Overruled (8 page)

8

Sofia

I
haven’t lifted my head from my laptop since I walked through the door. My heels lie discarded beside the entrance, my damp beige trench coat is strewn across the floral armchair where I tossed it, my umbrella is propped in the corner, dripping. Sherman’s stretched out in front of the picture window, his big browns eyeing the raindrops that pour down the window pane. Elton’s
Greatest Hits 1970–2002
has been playing as I draft one motion to suppress evidence, another asking for change of venue, and still a third—a response to the district attorney’s attempt to charge my seventeen-year-old client, the son of an esteemed lobbyist, as an adult for drug possession with intent to sell.

The back of my neck aches as I roll my head, trying to loosen the protesting muscles. I set the computer on the couch cushion beside me and rub my shoulders as Elton croons “I Want Love.”

And it’s then I finally let myself think about all the things I was using work to avoid.

Stanton is leaving. Going to Mississippi to fight for “his girl.” There was no uncertainty—letting Jenny Monroe marry someone else was never a consideration. He was adamant, bold, determined as I’ve ever
seen him. And I have no doubt he’ll march down there and remind her of everything she’s obviously forgotten.

I imagine him bursting through her door, lifting her with those strong, sculpted arms—like Tarzan claiming his Jane—and convincing her, with his irresistible smile and shrewd charm, to give him another chance.

And when she does—and I’m sure she will—my arrangement with Stanton will be over.

I close my eyes. Because my stomach is tight and there’s a heaviness on my chest—like the feeling you get after swimming in a pool for too long.

This isn’t my first trip around the block. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single woman. I’ve had several one-night stands. In law school they’re about all you have time for. They fill a need, leave you in a good mood, and help you focus.

One hand literally helping the other.

That’s why I said what I did this afternoon—snapped him out of his shocked funk. Got him on the right track. Because before anything else, Stanton is my friend. I wouldn’t say I’m self-sacrificing—but I’m loyal. And that’s what good friends do. They help each other.

What we have—what he and I do together—is fun. Physical and convenient. And above all else, it was supposed to be simple.

But the sick feeling in my stomach, the tinge of sour jealousy on my tongue—there’s nothing simple about that.

I shake my head at myself, determined to shake off this melancholy right along with it. I’m not one of
those
girls, the kind ruled by emotions. I’ll just put it aside, like last season’s handbag. Maybe Stanton going away for awhile is the best thing. It’ll give me the space I need to clear my head. Because falling for your “friend with benefits” would be a dumb move, and I’m no dummy.

Sherman lifts his head a moment before there’s a brisk knock on the door. He gets to his feet, but stays silent like the good watchdog
he is, as I cross the room. I open the door, and there—his saturated arms braced on the frame—stands a panting, dripping Stanton Shaw. Raindrops cling to his thick lashes as he looks up at me, bent at the waist. A translucent white T-shirt sticks to his torso, outlining ridges of solid muscle and the path of hair that leads lower beneath his drenched running shorts, leaving little to the imagination of what he’s packing beneath. His golden locks lay flat on his forehead, dark and wet.

There’s a Latin phrase—
omne trium perfectum—
that means everything that comes in threes is perfect. This stands in direct contrast to the commonly held belief that deaths and catastrophes also comes in threes.

It seems only fitting that Stanton utters three words. He’s said those same words to me before in a raspy plea, as a harsh order—each time with his hands grasping my slick body and the air between us heavy with desire.

And in this moment, just as all the ones before it, they’re my undoing.

“Come with me.”

•   •   •

Dripping in the middle of my living room, Stanton takes my offered towel, rubbing it over his head and down his tan arms.

“Explain it to me again?” I ask, because I just can’t wrap my head around his plan.

“I want you to come with me to Mississippi. I’ve got one shot at this—I can’t afford to screw it up. If I go off like a rocket on Jenn like I did this afternoon, she’ll shut down. That girl’s as stubborn as a whole pack of mules. You can help keep me calm—focused—just like we do in court. Plus, you can give me pointers on how to show her she’s making the biggest mistake of her life.”

