The Devil Series Books 1-4 (Devil #1-4), page 61
I blink. Fields doesn’t do much legal work these days but he sure likes to hit all the parties and take all the credit. Asking an associate to represent him is a huge honor.
“Of course,” I reply. “I’d be happy to.”
“The company car will be here to take you at seven. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Might be a good chance for you both to drum up some business.”
“Both?” I repeat.
“Tate’s going too,” he says.
A party with Ben, at night. Him in a tux.
My breath leaves me in an audible rush, and Gemma Charles, good girl, quakes in fear. The devil on my shoulder, though? His crowing, in this moment, nearly deafens me.
“My God, Gemma,” Keeley says, entering my apartment. “It looks like you just moved in. Are you never going to decorate?”
She says this every time she comes here, which is, admittedly, not often. Even when she lived next door, we always hung out at her place, and now that she has a lusciously equipped two-bedroom fully stocked with junk food and alcohol, it’s a given.
“I have a couch and a TV,” I tell her. “What more do I need?”
“Some sign that you’re human, or female?” She places a garment bag over the back of a chair, then looks around at my bare walls, as if it’s her first time seeing them. “I’ve stayed in executive hotel rooms that are homier than this.”
I wave a hand at her. “I’m too busy. I’ll worry about it once I’ve made partner.”
“Yeah, then you’ll be on easy street,” she scoffs. “Partners do no work at all, right?”
I open a bottle of wine. “I’ll worry about your very valid point once I’ve made partner. What did you bring me?”
“A selection of four dresses that are going to make Ben Tate weep,” she replies with a triumphant smile. My eye roll has zero effect on her enthusiasm.
This makeover, of sorts, was Keeley’s idea when she heard Ben was attending this thing. I initially refused, but she said, “promise you’re not wearing that funeral dress”—by which she meant the one and only cocktail dress I own—and I conceded because, yes, that was what I intended to wear.
“I’m not dressing like a hooker,” I warn, handing her a glass of wine while I peek in the bag. “No sequins, nothing that barely covers my ass or has the midriff cut out.”
She stares at me balefully. “I’ll try very hard not to take offense at that statement, Gemma. And it will be nearly impossible.”
I notice, however, that she did indeed bring both a sequined dress and one with the midriff cut out.
I take one of the remaining two and go to my room to put it on. It’s purple, a gorgeous matte jersey with just the right amount of cling, but as I look down at the figure-hugging dress, I’m not sure.
“Maybe it’s too bright?” I ask hesitantly, walking back into the living room.
“Dude, all you wear is black or navy blue. It’s time to stand out a little.”
I shuffle in place. “I don’t want him to think I’m doing this for him.”
“Look at yourself in the mirror,” she replies, turning me to face the cheap mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door. “He’s going to be too busy kicking himself to think.”
I look at my reflection…and I’m forced to agree. The dress is sleeveless, with a draping Grecian neck and tucked-in waist, and it makes me feel like a goddess.
Which is probably how I need to feel to survive an entire evening by Ben Tate’s side.
Shortly before it’s time to leave Thursday night, I go into the bathroom at work and change into the dress before attempting day-to-night makeup, which I read about unnecessarily often as a teen, given how little I’ve needed to do it.
My eyeshadow is a bit smokier, and my lips go red. I’m not sure I needed an article to figure that much out.
I don the dress, slip into a pair of glittery Jimmy Choos, and I’m ready to go. “This isn’t weird,” I tell myself in the mirror as I slick one coat of gloss over my newly red lips. It’s not weird at all that you’re going with him. It’s just like any other event you’d attend with a colleague, as long as you’d allowed that colleague to fuck you on his desk first.
At least it won’t be weird for him. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s been in this situation.
I ignore the quick pace of my heart as I walk toward the elevator, where he waits in a tux. I think of that wedding photo on Drew Bailey’s Instagram, and the tender way he looked at her. I could almost believe there’s something similar in the way he’s gazing at me now, but that would be a really dangerous line of thought, under the circumstances. Refusing to forgive him feels like the only thing keeping me safe.
A muscle flickers in his temple. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” I reply coolly.
If he’s waiting for me to say it back to him, he’ll be waiting a very long time.
I push the button to call the elevator since he apparently doesn’t plan to do so, then walk in ahead of him. I draw in a calming breath but get the smell of his soap and aftershave, which is the opposite of calming. Before I can stop myself, my brain flashes back to that night on his desk, his mouth buried in my neck as he came. His smell, his sweat, how tightly he held onto me for a moment before he pulled away.
“Look,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets as we walk off the elevator, “can we just call a truce for tonight? There are going to be enough people there trying to stab us in the back without stabbing each other too.”
Every childish bone in my body wants to refuse, but he’s right, and admitting I’m still hurt by what he did would give him a power I don’t care to hand over anyway. I’m going to put this behind me and act like the soon-to-be-partner I am. I haven’t come this far to fuck it all by sleeping with colleagues, and I’m not going to fuck it up by playing games afterward either. It’s done.
“Of course,” I reply, my smile forced, but civil. I take a deep breath and drive the night in his office out of my head. From now on, I’m only focusing on work when he’s around.
