Time Served (30 page)

I suck in an injured breath. “Just go.”

“It’ll be like I was never here,” he assures me. The promise does nothing to make me feel better: it’s exactly what I want and the polar opposite of what I’m beginning to worry I might need.

I try not to watch his back as he scoops up the duffel bag he’d come with earlier and strides toward the door, but I can’t help but memorize every line. He catches me looking when he suddenly stops and turns. “C’mere,” he orders.

My lips feel numb. “What?”

“You heard me. Come kiss me goodbye like you didn’t bother doing the last time you broke up with me.”

His head is tipped down slightly and he’s looking up at me from under his eyelashes, dark gaze scouring me from head to toe as I warily approach. He drops the bag when I’m two steps away and holds out his hands. Feeling foolish, I put my fingers in his and he tugs my hands over his shoulders, then wraps his arms around my waist, stroking up and down my back for a second before folding one hand under my hair and tilting my head for his kiss.

If I was expecting something hard and vengeful, he surprises me again. This kiss is soft, and maybe a little sad. I feel the angry adrenaline drain away, making my knees weak, and I resist the urge to fall into Dean, asking him to hold me up one last time. He tips my head and deepens the kiss, tongue sliding along mine, hot and wet. Now I think he might be trying to show me what I’ll be missing when he’s gone, especially when I feel his cock stir against my stomach.

He unzips my dress and pushes it down, past my shoulders and hips to pool at my feet. I’m standing in my heels and underwear, though not for long, as he quickly divests me of those garments, as well. My muscles feel loose and liquid, but I’m still on guard.

Rough hands swipe over my skin, memorizing me the way I’d tried to memorize him, the way I still want to. I undo his tie and let the silk slide to the floor, then tug his shirt from his pants and unbutton it, pressing us together, his burning skin to my cold. His breathing is harsher now, erection hard and insistent, and I’m growing wetter by the second. But this is something different, not the dripping, flushed arousal of our past encounters, not the frantic, desperate need we’ve been trying so furiously to extinguish. This is coming from somewhere deeper, somewhere that hasn’t quite healed. Something buried beneath ten years of hurt feelings and dreams loved and lost.

I undo his buckle and shove down his pants. When he’s wearing nothing but his socks, Dean scoops me up, legs wrapped around his waist, and surprises me again when he doesn’t fuck me up against the wall or the kitchen counter or even on the chaise lounge. He never stops kissing me as he walks down the hall to my bedroom, tugging back the blankets before laying me across the mattress, the cool six-hundred thread count sheets soft and familiar.

He follows me down, covering my body with his, and fits the head of his cock to my entrance, working himself inside. I bend my legs to open myself more, toes curling into the bed at the inexorable pressure.

Buried to the hilt, Dean brings both my hands over my head and holds them there, loosely shackled between his thumb and forefinger. The other arm is folded, resting next to my shoulder, propping himself up just high enough to allow him to move, deep, languorous thrusts that never speed up, even when I’m slick and needy, when it’s hard to breathe, when I’m desperate to come.

I don’t ask him to hurry. Don’t try to free my hands so I can touch myself and bring the relief I need. We’d had sex last night. And again this morning. And still it’s not enough. It never could be. He’d started this bone-deep possession of my body and soul when I was fifteen, and he’s not finished.

I don’t know how long it lasts. Long enough that I know I’m going to feel it in the morning, despite my frequent sexual workouts of late. We come together with rough, shuddering sighs, bodies working in unison, one pushing, one pulling, taking as long as we can.

I open my eyes when Dean finally stills. His face is just inches above mine, his eyes closed, mouth slack, unguarded. I want to kiss him one last time but I don’t dare. I don’t want to break this spell. Finally his eyes open and he looks at me, though what he’s trying to see, I’ll never know.

When he pulls out and disappears into the bathroom, I don’t move. And I don’t move when he heads down the hallway and I hear him unzip the duffel bag, probably changing back into his sweatpants and sneakers. He doesn’t say goodbye when he goes, just the soft click of the door behind him, then the absence of footsteps.