“I don’t even know Jenny.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter—you’re a woman. You know how they think. She’s obviously not satisfied with our relationship, so I need to pull out all the stops. Big romantic gestures. You can be my resource—my wingman.”

His wingman—great. Like Goose in
Top Gun.
The less-than-attractive sidekick. The little buddy. The Expendable.

His shirt makes a wet, sloshing sound as he peels it from his body. I soak in the sight of his deliciously wet, warm skin that tastes like salty heaven on my tongue.

That’s just not fair
.

I close my eyes—he’s not the only one who needs to work on his focus.

“Stanton,” I begin with a sigh. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird bringing me home with you while you’re trying to win back your ex?”

He actually takes a moment to consider the question. But doesn’t get it.

“Why would it be weird? We’re friends.”

And I’m forced to point out the obvious. “Friends who have sex!”

Wild, sweaty, unforgettable sex that leaves me exhaustedly, wonderfully sore. Sex we could be having at this very moment . . . if an envelope hadn’t arrived that shot it all to shit.

Rubbing the towel across his ridged torso, he agrees. “Exactly. We’re friends who fuck—that’s nothing like what me and Jenn are.”

The breath is knocked from my lungs—but he doesn’t notice. And I want to punch him in his stupid boy mouth, so he can’t say any more stupid words.

But it’s his expression that stops me from doing it. Innocent, bewildered curiosity shines in his wide green eyes, making him look young and guiltless. Sherman gave me the same look after he mauled a pair of six-hundred-dollar shoes.

A look that says:
Huh? What I’d do?

I switch tactics. “I can’t possibly take off from work. My schedule’s packed.”

He doesn’t believe me, because he knows my schedule as well as his own.

Damn him
.

He steps closer, grabbing my cell phone off the table behind me. “What’s your code?”

I tighten my lips deliberately.

He just rolls his eyes and punches in a few numbers. He gets it on the first try.

Bastard
.

“Your birthday?” he says with a mocking snort. “You should take your security more seriously.”

He accesses my calendar. “You don’t have any court dates. You have one deposition and one client consultation. Brent and Jake could cover those for you.”

Stay strong, Sofia.

“I don’t want them to cover for me.”

Stanton changes tactics too. “You grew up in Chicago, went to school in Boston, and now you live in DC—you’ve never been to the country, never been to the South. You’ll love it—it’ll be like a vacation.”

I snort. “Mississippi in June? It’ll be like a vacation in hell.” Before he can counter, I add, “Besides . . . I don’t fly.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “What do you mean?”

I point to my right side, where the jagged scar adorns my rib cage. “The plane crash, when I was a child? No one in my family has stepped foot in a plane since.”

He gazes off to my left with squinting eyes, reevaluating his plan, and hopefully my role in it. Then his jaw clenches with conviction. “We’ll drive. We’ll get there in two days—later than I’d wanted, but still enough time. And hey, you can drive the Porsche! I’ll be able to make good on that bet: two birds, one stone.”

All out of excuses, I tell him softly, “I think me coming home with you is a really, really bad idea.”

Stanton holds my stare for a moment . . . then he lowers his chin, breathing deep. And he looks . . . defeated. Sad. Completely not like himself.

And there’s a pull—the desire to put my arms around him and tell him it’ll all be all right. To see him smile that beautiful smile again. The part of me that really is his friend wants to help him.

Unfortunately, the part of me that wants to keep being his lover votes to drop-kick her on her ass.

“I know I’m asking a huge favor,” he says in a low, scratchy voice. “But I’m only asking because this is hugely fucking important to me. And you’re the only one who can help. Please, Sofia. I need you.”

Three words. Again. The only ones he really needed to say.

Damn it.

This time I lower my head with a defeated sigh.

“Okay.”

9

Stanton

S
ome ideas hit you like a flash of lightning—a quick shock of brilliance. Like that story in grade school of how gravity first occurred to Sir Isaac Newton—with a knock to the head by an apple. Other ideas aren’t as obvious or immediate. They stew in the back of your mind, simmering slowly, then eventually boil to the forefront. And when the proverbial lightbulb goes off, you wonder why it took you so long to see it.

