Playing Dirty (9 page)

The next thing I knew, he pulled off his shirt, exposing his chest. He didn’t bother taking off my dress, he just hoisted it up and buried his face in my pussy. That motherfucker ate my pussy until I was dizzy. Then he slipped on a condom, put his dick up in me, and fucked me like his mind was going bad. I returned his pumps for as long as I could and then I came all over his dick. Panting and out of breath, we lay next to each other in a daze. I didn’t know what I had just done—fucking another one of my clients—but it was some good shit.

Next he got up and got a blunt. He lit it up, took a pull, and offered it to me. I was so into him, I grabbed it and took a long pull. I immediately started coughing. I also knew right away that the blunt was laced with coke. I felt good as hell. After that first puff, I stopped indulging. I couldn’t go down that road again. We island-hopped for two whole days…ending up in St. Barts—a well-known celebrity hot spot. La La and I shopped some more, fucked even more, and enjoyed each other. I had never been treated like this by a man in my entire life—too bad. I knew as soon as I returned to Miami, I would be dropping his ass like a hot potato. I couldn’t be tied to one man—it would be bad for my business and my residuals. I always received gifts and big pay from my clients. If they thought I had a man taking care of me—especially a man like La La—those clients might think twice about rewarding me.

O
phelia was cleaning off my china cabinet when I walked into the foyer of my home. She said good morning and told me about a ton of messages I had by the telephone in my study. After I put all my things down in my bedroom, I went inside my study to see exactly who had been trying to contact me. When I picked up the notes attached to my computer, I saw that Donna and Sheldon had called. I wasn’t expecting a message from Sheldon at my home—I give only clients my cell number. How in the hell did he get my unlisted home telephone number? I ran back into the foyer area of my house, where Ophelia was cleaning. She had her back turned to me, so I startled her when I unexpectedly approached her. Holding the note in my hand, I immediately asked her, “When did Sheldon call, and what exactly did he say?”

“He called yesterday, ma’am,” she said, her accent rolling off her tongue.

“What did he say?” I asked once again.

“He just asked if you were home and I told him no. And when I asked him if he wanted to leave a message, he told me to tell you to call him back as soon as you got back in.”

I sighed heavily. “Alright,” I said, and then I stormed back into my study. When I arrived at my desk, I picked up my BlackBerry and dialed Sheldon’s number. He answered after the third ring.

“I’m returning your call,” I immediately said.

“I was expecting you to call me back yesterday.”

“I was out of the country, so I didn’t get your message until just now,” I told him, my heart clocking fifty miles per hour.

“I tried calling you on your cell phone, too, but I got no answer.”

“That’s because I turned my phone off. I don’t like to be disturbed when I leave the country,” I said, biting my tongue. Because I honestly did not want to give him an explanation. I mean, who the fuck did he think he was?

“Were you working on my case while you were out of the country? I mean, I am shelling out twenty-five hundred an hour, so I would like for you to be working instead of bullshitting while my freedom is hanging in the balance.”

Utterly appalled by his abrasiveness, I took a deep breath before I went off the handle and cursed his ass out. I mean, how dare this bastard try to scold me about my whereabouts and remind me what he’s paying me an hour? Shit, I was his fucking attorney—not the other way around—so he needed to pump his fucking brakes before I dropped his case. I didn’t need his ass for real! I was rich already and I had a lot of other clients who paid me just as well as he did. So, he needed to chill the fuck out.

Now before I lost my cool and gave him a piece of my mind, I counted to ten and thought of a better way to come back at him.

“Mr. Chisholm, I understand your frustration right now, but there is a better way we can handle this situation, so you can get whatever it is you want.”

“Look, all I want is for you to be available whenever I call you, and for you to start doing what I am paying you for so you can win my case.”

“I understand all of that, but was there something you wanted to discuss with me that you felt was an urgent matter?”

“What I wanted to know was, how are things going with my case?”

“Mr. Chisholm, I am working really hard on your case, so you don’t have to worry about anything. All I want you to do is get us a bottle of expensive champagne because we are about to have a celebration.”

“You better hope so!” he replied sarcastically, then hung up his line.

After I put my BlackBerry on my desk, I got an instant headache and decided to leave my place and head back into the streets. I needed a hit of something to calm my nerves. I promised myself that I’d stay in control.