I don’t move a muscle. We both know it’s his turn to leave.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I wake up at the dangerously late hour of six o’clock the next morning. It’s Saturday, and I have to go to work. I shower, dress in my best black suit—fitting for my own funeral—and take the elevator downstairs to hail a cab.

I study my phone on the way to the office. Parker arrived at the party just after Dean and I made our disgraced exit, heard the story and called me seven times. I’d sent each call to voice mail. Finally he’d texted, asking if I was okay and could he do anything. I hadn’t replied. I didn’t know what to say. I was so fucking embarrassed. And angry. And ashamed.

Parker’s working on the other side of town today, my closest friend and ally away from his desk when I could really use his support. I’ve been on my own a long time now, steadfastly going it alone, but today is the first time I’ve truly felt lonely.

I half expect security to be waiting in the lobby, ready to hand me my boxed-up personal effects and escort me out to the sidewalk, but I make it onto the elevator without being apprehended. In fact, I make it all the way to my office with nothing more offensive than a few sidelong stares. The overwhelming sentiment seems to be curiosity: What’s going to happen to her? When will they fire her? How will it happen? Will she cry?

After Dean left last night, I’d spent the rest of the evening trying to visualize today so I could mentally prepare myself and plan an appropriate response. I don’t think I’ll cry. I’m too numb for tears. And while I’m angry, I don’t see myself throwing chairs and knocking pictures off the wall, either. I feel a little desperate, but I can’t envision myself on my knees, pleading with Sterling, Morgan & Haines for a second chance.

I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, glancing up as Belinda knocks on my door and pokes her head inside. “Morning, Rachel.”

“Hi, Belinda.”

Her eyes are comfortingly bland, uninterested in the drama. Or just good at hiding it. “Sterling wants to see you in his office at eight.”

“Thanks.”

She nods and leaves, and I stare at the computer screen, watching nearly a hundred new emails load. I blow out a heavy breath and close the window. Why bother responding when I won’t be employed here an hour from now? Why bother doing anything?

Sterling knows I come in at seven, and there’s little question in my mind he chose eight o’clock deliberately, knowing I’d have to sit here and suffer for the next hour, waiting for the ax to fall. Little does he know, there’s nothing he can do to torture me more than I’ve been torturing myself for the past twelve hours.

I turn my chair around, fold my hands in my lap and stare out the window at the waking city. The rising sun glints off the office towers, beautiful bands of pink and orange, yellow and blue, all melting together to give the world an achingly lovely tinge. Much as I had when I’d moved into my apartment, I’d stood in front of this window as I’d taken over my brand-new office and stared down at the city below, reveling in my success. It had meant so much to me, but not for the right reasons. I didn’t care about the fact that I could watch the sun rise over the city, see the way the streets slowly filled, watch traffic flow like water beneath us. It was merely a symbol, an indication of how high I’d risen, not a guarantee I’d learned anything along the way. Ironic that the view from the top had made me oblivious to the fact I’d lost sight of the things that truly matter. I’d seen only what I’d wanted to see and failed to appreciate what was right in front of me, and now it was gone. Or it would be, in...fifty-three minutes.

Fuck.

* * *

Sterling is probably my favorite of the three partners. He’s always treated me with respect and confidence, like an actual person instead of just another bee in the hive, earning him dollar after dollar. If anybody has to do this, I’m glad it’s him. He’ll be kind.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his massive mahogany desk.

I sit on the edge of the pristine white cushion, knees pressed together, hands resting on my thighs, just barely managing not to tremble. I know people have been fired before, but I’ve never actually seen it happen. Never seen them making their way sadly down the hall, trailed by security to make sure they don’t flip out and pull someone’s hair or try to steal a stapler.

Sterling doesn’t speak for a minute, and my palms start to sweat. My hair is tucked into its familiar chignon, but my neck feels hot and prickly. I struggle to pull in air, counting my breaths, keeping them even so I don’t keel over. I’m so focused on this simple task that I nearly topple out of the chair when Sterling finally addresses me.

“So,” he says. His elbows are on the desk and he leans forward, fingers pressed to the underside of his chin. “Yesterday.”