I went for a run to burn off the frustration of my conversation with Jenny. And somewhere along the path in front of the Lincoln Memorial it occurred to me what going home would entail. Clients would need to be passed off to other attorneys at the firm, extensions might have to be requested, Jake could take care of the apartment . . . and Sofia would be back here. In DC. Without me. Surrounded by a whole town of Richard Amsterdams who would swarm her like bears on an unclaimed honey pot.

The thought was . . . bothersome.

Sofia’s a grown woman, she can take care of herself—and she has no obligation or commitment to me. I understand this. But I’m allowed to care about her—I’m her friend. The idea that she could take up with an
Amsterdam, that she may replace me with someone so fucking unworthy, because of a physical need, didn’t sit right with me at all.

Then I recalled my talk with Jenn. I went over it in my head the way a quarterback reviews last game’s tapes. And I saw clearly the tone I should’ve taken, the words I shouldn’t have said. All the worse things I would’ve said if Sofia hadn’t been there to set me straight, to pull me back from the brink. That’s when the notion occurred to me—the solution.

And the more I thought about it, the smarter it seemed. The best course of action for both of us.

When I looked up, I was outside Sofia’s townhouse. Like my feet had led me there on their own. My dick does that on occasion, and he’s never steered me wrong before.

So here we are. Bright and early Thursday morning, in front of the same townhouse, carrying Sofia’s bags out to load up the Porsche for our covert operation.

Sofia’s many, many bags.

“I think I just gave myself a hernia,” Jake complains, dropping a Louis Vuitton duffel that sounds like it’s filled with bricks. Next to five matching—and equally weighted—bags. “Are you going for a week or a year?”

Sofia emerges from the house, wearing a black sleeveless jumpsuit, loose but elegant, with a low-cut V-neck that pushes it to the front of my favorite-outfits lineup. A boxy yellow purse is slung over one arm, a floppy white-straw sunhat sits on top her shiny dark head, and big round sunglasses cover half her face. In the light of the early morning June sun, she’s nothing short of breathtaking.

Brent walks beside her holding Sherman on his leash, listening as she rattles off a litany of instructions. Her dog walker’s still going to take care of the mammoth beast during the day, but his nights will be spent in Brent’s care.

“I really appreciate this, Brent,” she says, leaning down to give
the jowly dog a few hugs, a bunch of kisses, and two
be a good boy
’s. Then she feels Jake’s and my stare. She looks between the two of us. “What?”

I hold up a member of the luggage gathering. “Did you get Porsche confused with Winnebago?”

She takes off her sunglasses, revealing eyes clouded with genuine confusion. “Are you suggesting I overpacked?”

“I’m suggesting you need to narrow it down, Soph. Take only what you need.”

Her hand circles over the bags. “This
is
narrowed down.”

Pointing to rear of the car, I counter, “We’ve got one compact trunk and a backseat that’s not big enough to fit a . . . Sherman.”

“Woof.”

It sounds to me like the dog’s on my side.

Sofia frowns at him, then insists to me, “I need all of it.”

“Do you want to see what I’m bringing?” I march around and pull a battered old gym bag out from behind the driver’s-side seat. “This is my luggage.”

“And I should change my packing habits because you choose to live like a hobo? I don’t think so.” She rolls up imaginary sleeves and looks from the car to her bags then back to the car.

“These will totally fit.”

Jake shakes his head. “No way.”

Sofia grins. “Sure they will.”

“They’re not gonna fit,” I reiterate.

“Watch and learn, boys.”

Fifteen minutes later . . . they fit. Each bag strategically placed, stacked in just the right order—like one of those riddle puzzles that you can’t ever get back together again once it’s taken apart.

I’m pretty damn impressed.

“Now,” Sofia sighs, smile glowing. “Keys, please.”

She holds out her hand for the aforementioned keys. And I start to
explain—to argue why it would be best for her to not actually drive my car. I’m good at the arguing.

But before I can utter a single word, her open hand turns into a single finger.

“No.”

I close my mouth. Then open it again to convince . . .

And the finger strikes again.

