Work for Hire (18 page)

How unsophisticated of me to think otherwise. How
pathetic
.

“I get the feeling you’re purposefully avoiding me,” Julian said.

I pretended confusion. I hadn’t been avoiding him, exactly. I had just been making certain he was never around when I entered and exited the Lamont townhouse. If he was serious about another date, he needed to call and ask, not throw an offhand proposition while we accidentally passed each other in the hallways.

That was one of my mother’s rules. She seemed to know all about dating.

“And I was so hoping to talk to you,” Julian finally grinned. As his dimples winked, the intensity of his stare dissipated. “The International Center of Photography is running an exhibition of Cartier-Bresson’s early work—the guy like totally changed the way we shoot today—and I thought you might want to see it. With me.”

Phone call. Pff! Who needed a phone call? Julian was thinking of me, when I wasn’t there!

My head bopped up and down, like a bobblehead doll in a speeding car. A date! And a cultural one to boot. No beer and baseball, or boring legal colloquiums, for Julian. No siree.

“We can go right after I return from Paris. Monique and I are flying out tonight to shoot a
Vanity Fair
cover, but we’ll be back next Thursday.”

My bopping came to a sudden stop.
Monique. Again.

“It’s her tenth cover for the magazine,” Julian continued, oblivious to my change in demeanor. “Very exciting stuff, especially since we’re shooting in her hometown. I’ve been to Paris, of course, but never with a native. So what do you think?”

I stared at Julian’s smiling face. He was relaxed now, his body reclined against the wall—the confident male about to make another conquest.

I squared my shoulders.
Not if I could help it. How dare he ask me out and then throw Monique into the mix before I could even answer. Well, two could play that game.

“The exhibition sounds great and I would love to go, but since you’ve been gone for a while—and haven’t really been in touch—I sort of started making plans with someone else. Markus. My classmate from law school.”

Oh God. Where had that lie come from? Mother always said there was nothing better to get a man to commit than another man, but
Markus
?

“It’s nothing serious, yet,” I backtracked slightly. Didn’t want Julian thinking I was completely unavailable. “But we’ve gone out a few times.”

I marveled at how easily the lies flowed out and vaguely wondered if they would come back to haunt me. Lies and half-truths had a tendency to do just that.

“Oh, that’s okay.”

Julian’s pose against the wall remained unchanged. He hadn’t even flinched at Markus’s name. In fact, his smile broadened. I had the uneasy feeling he was laughing at my expense, as if he knew my game to a tee and was willing to play along, at least for the time being.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said.

I couldn’t help it. I beamed.

“I would’ve been surprised if some other guy hadn’t made a move. But I’m willing to fight for the prize. And it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. Right?” he added.

“Right,” I agreed, then blinked. And blinked some more. My brain reeled, desperately trying to grasp how Julian managed to get the upper hand without admitting anything about Monique.

Mentally, I groaned.
Somehow I was going on another date. With a guy who might or might not be involved with someone else.

CHAPTER 12

H
OW'S WORK
?

Markus’s question appeared on my computer screen about the same time Professor Johnson launched into his analysis of due process in death penalty cases.

I minimized the class notes—I had briefed
Furman
and
Gregg
in minute detail; Professor Johnson couldn’t possibly add anything that the book hadn’t already covered—and concentrated on the serious business of conversing with Markus.

He didn’t know I had used him with Julian. Therefore, his feelings couldn’t possibly be hurt. Still.

So-so.
I typed. Everyone else in the lecture seemed to follow our lead and abandoned listening. Considering only ten minutes remained until the end of class, there were likely only a few left who were transcribing the professor’s pearls of wisdom.
Lots to do. Not enough time to do it in.

Maybe you need a break?

I squinted at Markus’s reply, then him: his brown hair parted neatly down the middle. The white cotton of his button-down shirt exemplifying dry-clean crispness. His smooth shave. Everything about him screamed respectability, reliability, dependability.

