“She’s perfect,” I say under my breath as we head toward the table.
“Slow your roll, there, Castrator,” he replies. “You haven’t heard her speak.”
“Don’t need to, Undertaker. Mark my words: we’re taking this case.”
Margaret rises when we reach the table. Ben introduces us and holds out a chair for me as I take my seat, an irritating bit of fake chivalry on his part. If she weren’t watching, he’d pull the chair out from under me and laugh at my fractured tailbone.
Ben makes small talk with Margaret until the waiter is gone, and then, with a glance at me, he begins. “What would be helpful,” he tells Margaret, “is if you could start by walking us through what happened during your time at Fiducia, because it sounds like it began pretty well before it went downhill.”
I like the way he asks the question. I don’t hear any doubt or suspicion in his voice, and he hasn’t asked her how she perceived their behavior, as if there’s another side of the story that is, perhaps, more valid.
Margaret describes the years she spent watching male managers get promoted, the way her annual reviews turned sour after she asked why she wasn’t promoted, and finally, the discovery that men just out of college were earning more than she was. Except she’s simply reciting facts we already know, and I’m eager to get to the things we don’t. My foot is tapping with impatience beneath the table…until Ben’s hand lands on my knee. For a moment, all I register is the heat and size of his palm, which feels large enough to wrap clear round my thigh if he wanted. It’s a little too easy to picture how his hand might slide farther, if we were two different people—the kind who don’t despise each other—but he should certainly know better than to place his hand on the knee of a woman known as The Castrator without her consent, even if he’s merely doing it to tell me to chill.
The waiter refills Margaret’s water, and I take the break in conversation to give Ben a quick glare, which says get your hand off my fucking knee.
His mouth twitches in response, and he gives my leg one final, infuriatingly firm squeeze before he releases me, as if to say Patience, Castrator. Let her tell this the way she wants.
My thigh feels cold in his hand’s absence. And while Ben gently reminds Margaret where she was in her story, his voice betraying absolutely none of my impatience, I cross my legs, trying to somehow grind away the memory of his palm on my skin.
Soon she’s offering us more detail, the things we didn’t already know, and I’m aggravated that Ben’s been proven right as I begin to take copious notes.
“You’re aware they’re going to throw every word you’ve ever said in your face?” Ben asks as lunch concludes and he’s signed the check. I’m glad he’s leveling with her because it’s an ugly process being deposed as a plaintiff and—if it comes to it—going on the stand. “Every misstep, every moment of anger or sick day is going to be broadcast. Are you ready for it?”
Margaret turns to him. She’s been admirably calm while discussing the case, which is a good thing—a jury will label a distressed female as shrill or hysterical for the exact same behaviors they’d term righteous indignation in a man. She swallows now, continuing to hold herself in check. “I was a model employee. I only took three sick days in ten years of work. If that’s their strategy, I wish them luck.”
“There isn’t enough luck in the world to help them win this case,” he tells her. And for the first time today, she looks pleased.
I guess it’s possible that there are worse things than sharing this case with him.
Not many, but some.
We get in the car, and I start making notes with a small smile on my face. I was absolutely right about Margaret, even if he won’t admit it.
“Has no one ever told you,” Ben says, “that it’s unbecoming to gloat?”
He’s already tapping away on his phone. Probably arranging his post-lunch sex with a struggling actress he keeps in a high-rise.
“This might come as a shock to you, Tate, but I don’t give a shit if you or anyone else finds my behavior unbecoming.”
“Based on your social life,”—He continues to type—“or lack thereof…no, that does not come as a shock.”
I roll my eyes. As far as I can tell, Ben’s social life only requires the female be pretty and have a pulse, and I’m not even sure about the pulse part. “How’s that yoga Instagram girl you were seeing, by the way? Have you explained the difference between your and you’re to her yet?”
He puts the phone down and looks at me, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize you were following my social life so carefully. You almost sound…jealous.”
This is one of those moments. The kind where I know what I should do—ignore him—but the devil is leaping in my chest, suggesting all the wrong things. We’re nearly back to the office, thank God. Perhaps that will keep the damage to a minimum.
“That must be it,” I deadpan. “If I wanted my vaginal penetration with a side order of disease, you’d definitely be the first person I’d seek out.”
“Vaginal penetration?” he repeats. My nipples tighten, as if he just placed his hand inside my bra. “I doubt it would work anyway. Lot of cobwebs there. Too many to bust through, I imagine.” His mouth curves upward, as if he’s still considering the possibility.
“Well, your parts certainly wouldn’t be up to the job. Or any job, if we’re being honest.”
“You bring up my dick an awful lot.” His eyes fall to my mouth, and that traitorous devil inside me likes it. “I wonder if that means something.”
For a moment I’m picturing him and it—together, obviously—and I’m so winded by the idea it takes a solid two seconds for my mean mouth to make a recovery.
“I have always had a soft spot for the small and the weak,” I reply.
The car stops at the curb and he climbs out, but before I can exit, he ducks his head back inside, so our faces are level and far too close. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the starch in his shirt. “Gemma,” he says, eyes glittering dangerously, “I promise there’s nothing small or weak about me.” He walks away, and it takes me a full second to recover from my shock. And another full second to catch my breath.
Gemma, I promise there’s nothing small or weak about me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drive the memory from my head, but I can still feel it exactly where I did—between my legs, fluttering like a hummingbird.
I can’t believe we just had a conversation about his dick.
And I really can’t believe I started it.
That night, driving home, I go left when I should go right. Ben, I happen to know, lives in Santa Monica, though I can’t imagine why: he works just as much as I do, so it’s not like he’s ever hanging out at the beach. I wonder if he takes the route I’m taking now. If so, he’s an idiot. Even at nine o’clock, there are an irritating number of stops and starts.
I’ve never driven down his street, but if I take Alta I can see his house to the left. There’s still a dumpster in front and a building permit posted in the yard. Whatever he’s doing has been going on for two years straight. His neighbors must hate him as much as I do.