“Nooo.” When I scrape my teeth across my lip instead of speaking, Sofia goes on. “You asked for my help—I agreed. If I’m going to the Middle-of-Nowhere, Mississippi, I’m driving there.”

She’s good at arguing too.

I hand over the keys.

And like the Griswolds in a German car, we buckle in for the road trip.

Jake reminds us, “Drive safe. Watch out for assholes,” while Sherman barks and Brent waves.

Then, in an accented voice, Brent shouts, “Bye-bye—have fun stormin’ the castle.”

And we hit the road.

•   •   •

Within the first twenty-five miles, Sofia’s driving takes about ten years off my fucking life. It’s not that she’s a bad driver—the opposite, actually. She drives like a female Dale Earnhardt. I just wish it wasn’t
my
car she’s playing NASCAR with.

“Whoa!” I yell, bracing my hands on the dash as she rides straight up the ass of the truck in front of us, only to change lanes at the last minute, almost nicking the front bumper of a minivan already there.

“You’re like an old woman!” she complains, yelling above the noise of the open top, her hair whipping around like Medusa’s snakes on methamphetamine.

“And you’re like a soccer mom late for practice!” I yell back. “Slow down and enjoy the driving experience—because believe me, after today you’ll never have it again.”

Her mouth opens wide in an unrepentant laugh. Then she messes with the buttons on the steering wheel, activating her phone’s playlist that’s wirelessly connected to the speakers. And out pours Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” one of Sofia’s favorites.

I can’t help but watch her and chuckle as she belts out the song, loud and shameless, swerving her head and bopping her shoulders. I’ve seen Sofia fired up, stubborn, determined, and turned on. But adorable—that’s a new look for her. And I like it. Very much.

Her expression turns sultry as she meets my eyes quickly while singing, “
Rolling like thunder, under the covers . . .
” I don’t have to wonder what images she’s seeing in her mind—
whose
images, because I know it’s snapshots of us.

When the song ends, I slide my own phone into the jack, hooking it up to the speakers.

“Hey,” she objects. “Driver picks the tunes!”

“Actually,” I correct, “shotgun controls the music, but I was being benevolent. We’ll take turns—quid pro quo.”

She nods and I scroll through my songs until I find the one. “Now
this
is a song to cruise down the highway to.”

And the unmistakable voice of Elvis Presley fills the car, singing “Burning Love.” I nod my head in time to the beat and snap my fingers—as close to dancing as I’ll ever get.

Sofia laughs. “You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the Elvis out of the southern boy.”

I point my finger her way. “That’s very true.”

I feel her smiling eyes watching me as I sing, “
’
Cause your kisses lift me higher, like a sweet song of a choir . . .
”

Pushing the hair away that threatens to strangle her, Sofia asks, “Did you name your daughter after Elvis?”

I grin, remembering. “We just liked the name—thought it was different, but pretty for a little girl.”

“Did you have a boy’s name picked out too?”

With a nod, I explain. “Henry, after Jenn’s granddad, or Jackson, after mine.”

She’s quiet a moment, shifting quickly and not holding back on the gas pedal. Then she asks, “Family’s important to you, isn’t it, Stanton?”

“Of course. When it comes down to it, family’s the only thing you can really count on. Don’t get me wrong—there’ve been days I wanted to bury my older brother alive. You’ll meet him, you’ll understand why. But . . . he’ll always be my brother.” I pause, then voice the thought that’s been tickling my brain since I opened that envelope. “That’s why I’m surprised about Jenny. She’s always been solid, you know? True north. I can’t believe she’s being so . . . fickle.”

Sofia’s voice is soft, but loud enough to make out above the wind. “Maybe she just really missed you.”

Before I reply, the speedometer catches my eye. “You better slow down, Soph.”

She brushes me off. “Don’t worry, Granny, it’s all under control.”

“The highway patrol might disagree with you, Speed Racer.”

No sooner have the words left my mouth than a siren screams from behind us, flashing lights on our tail.

Sighing but unworried, Sofia pulls over to the shoulder.

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but . . .” I let that hang while Sofia busies herself in the mirror—patting her hair, pulling her top down a bit, and pushing her tits together. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting us out of a ticket.” She pinches her cheeks and bites her lip, making them plumper, rosier.