We climb into the car. I fold my hands in my lap and force myself to meet his eye. If we were colleagues, only colleagues, I’d probably discuss the case we have in common, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. “We just got the results of the financial inquiry of Fiducia,” I tell him. “They spent a significant amount of money on corporate retreats.”
“So we need to find out what they did and if any female managers were invited.”
No shit, I’m about to say, and then I stop myself. The sex has to stop, obviously, but the bickering that leads to sex needs to stop too. “I’ve got someone checking,” I say instead.
The driver weaves through LA, and I stare out the window. We pass Kyle’s old apartment and then the Tiffany’s where we chose a ring. It was princess cut, and we compromised on two carats though he wanted me to go bigger. “When we get married,” he’d said, “I want everyone to know you’re taken.”
For a single moment I can remember the girl I was back then. I wasn’t the child jumping in puddles that my mother discusses, but I wasn’t nearly so removed from her as I am now.
“Could we try something?” Ben asks, pulling me from my memories. “Could we just talk? Not about work.”
I turn my head toward him. It seems like a bad idea—boundaries are clearly not my strong suit when it comes to Ben, and maintaining a strictly professional relationship is easiest when our interaction remains work-related. “I’m not sure what else we’d talk about.”
“You could tell me what the deal is with your parents,” he suggests. “Why’d you get so upset that night I brought it up?”
I laugh. “Wow, Ben, you’re so good at small talk. Why don’t we talk about the worst thing you’ve ever been through instead?”
He runs a finger inside his collar. “My father’s death. What would you like to know?”
My head whips toward him. Slowly, my body follows, twisting his way. “I thought you made that up to make me feel bad.”
“You thought I’d lie about something like that?” he asks. “Especially when the odds of you experiencing guilt about anything seem shockingly low? Yes, he’s really dead. He was in a car accident when I was ten.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.” Perhaps I’m capable of guilt after all, because I’m feeling something like it right now. “I spend a lot of time wishing my dad would die, so I guess I was a little insensitive.”
He barks a startled laugh. “Are you serious?”
I wave my hand. “We’re talking about you right now. Ten is really young.”
His lips press together. “It was just a bad situation all around. My youngest brother, Colin, was only a week old at the time. It was…hard. For all of us.”
I picture a woman like my mom, overwhelmed with a newborn, suddenly a widow, presumably still in love with her husband. It would be agonizing, but at least children would give you a reason to keep plowing forward, and that’s what you need in life when the worst things happen: a reason to keep going.
My father and I were all my mother had, and he tried to remove us both from her life. I think that’s what upset me most: the way you can, in theory, love someone and then just stop, without warning. I wonder if it bothers Ben that it can happen by accident too.
“She was lucky she had you and your brother, at least,” I suggest. “To give her a purpose.”
A muscle flickers, just beneath his cheekbone, as if he disagrees. For a moment, he seems very far away. “What happened with your parents?” he asks.
My trauma now seems small compared to his, barely worth discussing and certainly not worth hiding.
“My father left my mom when I was fifteen,” I tell him. “He completely pulled the rug out from under her.”
Ben’s head turns. “Was he a lawyer?”
I give a small, bitter laugh. “Yes, so he knew exactly what to do and who to call. He hid assets, took the house, even repossessed her car. She found herself without a penny, with every credit card cut off. She was absolutely screwed.”
His tongue taps his upper lip, as if he’s learned something about me that he hasn’t.
“Don’t get that look on your face like you suddenly have some deep insight into my psyche,” I warn with an irritated click of my tongue. “It’s all very much on the surface. My father treated my mother terribly in their divorce, like tons of men before and after him, and I want to even the playing field. You all call me The Castrator. You know what I bet they call Paul Sheffield for doing the same fucking thing? A really good attorney.”
He's quiet for a moment and finally nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I blink in surprise. Males, especially male lawyers, love to tell you you’re wrong about these things, then pontificate for hours on how you’re wrong.
“I honestly have no idea what to say when you agree with me,” I tell him, hiding a smile. “You just made it awkward.”
He laughs. “How rude of me. I’ll try to do better.”
The car slows and I realize, to my surprise, that we’ve arrived at the Getty Center. Even more surprisingly, I sort of wish we hadn’t.
Ben climbs out first and extends a hand to me. I accept, reluctantly, and try not to think about how much I like the feel of it—his large, firm hand swallowing mine. Staying close to my side, he moves me toward the red carpet, where a photographer stops and insists we pose. I’m on the cusp of saying, “we’re not together” when Ben’s arm eases around my back, as if we’re a couple. It’s bizarre, how natural it feels. There’s no weird “where should I put my hand?” moment, no question of whether we’re too close or too far apart—we just fit. But I’m not going to think about that right now. Boundaries, Gemma.
“Do I need to remind you not to hook up with a client’s wife in the bathroom at regular intervals?” I ask with a grin while the photographer gets in place. “Or do you just, like, set an alarm on your phone to remind yourself?”
