Whipped, page 3
Cheyenne frowned. “Do you need any help? Maybe if I speak to them in Spanish? Not through a translator, but person to person?”
Anwar smiled. “Hey, I’m willing to try anything. I’ll take you up on it.”
As they ate, Dasia told them about the depositions she set for the following week. An expert in Manhattan on Tuesday, followed by witnesses in California and Colorado on Wednesday and Thursday. Cheyenne barely understood what the hell self-dealing was, but the client had already spent over a million dollars defending himself from the charge.
“How’s it going with you, Shy?” Anwar asked as he went for his third slice.
Cheyenne sat back in her chair and crossed one bare leg over the other. She was the only one of them not in casual Friday jeans but rather a pencil skirt and silk blouse. “Not bad.
I’m working on pre-hearing prep. Our client is asking for exclusive use of the marital home and the soon-to-be ex doesn’t want to go.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Dasia said with a shake of her head. “These people would rather give us all their money instead of just getting along and doing what’s fair. I hate squabbling. Especially over some petty shit. And it’s all petty shit in the end.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Cheyenne agreed. “Husband had agreed to leave the house so the kids could stay and maintain the continuity of their routine. Then he found out our client was seeing someone else.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve been separated for three years, mind you, but he’s done an about face. Now he’s fighting over every little thing and going back on all their agreements.”
“How’s the dragon? Has she crushed any souls today?”
Anwar joked.
“You know I saw Erica in the bathroom this morning,”
Dasia said as she added ice to her cup, a mischievous expression playing on her lips. “She was practically applying foundation with a spray gun. I’m pretty sure she was covering up a bruise.”
Cocking her head to one side, Cheyenne assessed whether Dasia was joking. “Oh man. Do you think she’s a member of a fight club?”
“Oh, shit,” Anwar shrieked. “I can one hundred percent see her getting into some illegal bare-knuckle boxing ring.”
“She probably doesn’t even have to hit anyone,” Dasia joked, “she just gives them that soul-sucking glare until they yield.”
Cheyenne let out a bark of laughter. She imagined Erica, her tall, elegant body in an old-timey strongman outfit, her short hair parted down the middle as she squared up against an opponent.
“No way,” Cheyenne objected seriously, “I bet she’s a grappler. She’s probably into MMA where she can draw blood.”
As the trio laughed and imagined what her fighter’s name would be, Erica appeared in the doorway, immediately dropping the temperature in the room and chasing away the joy.
They probably do call you The Killer Ice Queen.
Without a word of greeting, Erica cut silently through the room with her eye on the fridge. Despite her close attention, Cheyenne didn’t see any evidence of a bruise on her face.
“Ms. Flores-Moore,” Erica said crisply with her back to them as she opened the fridge. “I’m surprised you have time to be in here gallivanting when I still don’t have Mr. Weiss’
financial disclosures on my desk.”
Heat roared from Cheyenne’s chest, up her neck, and over her face. Embarrassed at being treated like a child in front of her new friends, she crossed her arms.
“I’m eating lunch. You know, where we take a break for an hour … I don’t know if you’re familiar with the term,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the back of Erica’s head. She was ready to glare at her when she turned.
With a container full of leafy greens in her hand, Erica closed the door and spun on her heels. To Cheyenne’s surprise she wasn’t breathing fire. She was almost amused.
“When you’re no longer my mentee,” Erica said as she sauntered toward the door, her back to Cheyenne once again,
“you can giggle your way straight into mediocrity. But now, we have work to do.”
Erica disappeared without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
“Were your mentors like this?” Cheyenne whispered when she guessed Erica was out of ear shot.
Dasia covered Cheyenne’s hand with hers. “No. Jeff pretty much just let me shadow him for a month and then double checked my work for another few months, and after that I was on my own.”
“I didn’t shadow Pam,” Anwar said, starting to pick up the evidence of their lunch since it had been nearly an hour anyway. “She gave me one case at a time for the first couple of months and answered my questions. That’s it.” Anwar stood to toss the box in the garbage and peered into the hallway before turning his attention back to them. “It’s not like she’s your boss or supervisor or anything. She’s just teaching you the ropes. I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be so controlling.”
Just my luck. Maybe a new approach might help change the dynamic between us.
CHAPTER 5
“ARE you finally finished with your lunch date?” Erica asked rhetorically when Cheyenne appeared at her door. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your good time with boring old work.”