I swallow, even though my mouth is dry. “Right,” I manage.

“Disastrous.”

I nod. That’s one word for it.

“Your...friend.”

I look away at the word.
Friend.
Yes, that’s another word we could use. One that wouldn’t quite cover things.

“I know you’re disappointed about the Fowler case. To be honest with you, I was disappointed too.”

Now I do look at him. He sounds sincere.

“But I was outvoted,” he continues. “And though it’s not always easy, I think even you can agree that Caitlin Dufresne is a wonderful lawyer, whether or not you appreciate her...methods.”

I nod again, the closest I’ll ever come to complimenting her.

Sterling taps his chin with his index finger, choosing his words carefully. “We can’t control the people around us, no matter how hard we try. And sometimes we can’t choose them, either.”

I feel my brows pulling together, trying to frown, and fight to keep my forehead smooth. What the hell is he getting at?

“One of the benefits of being a managing partner is that we
do
get to choose the people we surround ourselves with.”

Oh God. Here it comes.
Now get out
,
you trailer-trash loser.

“You were my first pick, Rachel.”

I blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“The year you were hired. We each selected five candidates, and you were my first. It was a no-brainer. You were the best. Your resume. Your interview. Your drive. Your polish. I liked you, Rachel. And I’ve always respected you. Have you ever doubted that?”

I shake my head.

Sterling looks relieved. “Good. Is there anything you would like to say?”

Why yes, actually—
What the hell is happening?

“I’m so sorry about yesterday,” I say instead. And that’s true too. “I had no idea Dean would do that. He should have never—no matter how he felt—he shouldn’t have said those things. It was inappropriate to say them, and wrong to do it the way he did. I’ve never been so...”
Embarrassed
, is on the tip of my tongue, but, to my surprise, I can’t quite force it out. “Stunned,” I finish.

“Stunned,” Sterling echoes. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“There are lots of words we could use.”

He smiles faintly. “I’m not going to fire you, Rachel.”

My jaw drops. “You’re not?”

“No. Morgan wants you gone, but Haines wants you to stay.”

“That’s unexpected.”

Sterling nods. “We both think you’ll learn a lot working with Caitlin.”

I can’t help it. I rasp out a desperate little laugh.

To his credit, Sterling smiles again. “You’ll be working
with
her, not for her, despite her word choice yesterday.”

“I see.” I’m so
stunned
, I can barely see straight. I’m not fired. I still work here. I still have an office on the thirty-second floor. I’m one of the lucky ones...aren’t I?

“Of course, you’ll never bring Dean to another company event. Or to the office.”

“No problem there.”

“And though I don’t believe you had anything to do with his outburst yesterday, you’re on probation. You may not have fired the gun, but you brought it to the party. If there are any more
issues
with Caitlin, we’ll have to revisit this discussion.”

“Right.”

“And you’ll need to apologize.”

My gaze flies up to his, Sterling’s gaze steady and sympathetic. And firm.

“I...”

“Joseph’s out of the office this morning, but he should be back after lunch. Then you and Caitlin will sit down with Joseph, Lee and me to have a conversation about the best path forward. You’ll apologize, she’ll accept and everyone will move on. Back to business as usual. Agreed?”

My head feels like it’s filled with lead as I nod. Each muscle in my neck groans with the effort.

“Great.” Sterling stands and extends a hand. I rise and accept it, his skin cool and dry against mine. “Smile, Rachel,” he admonishes, only pretending to be stern. “It’s a beautiful day and you still have a job. You should be happy.”

“You’re right,” I say, lips curving in an unconvincing facsimile of a smile. “I should be happy.” I let go of his hand and curl my fingers over the back of the chair. Sterling’s astute enough that he knows what I’m going to say even before I utter the words, but I do it anyway, if only because I have to. “I’m sorry, sir,” I hear myself say. “I quit.”

* * *

I’m home by nine. No drama, no tears, no blaze of glory. Just trembling fingers as I gathered my surprisingly meager collection of personal items in a box Sterling himself provided, walked to the elevator and proceeded down to ground level.