Venturing to the West Side to buy cocaine was a first in a long while for me. After looking around at all of the empty souls who roamed the streets on that side of town, I told myself that I was too high-class for that shit, especially after this ignorant-ass nigga walked up to my car like he was somebody really tough. His short ass reminded me of Gary Coleman from
Different Strokes,
but with cornrows, standing before me wearing all red. It was no secret that this asshole was a gang member.

“Whatcha need?” he asked, trying to sound like he was running shit.

“You got coke?” I asked.

“How much you trying to spend?” he asked.

I held out a one-hundred-dollar bill. “I want a hundred dollars’ worth.”

He took the money out of my hand and then he waved another guy dressed in all red to come over to where we were. As soon as the other guy approached us, Gary Coleman’s look-alike threw a couple of fingers up at him and then he walked off. Two seconds later the other guy handed me a quarter-sized, clear plastic bag filled halfway with what I assumed was coke, and then he walked off.

I dropped my little package onto my lap and sped off. Once I got at least a couple of miles away from where I made my score, I pulled over on the side of the road to inspect my product. I dipped the fingernail of my pinky inside the powder and then I licked it off with the tip of my tongue. It definitely had the numbing effect, so I believed it was okay. I transferred the coke to a small glass canteen and placed it in my purse.

Traveling back in the direction I had just come from, I started thinking about how silly I was to have done what I just did. I could have easily gotten carjacked and robbed or, worse yet, gotten caught up in a drug sting. And if that would have happened, my career would have gone up in smoke right before my eyes. So, from now on, my coke would come to me from high places. This street-copping shit was not for Yoshi Lomax.

Now with coke in hand, and with Sheldon’s case on my mind, I had to go do some fucking work. I figured I’d have to go into the office and at least try to prepare my motions and information for his pretrial hearing—just in case Brad tried to fuck me over. I had reached out to him three more times with no answer. I was too preoccupied with what was going on in my own life to worry too hard about Brad, but I definitely needed to stop into the office.

I sped my car into the parking garage at the job. Again, I noticed a car in my spot. “What the fuck is this now?” I cursed, pulling up to my reserved spot. I couldn’t believe someone had the audacity to park in my spot—I mean, my fucking name was on the spot. There was a black BMW parked in the spot, only this time there was no ribbon or card on the car.

I quickly pulled out my phone and called Donna. She didn’t answer. I drove around to an unreserved spot, threw my car into the space, and rushed to the office. I was going to get to the bottom of this shit. Nobody parks in my spot! I thought fiercely. I folded my arms across my chest and tapped my foot, impatiently waiting for the elevator.

I had the right mind to take the stairs, but my office was on the twenty-fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, Paul and a guy I didn’t know were getting off.

“Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath. I didn’t need to see his ass right now. Paul looked me up and down, and I did the same to him. Neither of us really wanted to be the first to speak. He plastered a wicked smile across his tanned face.

“Hey, Yoshi…this is Armand Schwartz, our newest associate partner,” Paul introduced snidely, like he was rubbing it in my face. I decided to be bigger than him and play it off.

“Hi, Armand, I’m Yoshi Lomax. It’s nice to meet you,” I returned, not once looking back at Paul.

“I’ve heard great things about you, Yoshi,” Armand commented, shaking my hand firmly. He was attractive in a Brad Pitt way, kind of short for my taste, but still handsome. I could tell right away he was not someone I would fuck—why would I? There would be nothing for me to gain, and I don’t fuck for love.

“Well, believe all of it,” I said to Armand, smiling and stepping onto the elevator. Before the doors could fully close, Paul stuck his foot in the way. I glared at him.

“Yoshi…one more thing. I’ve assigned your reserved parking spot to Armand. We will discuss your parking options later,” Paul said, quickly removing his foot, letting the elevator doors close before I could respond. I stood inside that elevator with my mouth open for the entire ride. I was more in shock than anything, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what was coming next.

As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I knew something was up. I noticed the usual office behavior when something was going down. A bunch of the lawyers who worked for Shapiro and Witherspoon were huddled around the water-cooler whispering. When they saw me, all the whispering stopped and they just stared in my direction.

“Happy to see a superstar?” I beamed, smiling like nothing. They were always staring at me and I was always willing to give them a fucking show. I heard snickers as I walked to my office. “Fucking idiots,” I mumbled, and kept up my confident stride toward my office. Before I could reach my suite, I ran directly into my assistant, Donna. The first things I noticed were her red-rimmed eyes and then the box she was carrying.

“Donna, we have a lot of work to do on Mr. Chisholm’s case,” I said demandingly, acting as if it were business as usual. I really wasn’t interested in asking her why she’d been crying.

