, holding them against the rough brick surface.

Maybe his real name is Beelzebub and they call him Bob for short.

“We could have had such a good time.” Bob strokes my cheek. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

The bouncer joins us and frowns. “I thought you just wanted her purse.”

Unable to imagine a “good time” that involves Bob in any way, shape, or form, I renew my writhing, kicking, and screaming efforts. My foot makes contact and Bob groans. He releases my hands, but before I can run, he grabs my hair. Twisting to get away, I lose my footing at the same time Bob releases his grip. Before I can catch myself, I go flying into the Dumpster.

Something cracks.

My head.

Someone screams.

Me.

But the echo of my scream isn’t the only sound I hear as I slide to the ground.

Tires screech. Doors slam. Feet thud on concrete.

Voices. Shouts. Roars.

“There in the alley. That’s her. The girl who was in my cab. Damn. I think we’re too late.”

Shadows race toward me. Dazed, confused, flitting in and out of consciousness, I watch them as if I’m far away.

“Fuzzy, better turn away. There’s gonna be some illegal activity going on in about ten seconds.” The deep voice is familiar. I last heard that voice at Redemption and it was attached to someone wearing a yellow happy face vest. My gaze focuses on a huge barrel chest. Rampage! What’s Rampage doing here?

“Fuck that,” someone answers. “Nothing illegal about taking down two criminals who I’m pretty sure are going to resist arrest. I won’t even mind doing the paperwork at the station tonight.”

A cop. Rampage called him Fuzzy. Oh my God. The cab driver’s son. Tears prickle my eyes and I wish I had a run-to-the-rescue kind of dad too.

The shadows converge, and as they come into the dim light, I recognize them from Redemption: Rampage, Blade Saw, Homicide Hank, and Obsidian. When I was with Jake, we partied with the Redemption crew every weekend. Best bunch of guys I ever knew—big hearts, big muscles, and a bond so tight they were almost like brothers.

And right now the brothers are on a tear with fury in their eyes.

Rampage grabs the bouncer and tosses him through the air like a discarded tissue. I catch a glimpse of red hair and a thin, wiry body as Homicide Hank screams and drives his fist into Bob’s gut. But Bob is fast. He spins around and an inattentive Blade Saw gets a punch to the jaw. Blade Saw’s face curdles with rage and I look away. A former semi-pro heavyweight bodybuilder with fists of steel, Blade Saw is not a man to be trifled with.

A crack. A scream. Bob drops to his knees. “My arm!”

The bouncer lumbers to his feet and races over to help Bob. A shadow darker than night bellows with a voice so low my toes curl, intercepting him midstride. The bouncer flies through the air and crashes against the wall. Throws and takedowns are Obsidian’s specialty.

“Hey, leave one for me. I can’t write up a report saying I just stood around doing nothing.” A tall man with broad shoulders and a shaved head wades into the fray of thudding fists, cracking heads, groans, and screams. This must be Fuzzy, the cab driver’s son.

Although I try to push myself up, pain knifes through my shoulder and arm, driving me back down to the ground. The cab driver kneels beside me and strokes my head. I wait for him to tell me how disappointed he is in me, one of my father’s favorite phrases. Instead, his face crumples. “I shouldn’t have left you. I should have dropped you at Redemption and driven away.”

My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. Speaking is too much of an effort. All my energy is focused on not succumbing to the blackness creeping into my vision.

“Amanda.”

Nononononononono
. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn away from that voice. The voice I hear in my dreams every night. The voice I heard in the boardroom last week. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I must be delirious. Jake is not here. He said he didn’t fight anymore at Redemption.

“Look at me.”

Unable to resist the opportunity to torture myself further, I turn and look into a deep blue sea of concern.

Jake. So handsome. I can’t look away.

“Jesus Christ.” His face contorts into a mask of anger. “What did they do to you?”

I would answer if I knew, but the world is a jumble of sounds and memories…and pain.

The cab driver puts a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“NO.” I find my voice as darkness creeps across my vision. “No hospitals.” Hospitals mean my parents will find out where I was and what happened. Hospitals mean confrontation and anger and a father’s disappointment.

“What were you doing here?” Jake gently brushes my hair off my face. “I mean…this isn’t your kind of place.”

“She told me she lost her job,” the cab driver interjects.

Hmmm. Maybe he’s not so great after all. Kinda meddlesome. And violating my right to privacy. Doesn’t he know what’s said in the cab is supposed to stay in the cab?

“I got the feeling she was going off the rails,” he says, clearly unable to read my thoughts. “I tried to talk her out of it.”

Jake’s face tightens. “What do you mean she lost her job? I saw her at her office last week.” The blood drains from his face. “When?”

“She said it happened last Friday.”

“Friday?” Jake’s strangled tone has me shaking my head. “Fuck. It’s because of me. It’s my fault.”

My heart squeezes at the pain in his voice. I want to tell him it isn’t his fault. I want to tell him it would have happened anyway.

But the words don’t come. Instead I close my eyes and succumb to the darkness.

Jake’s anguished face is the last thing I see.

***

“I have never been so disappointed in my life.”

My father brushes off his gray Hugo Boss suit and glares at me across the hospital room. Although he’s almost fifty-five, women still think he’s quite a catch with his piercing blue eyes, trim body, and square jaw. But I think my mom was the catch. Five years younger than my father, her soft blond hair curls gently around a perfect oval of a face, and her eyes are a soft blue, like a summer sky.

“Your mother called Farnsworth to tell him you wouldn’t be in to work and he told her…” He draws in a ragged breath and turns to my mother. “Tell her, Viv. Tell her what we had to hear from one of our dearest friends.”

Head fuzzy from painkillers and still dazed after being rudely awakened by my father’s bark of anger, I tilt my head to the side and frown. Well, at least they aren’t going to bother asking how I am.

My mother shakes her head and sighs. “He said you were worried you weren’t on the partnership track so you propositioned him. He was mortified, especially since you’re his best friend’s daughter. He said if it had been anyone else, he would have reported you to the State Bar, but as a favor to our family, he just asked you to leave.”

I draw in a sharp breath, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and the faint floral fragrance of my mother’s perfume. Farnsworth’s story is already in play, but he took a risk that my parents would believe his story over mine. Or maybe it was no risk at all.

“He’s lying.” My voice is a soft rasp, barely audible over the beeping of the machines beside me. “He propositioned me.”

My father gives a bitter laugh. “As if I would believe you. Do you think we didn’t know what went on in the house when we were working hard to put a roof over your head? Even now, every time we see you, you have a different boyfriend in tow. A person who is incapable of sustaining a stable relationship wouldn’t think twice about offering herself up to get ahead.”

Mom puts a hand on his arm. “Stan. I think you’ve made your point. She’s been hurt. We should let her rest. Why don’t you wait in the hall?”