Marcus would never date two women at the same time. And, with his bow-shaped lips, smooth cheeks and pert nose, he was really an attractive man, in a baby Cupid sort of way. Too bad I always found the adult Eros far more interesting.

Maybe …
I replied.

I was thinking we should all get together for a night out to unwind before the craziness of finals, outlines and papers begins
, Markus shot back.

I glanced up from the screen and gazed through Professor Johnson. Markus’s suggestion seemed innocuous enough. But, this was Markus.

“With
Gregg
, the state must specify certain aggravating circumstances,” Professor Johnson droned as he skimmed his eyes over my face, “of which at least one must be present in order for the defendant to become constitutionally death-eligible.”

I snapped back to attention. It was never good if Professor Johnson made actual eye contact. But when his eyes moved off my face, I relaxed.

Oh my gosh, yes!
Lauren jumped into the conversation.
What a great idea!

Can I come too?

Ann. This was getting better and better by the second.

Sure.
I could almost hear Markus’s enthusiasm. His plan was taking shape.
So what about you, Tekla?

What the hell; with Lauren and Ann there, Markus couldn’t possibly misconstrue my agreement.

I guess I’m in too.

Awesome
. I was surprised Markus hadn’t punctuated the word with an exclamation mark.
Let’s meet up Friday at ten at Off the Wagon.

Can’t wait!
Lauren highlighted
her
enthusiasm with a smiley face. Except she did—have to wait, that is—because we all still had to sit through the rest of Professor Johnson’s lecture.

I stared at the clock. Three more minutes. But then something happened that woke everybody up.

Professor Johnson stopped. He scanned the room and tapped his fingers on the lectern. “We will pause here for the day.”

Before he even finished the sentence, a crescendo of slamming books, shutting down computers and screeching chairs filled the lecture hall.

“But before you leave,” Professor Johnson pitched his voice, “I would like to say a few words about this year’s brief-writing competition.”

The stampede froze.

Professor Johnson’s brief-writing competition was the apex of the Constitutional Law experience. The little competition that could land a big job. The reason everybody signed up for the class in the first place.

“I have decided on a topic, and thought I might give you a preview.”

The room collectively held its breath. Every year Professor Johnson selected one clause of the United States Constitution and a hypothetical scenario that tested its limits. He then split his students into two groups—one pro and one con—and had them all write briefs. The two winning briefs, as judged by Professor Johnson, got to argue their point in front of a federal judge. In the past fifteen years, all fifteen winning arguments landed their arguers a federal clerkship, and a chance to start their legal careers at the very top of the job pecking order.

“This year,” Professor Johnson said to an absolutely silent room, “we will consider the copyright clause. Article I, section 8, clause 8. Think about it, ladies and gentlemen. Congress has the right to promote the progress of science and useful arts by securing for limited times to authors and inventors the exclusive right to their respective writings and discoveries. That’s all for now. Good day.”

The room remained silent, hoping for more. But when the more didn’t materialize, the buzz started up again.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Ann hopped down to my seat. “We can discuss the clause and strategies for the brief on Friday.”

“Ann, you’re so stupid,” Lauren shot off while wrapping a pink pashmina around her shoulders. “Johnson hasn’t even given us a scenario, and you’re all ready to write the brief? No. Friday is about relaxing and getting drunk. No law school talk. Right, Markus?”

She fluttered her baby blues. Right at him.

“Right.” Markus stuffed his laptop into an oversized backpack, a non-believer in the less functional but far cooler shoulder bag. “Although brainstorming for a few minutes might not be so bad.”

“You’re so right!” Lauren hefted her own bag on her right shoulder.

Once I placed mine on my left shoulder, the four of us headed for the exit. Professor Johnson’s voice stopped our procession.

“Miss Reznar,” he said.

I tripped over Markus’s suddenly immobile feet.

I turned away from Markus’s back and pivoted to face my tormentor.
What did I do now?

Professor Johnson answered my unspoken question.

“I’m especially looking forward to reading your brief.”

CHAPTER 13

“
I
JUST DON’T
understand why—on the one free night you’ve had in weeks—you’re going out—to a
bar
, of all places—if you can come home, have a nice dinner and rest,” my mother’s voice grumbled over the telephone.