“Ms. Lomax…um, uh…I…,” she stammered, tears running down her face.

“Donna, what is going on with you? You have to pull yourself together, this is a workplace,” I snapped. I needed to get to my office so I could snort this coke I had just picked up. I didn’t have time for her bullshit.

“I’ve been replaced and—and…your off—” Donna started, but I cut her off.

“Replaced? What are you talking about, Donna? Pull yourself together!” I roared, growing frustrated. I could barely understand her words behind her cries.

“I’ve been fired!” she yelled, tears and snot going everywhere.

“Fired! Who the fuck fired you? You’re my assistant!” I screamed, my face turning beet red. I had been stopped dead in my tracks.

“Mr. Shapiro,” Donna blurted out, followed by more racking sobs.

“No, you come to my office. This is not fucking happening right now, of all times, not right now. Come on, I will call Paul for a meeting,” I instructed, grabbing her arm.

“You don’t have an office in this suite anymore, Ms. Lomax. Paul had your stuff moved last night and he gave your office to a new partner, Mr. Schwartz,” Donna cried, stopping me from pulling her. Her words slammed into my head like a boulder and I was kind of thrown off balance. I didn’t even think I understood her correctly.

“What? What is going on?” I asked again, not sure I’d heard right.

“Yes, Mr. Shapiro informed me that I was fired and you were being moved to the small hall,” Donna explained as she started to calm down.

“Oh hell, no he didn’t!” I screamed even louder.

There was a huge crowd gathering, made up of all the people that hated me at the firm. They were all now spectators of my misery, watching me like I was in a gladiator arena about to be devoured by a lion. Eric Bretner had a front-row seat. His face was filled with joy, like he was watching his favorite movie. All that was missing was his tub of popcorn. He was loving the hell out of seeing me in misery, fucking bastard! I looked around at all of them. Every one of them I had probably stepped on or over to get where I was in the firm—they all were taking great pleasure in my pain.

“There is no fucking show here. Go back to losing cases, all of you fucking losers!” I yelled. The veins in my head had popped and I drew my eyes into little slits to hold back the tears that burned at the back of my eye sockets. I wasn’t about to let these motherfuckers see me cry. I stormed down the hallway to survey my office, and just like Donna had explained, there was a new assistant in her old seat in front of my office, and on the door the gold name bar no longer read:
YOSHI LOMAX
,
ESQ
. It now read,
ARMAND SCHWARTZ
,
JJD
.

I rushed past the assistant toward my old door. “Excuse me, miss,” the guy started. He was very effeminate, wearing eyeliner and a tight nylon shirt.

“Listen, you little punk. This is my office!” I boomed, pointing in his face. I turned the doorknob on the office, but it was locked. I tried my key, but the locks had been changed. The heat of embarrassment climbed my chest as fast as mercury in a thermometer. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I noticed several boxes stacked outside the door. In black Magic Marker was my name. This fucking Paul had used Magic Marker to label my shit—like I was a piece of trash, like Yoshi Lomax was a fucking nobody. This was it. This shit meant war. Paul had gone too far. I guess this was his type of revenge, but he didn’t know who he was fucking with.

I composed myself, tired of letting these bastards have a show at my expense. I calmly walked to the ladies’ bathroom, which I’d never used because my old office suite had its own full bathroom. When I entered, there were several of my female counterparts standing around snickering, I’m guessing about my situation. I gave them all the evil eye.

“What the fuck you bitches looking at? You think this shit is funny?” I asked, my voice piercing, bouncing off the walls.

They all got quiet and I could hear them filing out of the bathroom, one by one.

“Yes, get the fuck out of here before I slap the shit out of all of you!” I screamed as they began to head out. I was beyond pissed and I was acting all outside of my usual cool character. After everyone had gone, I took a quick peek down under the doors to the other stalls. I was alone. “Finally,” I said with a sigh.

I dug into my Fendi Spy Bag and found my little glass canteen of coke. I dumped a small amount onto the silver purse platform in the stall and, bare-nosed, I inhaled. All I needed was a small amount to get myself ready to deal with Paul. As the drug took effect, I felt my confidence building. I was ready. I was going to see Paul Shapiro and he wasn’t going to like it. When I finally left the bathroom, I had a contrived smile on my face. I walked calmly toward Paul’s office, which was situated three doors down and one door across from my old office suite. I approached, and Paul’s assistant—who I knew was fucking him, too—jumped up. We hated each other and we made it known.