I’m sitting on the Italian leather sofa the interior designer picked out, staring at the art on the walls she also selected, declaring it my taste. Sure, I had agreed. I love it. And it’s...nice. I suppose we’d have to call it abstract, just a bunch of colorful swirls on a series of large canvasses. It brightens up the room. Distracts from the fact that there are no pictures on the side tables, no books, no coffee cups. Nothing to suggest that anyone lives here, or that that person has any likes or interests outside of work. And herself.

I take off my suit jacket, my pants, my stockings, my earrings, my necklace and unpin my hair. I’m not so far gone as to drop any of this stuff on the floor, instead putting it away in my closet and jewelry box before turning on the air-conditioning as high as it will go, digging out a pair of threadbare sweatpants and pulling them on, along with an old T-shirt I’d saved from my first year of college.

I tell myself I’m going to do something productive or interesting, but I don’t stand a chance. I crawl into bed, sobbing before my head hits the pillow, hot, fat tears that pool in my ears and make my nose run and soak the sheets. I cry like I refused to allow myself to cry yesterday, and the day before, and most of the days before that.

* * *

The pounding wakes me up. At first I think it’s in my head, then maybe a neighbor playing music too loudly, and then I realize it’s the door. Someone’s pounding on my door at...twelve-oh-three. In the afternoon. On a Saturday.

I sit up, eyes bleary, and try to figure out where I am and why I’m here. And then it all comes back to me. I flop back onto the pillows only to spring right back up when the pounding resumes. It’s an erratic, determined sound, like an angry child. Except when I finally trudge down the hall and peek through the peephole, it’s Parker standing on the other side, wringing out his sore hand.

“Parker?” I mumble stupidly, pulling open the door and gaping at him. In the four years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever invited him to my apartment. I wasn’t even sure he knew where I lived.

His eyebrows rise as he looks me up and down, dumbfounded. Parker’s interest in fashion shows in every one of his outfits, and today’s fitted suit and turquoise tie highlight the fact that I’m wearing sweats instead of Stella McCartney. And that my hair is a tangled mess. And half my makeup is on my pillowcase.

“Can I come in?” he asks pointedly.

“Of course.” I step back and gesture him in.

“So this is it.” He looks around the bright space, taking in the gleaming kitchen countertops, the stylish living room, that wonderful view. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

He kicks off his shoes and ambles around, stopping next to my box of personal effects. “You really did it.” It’s both a statement and a question. I figured he already knew—I imagine the whole world knows—but the proof of my departure from Sterling, Morgan & Haines is now at his feet.

“Don’t remind me.”

He sits on the chaise lounge, and I sit beside him. It’s a while before either of us speaks.

“It’s freezing in here,” he says.

“I turned up the air-conditioning so I could wear my sweatpants.”

“Ah.” When I make no move to confess further, he prods me. “So...tell me about it.”

I glance at him out the corner of my eye. “What’d you hear?”

“That Rachel Moser is no longer employed with the fine firm of Sterling, Morgan & Haines.”

“All true.”

“Everyone is really disappointed. All those glass walls, and not a crack in any of them. Did I teach you nothing?”

My smile is fleeting. “It wasn’t dramatic. All morning and all last night I’d been dreading today, expecting to get fired. And then when Sterling
didn’t
fire me, I just felt...sad. Like he hadn’t pulled the trigger, and I really wanted him to. I just wanted him to put me out of my misery, not prolong it.”

“That’s incredibly morbid.”

“So I quit.”

Parker lets out his breath. “Wow. And now you’re...?” He gestures to my disheveled state.

“That’s not the worst part.”

His brow cocks. “Then what is?”

My face crumples and I inhale sharply, barely managing to hold in the sob that desperately wants to escape. “Dean,” I mumble, voice cracking.

“What about him?”

I shoot him a tearful, guilty glance, unable to keep the words in any longer. “We broke up.”

“Because of the...champagne?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And telling Caitlin everyone knew she’d slept her way to the top?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t realize you two were so serious.”

“We weren’t—”

“Or maybe I did,” he continues blithely. “I mean, I’ve known you for four years, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you happy.”