There’s a flash. The photographer has just caught me smiling up at Ben like he’s Prince Charming. Super. “I wasn’t hooking up with her,” Ben says, steering me toward the entrance. “That client’s wife? He was taking money from their kids’ college funds to go to Vegas, and she wanted me to tell her how she could stop him.”
I still. Offering legal advice to someone opposing your client is a breach of ethics. She put him in a terrible position. “What did you do?”
He observes me for a moment. It’s a risk, answering this question. I could get him in a lot of trouble if he messed up. “I gave her some advice and the name of an attorney who could help.”
I stare at him, shocked that he’s trusting me with this. I’ve been terrible to him. I’ve been terrible to him about this. “You let everyone think you were hooking up with her all this time to protect her.”
He shrugs, as if it’s meaningless. “And to protect myself. Fields wouldn’t have approved, obviously.”
“That—” I whisper, “was very decent of you.”
His eyes hold mine, and I swear for a moment I see an apology there once more. “I’m capable of it on occasion.”
I give him the smallest nod and look away. Something about this conversation leaves me feeling oddly fragile and defenseless. I hate this feeling. I hate the inclination to trust him.
“I see some guys I know over there,” Ben says, nodding to the right. “Let’s get a drink and I’ll introduce you.”
I follow his gaze and stiffen. A partner from Stadler is among that group he’s indicating. I can still see him as he was on my last day, sitting behind that glass wall, condemning me with his eyes.
“You go ahead,” I say, taking a sharp left. “I’m heading this way.”
I don’t give him a chance to object as I push my way forward, wishing fervently that I hadn’t come. But that’s always the risk, isn’t it? You might run into something from your past, and discover the shame of it all hasn’t improved in six fucking years.
For lack of anyone else to speak to, I find a group of female attorneys I know only vaguely and insert myself into the conversation. They’re older than me, more secure in their fields. None of them were at Stadler, obviously, or I’d have to run from them too.
“How’s the shark pit?” Emily Greenfield asks dryly.
I smile, and it’s a relief to have it come naturally for once. “I think sharks are unfairly maligned.”
“Tell me if you think that in a decade when they haven’t made you partner,” she replies. “I was there, you know, when I was just starting out. My career went nowhere until I left.”
My stomach tightens. I want to think I’m different somehow, but she’s really good at what she does. “Things are changing. I’m not sure any firm can get away with only promoting men these days.”
“FMG will,” she says, and her certainty shakes me a little. Does she know something I don’t? “Come talk to me when you get tired of the boys’ club there.”
I accept the card she hands me with a polite smile, though I have no intention of using it. I’m not interested in giving up on the boys’ club—I want to sit at their table. When they’re holding men to a different standard than they do women, I want to be the one who tells them no.
I walk away, wondering what the hell I’m going to do here for another two hours. From a distance I see Ben smiling his best glib, square-jawed smile at a woman who is probably the next Miss Universe or Vogue cover. He glances around him, his eyes finding mine for half a second before they return to hers. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
I head toward the bar because only a second glass of wine will persuade me to work any harder at this than I am, then find myself talking—reluctantly—to some wannabe rock star. I hear Keeley in my head saying, “give him a chance”, but that’s because he’s exactly what Keeley wants—hot, under-dressed and over-confident. If she were here, the two of them would already be making plans to escape. She’d know of a better party, or he’d suggest a spontaneous trip to Amsterdam, and she’d be saying, “let me just grab my passport.”
“You want to get out of here?” he asks. “A friend of mine is having a thing at this club in West Hollywood.”
That’s when I see Ben, still across the room, but staring at me and Machine Gun Kelly or whoever this guy is, as if he’s about to kick someone’s ass.
“Sorry, I think I’m probably too boring for you,” I tell him. “But you need to meet my friend Keeley.”
I get his number for her and then cut through the crowd again…and discover I’m heading right toward Tim Webber.
I hate what he got away with. I hate even more that he’s looking at me now with that self-satisfied smile, as if he likes what happened. As if he stole something from me that night. We are, perhaps, twenty feet apart. We are in a public space, but my pulse explodes anyway, as if he’s just cornered me in a dark room. He’s closed the distance between us before I can make my escape.
“Fields told me you’d be here,” he says, which I guess explains why Fields honored me with the invite, because no matter how good I am at my job, Fields still thinks my vagina is my best asset. “I was hoping I’d run into you tonight.”
“Funny,” I reply, “I was hoping the opposite.”
I turn, thinking find Ben, and Webber grabs my arm. His expression is mild, but that hand on my arm is just as unyielding as it was the last time he grabbed me. “Let’s go talk somewhere. I think you’d be very interested in what I have to offer.”
“Let go of me,” I hiss.
“You could at least let me explain,” he says, and then Ben is there, grabbing Webber by the lapels.
“Maybe you can explain why you’re grabbing her like that first,” he growls.
“Who the fuck are you?” Webber asks.
“I’m the guy you answer to when you grab my—” he stumbles over the last word. “—colleague.”
“Colleague?” Webber repeats. “You’re at FMG? Well, Fields and I go way back. He’ll be very interested to hear how you treat a potential client. Security?” he calls, looking past Ben. “Can someone get security over here?”