I smirk. “You think it’s that easy?”

She bats her long-lashed eyes. “Please. Men are the simplest of all creatures. They’re mesmerized by the boobage ’cause they don’t have any. Turns their brains to mush. I’ll have us out of here in five minutes.”

My smirk spreads into a wide, smug grin when I catch sight of the officer of the law before Sofia does. Sofia turns to her left, eyes wide and innocent. “Is there a problem, Off— Oh. Damn.”

The police
man
is actually a police
woman
.

Step aside, boobage: this is a job for the Jury Charmer.

I lean across the seat, smiling seductively, my voice as smooth and persuasive as The King’s. “Good morning, Officer. What can I do for you?”

•   •   •

After a sincere apology and my promise to not let my overzealous companion anywhere near the wheel gets us out of the speeding ticket, we spend the next twelve hours making good time on the road. It’s after dark by the time we check into a Motel 6, dusty, dirty, hungry, and tired.

I have every reason to be presumptuous, so I get us one room with a nice king-size bed. Sofia heads straight for the shower, while I venture out to pick up a pizza, a six-pack for me, and a bottle of wine for her.

I walk into the room just as she’s coming out of the bathroom, running a brush through her long, wet hair, a silk dark green nightshirt clinging to her curves. Her face is free of makeup, giving her a more innocent, younger look than I’m used to seeing on her. Protective warmth unfurls low in my stomach.

She lights up when she spots the pizza. “God bless you!”

Three slices later, we sit at the cramped, round table. Nibbling a piece of crust, she asks, “So, what’s the plan? Who am I?”

I swallow a mouthful of beer. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . am I the new girlfriend? Your date for the wedding? Have you never seen
My Best Friend’s Wedding
?”

I scoff. “No, thankfully, I haven’t.”

“Should I be making Jenny jealous? A man is never as attractive as
when he’s got his arm around another woman. Or I could flirt with her fiancé. Test his faithfulness. That would give you some serious ammo against him.”

I’m not sure what bothers me more—hearing a man referred to as Jenny’s fiancé, or the thought of Sofia flirting with him. “I don’t like head games. They’re too manipulative. Undignified, you know?”

Sofia shrugs. “If you want to win, sometimes you have to play dirty.”

I shake my head. “I prefer a different kind of dirty.” I drink my beer, then explain why the idea leaves such a bad taste in my mouth. “A few years ago, I was seeing a woman named Rebecca. We met at a conference.”

She chuckles. “Professional conferences are as fertile mating grounds as swinger parties.”

I laugh, agreeing with her. “I didn’t go into details with her about Jenny, but I made it clear we were strictly casual.”

“Of course you did.”

“Anyway, she said she was fine with that. We hooked up twice—and then she started pulling all kinds of sneaky shit. Dropping hints about other guys she was seeing, making plans with me, then breaking them—trying to play hard to get—while at the same time finding excuses to randomly drop by the apartment. She became clingy and her games were annoying. The whole thing just made her seem . . . pathetic. I ended it real quick.”

“Did it bother you that she disrupted the ‘strictly casual’ by falling for you, or that she tried to manipulate you into returning her feelings?” Sofia asks.

“Both, I guess.”

Sofia nods with understanding. “The direct approach it is, then. So I’m there to . . .”

“You’re there to make sure I don’t stick my foot in my mouth or up someone’s ass. To keep me on track. Jenn and I have a long history
together, and we have Presley. She said she’s only been seeing James Dean for a few months, so I can’t believe that any feelings she has for him could be anywhere as strong as what she feels for me. I think this whole thing is her cry for help, really.”

“You think she’s feeling neglected?”

“Exactly. So I’ll show her she’s got my attention.”

She takes a long swig of her wine, draining half the glass. “And after that? Do you think you’ll . . . propose to Jenny?”

I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I rub the back of my neck. “It’s complicated. I don’t want her marrying anyone else, that’s for damn sure. But . . . Presley’s still in school; I don’t know if they’d want to move to DC now. I always pictured Jenny and me getting married . . . later. When we’re older.”