I tried to interject a response. Not that I had one my mother would think was good.

“You need more sleep,” my mother barreled on. “The last time we saw you, you had bags under your eyes and you looked positively emaciated. When’s the last time you ate a proper dinner anyway? And I’m not talking about that junk they serve on campus. I simply can’t comprehend why you insist on paying all that money for a tiny closet and nasty food when you can live at home—
free
—and eat the healthy, nutritious meals your father and I go out of our way to prepare for you.”

“Yes, well … ” I stood in my dorm room, in front of a mirror, the phone perilously perched between my ear and shoulder, and a red shirt—still on its hanger—plastered in front of my bra-clad torso. I scowled at my reflection. The shirt looked no better than the green one I had tried on before, or the yellow one that had come before that. I threw it back on the bed. I had nothing to wear.

A tap on the door, and Lauren marched into the room before I could even muster a, “Who is it?”

“Hey!” I screeched, and covered my naked midriff with both arms. In the process I dropped the telephone. It landed with a thud on the room’s bare floor. My mother’s voice buzzed on, uninterrupted.

“Here!” Lauren threw a sweater at me. “Wear it with your skinny jeans and black boots. The ones with the spiky heels. And, oh, try the Gucci belt I lent you last week with it. By the way, I want it back.”

I caught the sweater just in time to see Lauren slam the door behind her.

How had she sensed my fashion meltdown? Was I that predictable?

I unfolded the sweater and held it up for inspection. Peach cashmere. Cowl neckline. Straight hem. Nice. It would drape my body and skim one shoulder, hinting at bare skin. Sexy, but not slutty. And with the skinny pants and high heels, I’d look tall, willowy. Lauren got the look right exactly. Again.

“Hello! Are you there?” my mother yelled from the floor. “What is going on?”

Shit
. I abandoned the clothes and reached for the telephone.

“Sorry, Mom. The phone fell.”

“Well, that’s very nice,” my mother tsked. “I didn’t call you to have a conversation with myself, you know.”

Yeah, well, might as well have.
But I bit back the retort. After all, this
was
my mother. She truly did call because she cared.

“I’m really sorry, Mommy.” My mother couldn’t resist an apology. And it would get her off the phone that much sooner. “It was an accident. But I really do have to go now. It’s past nine already, and I don’t want to stay out too late.” Brilliant. My mother couldn’t possibly object to me coming back early. “And don’t worry about the bar. It’ll just be a bunch of law school classmates. We’ll be mostly talking about Constitutional Law and Professor Johnson’s brief competition. Did I tell you he gave us a hint about the topic for this year? No? Well, it’s all about copyright law. We’re meeting to strategize. So, you see, it’s really studying, just in a more relaxed atmosphere.” That was heaping it on a bit thick, but my mother would surely feel better knowing I was discussing schoolwork instead of drinking myself into happy oblivion.

“Well, all right then,” she said, hesitating. “Just promise to call me tomorrow so I know you got back safe.”

I grinned. Attention to schoolwork always did the trick.

“And say hello to Markus for me,” she added.

Oh God.
I could hear what was coming even before she spoke the words.

“Such a nice boy. So smart and polite. And from such a good family. I don’t know why you refuse to date him. Chasing after some photographer-wannabe instead. What kind of job is photography anyway?”

O
FF THE WAGON LOOKED LIKE
any typical college dive bar on any campus, anywhere in the United States: a cramped, dark watering hole filled with frat boys and half-dressed girls spewing drunken insights. Except this was a law school dive, and
these
girls peppered their ramblings with the occasional
in rem
,
ipso facto
and
res ipsa loquitur.
And the guys … well, they were another matter entirely. Not frat boys, exactly. Just the nerds who never made it into their college fraternities, but for whom law school was another golden opportunity for social acceptance. They wore their “going out” uniforms of casual khakis and powder blue shirts—sans ties—like badges of achievement. Future corporate tycoons in the making.