I ask his admin where he is, despite begging myself not to do this very thing, and she gives me a curious look. Dory is older than most of the staff, a grandmotherly sort who’s always been surprisingly fond of Ben. Rumor has it he’s actually nice to the people who work with him closely. “He’ll be in late. He had a long night.”
So I was right. I bet it was Miss Universe. She was all over him like a rash, though I can hardly blame her: he did look ridiculously good in that tux. A little twinge of jealousy twists in my gut, but I squash it down.
I’m in no way listening for the sound of the elevators, nor am I intentionally looking up each time they ding to see who’s arrived. I just happen to see him when he steps in at eleven, freshly showered but looking slightly more ruffled than normal. I force my gaze back to my laptop, determined to put him out of my head, but only a few minutes later Terri walks into my office with wide eyes…and somehow, I know it’s about him.
“Guess who was arrested last night?” she whispers. “Ben. He just met with Fields about it. Debbie told me.”
I blink. “Arrested?” It has to be a mistake. Ben is too smart for that.
“He hit some guy at the party,” she says, “and the guy is a friend of Fields’. He won’t even explain why he did it. All hell is breaking loose.”
I stare at her, speechless. Ben didn’t go back into the event last night for Miss Universe at all. He went in to kick Webber’s ass.
“I can’t believe it,” I whisper. “I can’t believe he’s not defending himself.”
Except—that’s a lie, because I can believe both those things. I might not like when he makes me look stupid in staff meetings, but it’s mostly because he’s beaten me to the punch.
Even the told you you’d beg moment…it’s what we do. Someone other than me might argue he was simply continuing to play a game I set in motion. The banter, the insults, the constant passive-aggressive humor: I’m the one who started it after he arrived at FMG and stole my client. I tossed him a ball and he lobbed it back. It’s been in the air ever since.
I sigh heavily and push away from my desk. The right thing to do, a thing even ruthless Ben would do in this situation, is come clean. I didn’t need him to fight my battles, but he’s not losing his job because he tried.
I knock on the door of Fields’ office and then enter. Fields is on one side of the desk and McGovern is on the other, which shows how serious this must be, because McGovern almost never comes in anymore.
“We’re in the middle of something, Gemma,” Fields says, his voice sharp.
“I know,” I reply. “That’s why I’m here. Last night…Ben was defending me.”
Fields grows utterly still, while McGovern finally deigns to turn toward me. “Defending you from what?”
My nails bite into my palms. Their faces are already wary, already inclined to disbelieve whatever I say next, though in my six years at this firm I’ve never complained about harassment of any kind once, and it’s occurred plenty. I’d be pissed about it if there were time. “Webber assaulted me at that client dinner you had me go to. I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to cause problems and maybe I shouldn’t have. He grabbed me again last night and refused to let go.”
Fields’ expression flattens. “Assault is a serious accusation, Gemma,” he says, as if I wouldn’t fucking know this on my own. “I assume you thought carefully before making it.”
Everything in his tone says, “you should have thought more carefully before you made it because I’m certain you misunderstood.”
“Situations like this are often…up to interpretation,” McGovern adds. “It’s easy to misconstrue the intent. Did this alleged assault occur here?”
Alleged assault. Misconstrue. I’ve worked with him for six years, but he’s sitting there creating Webber’s defense for him.
And Webber, if asked, will tell them we flirted all night—that outside the bar, I stood close to him while we discussed going to his apartment, and one thing led to another. He’ll imply I wasn’t unwilling at all, but am simply someone who later had regrets, and they’ll believe him, instantly, because they’ll have stood in his shoes. Because at some point, every man thinks he’s navigating the “mixed signals” a woman is sending out, even when they’re not mixed at all.
I guess none of that matters now, however. What matters is getting Ben out of trouble, which requires a strategy.
Even if they think I’m full of shit, and they clearly do, they’re both from that generation where men defended their womenfolk—probably from the Iroquois, or perhaps the British Army during the Revolutionary War—so they’ll respect his decision to protect the gentler sex. “Ben saw Webber grab me and saw how upset I was,” I tell them. “He risked his job to defend me. I’m sure you both can appreciate how difficult the decision must have been for him.”
They nod. “He’s a good man,” says Fields approvingly. I’d be irritated by how easily they forgive their favorite partner if it wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for.
“A stand-up guy,” adds McGovern. “Good for him.”
Jesus Christ.
I force a smile. “Great,” I say. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”
“I understand that you’re upset, but it would help if you could make things right with Webber,” says Fields. “Persuade him not to press charges.”
I stiffen. They want me to call the guy who assaulted me and ask for a favor, for fuck’s sake. Fields is as well-connected as anyone in LA and could handle all this with a few well-placed words, but he wants me to do it. He’s punishing me because he sees this incident as a problem I created, what with my female tendency to misconstrue things.
“Absolutely,” I reply through gritted teeth. “I’ll call him right now.”
I walk slowly back to my office. Webber won’t be satisfied with an apology, if I’m even capable of one. He got beaten up in public and is probably humiliated and lashing out. The only thing that will stop him in his tracks, at this point, is fear.
I spend a few minutes at my desk, rehearsing what I will say, which will involve some creative storytelling on my part. Webber answers on the first ring, as if he was expecting me. “Your boyfriend attacked me,” he says. “So this had better be worth my time.”
“I went to the ER the night you grabbed my wrist,” I reply. The trick, when lying, is to make yourself really believe it’s true. Right now, I can almost remember the hospital, late at night, fluorescent lights overhead, the smell of bleach. “The bruising is documented. I discussed the incident with several people at the time—the doctor treating my injuries was very adamant about me reporting the attack to the police. Drop the charges against Ben or I file for assault.”
“You think you can threaten me, you fucking bitch?” he demands. “You’ve got no proof.”
“I’m pretty sure I just told you I have proof, and I guarantee there was a camera that caught what you did outside the bar. But if you want to go up against me in court, let’s go. This kind of case is how I make my living. I will clear my goddamn schedule.”