Cheyenne’s cheeks reddened the way they had in the kitchen, but this time they’d only gone to pink and not fire engine red. Erica had regretted embarrassing her earlier. Her intention had been to prod her into action, not humiliate her.
Anticipating people’s reaction to her was rarely easy.
“Since you apparently can’t stand to be apart from me for an hour, I figured I shouldn’t keep you waiting,” Cheyenne replied, and it was all Erica could do not to crack a smile. The Golden Retriever hadn’t thrown any sarcasm at her before.
Maybe she was finally starting to grow a backbone in that people-pleasing body.
“What can I say? I’m so eager to slow myself down by having to teach you the absolute basics that I just can’t wait,”
Erica countered.
After a moment’s hesitation, Cheyenne smirked. As her face brightened, her honey eyes glistened. The sun streaming in through the window behind Erica highlighted the copper flecks in her irises, igniting them like scattered embers over a dark green bed. The sight made Erica’s skin warm.
“Does that mean you’re going to give me something harder to do? Maybe throw an actual challenge my way?”
The quirk in Cheyenne’s brow coupled with the lingering curve on her lips forced Erica’s heart into a trot. Nope. She
cleared her throat and turned to her computer. I’m definitely not looking at her like that.
“I would give this to a second-year intern,” Erica said dryly to compensate for the blood rushing to her head. “Let’s see if you can manage it.”
Cheyenne’s throat bobbed as she leaned back in her chair and laughed, the sound markedly less annoying than usual.
“I’m humbled by all this faith you have in me. Considering I managed to graduate from law school and pass the bar, I think I can manage.”
“All that proves is that you’re a competent test-taker,”
Erica replied, glancing away from her screen in time to watch Cheyenne cross her legs. She snapped back to the client file before shifting in her seat. “That is not an indicator of your lawyering skills.”
Considering it for a beat, Cheyenne nodded. “I can see that,” she conceded, “but it’s not like that’s all I’ve done. I’ve worked with clients. I’ve filed legal pleadings. Why do you assume I’m so incapable?”
“Do you think a few months here and there practicing under someone else’s name as an intern prepares you for this?”
Erica rested her elbows on her desk and leaned forward.
“When a client calls you hysterical because he’s afraid he’s going to lose his kids, or another is facing the loss of half the retirement account she funded after thirty years of hard work, what are you going to say?”
Cheyenne opened her mouth and closed it again.
“These are people’s real lives. They’re not hypotheticals with clear cut issues on an exam. Most of what we do is murky. It’s complicated not just by law, but by the considerable emotional and psychological toll it takes.” She didn’t add that the stress extended beyond the clients. That witnessing the unrelenting breakdown of marriages made it harder and harder to take interpersonal risks. It’s not like anyone warned her about how the job wears you down.
“You make it sound like I don’t take this job seriously,”
Cheyenne countered, her jaw twitching.
“Interpret it however you please,” Erica replied, frustrated that the newbie had missed her point. She welcomed the more familiar feeling. “My job is to be your training wheels. To do that, I have to teach you how to ride a bike slowly. If you don’t like it, you’re free to air your concerns to Toni.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she hoped Cheyenne wouldn’t call her bluff. A mentee jumping ship after barely a month was not going to help her chances of making partner.
Dropping her shoulders, Cheyenne relaxed. “All I’m saying is maybe to be the training wheels, you actually have to let me get on the bike.”
Erica cocked her head to one side. “And what is it that you want to do on this metaphorical bike?”
The fiery light returned to Cheyenne’s eyes when a cloud moved, allowing the direct sunshine back in the room. “Give me a case. Not just some tiny piece of it. A client of my own.
You’d still have to oversee everything, but let me get the whole picture from beginning to end.”
Absolutely not. You have no idea what you’re doing, and the thought alone constitutes malpractice, is what she wanted to say.
“If that’s what you want, you’re going to have to show me you can handle it.” Erica folded her hands in her lap.
Cheyenne’s soft face hardened. She didn’t like not getting her way. Erica guessed that with her sweet appearance and affable demeanor, she often talked her way into and out of whatever she wanted. A potentially useful skill. Most attorneys in their field were overtly aggressive. They came in like bulldozers to establish dominance. Cheyenne could be successful with a more subtle style as long as she didn’t try to use it on her.
Cheyenne moistened her lips. “How exactly am I supposed to do that?”
“Not behaving like a petulant child would be a good place to start,” Erica mused, keeping her attention on the only safe haven she could find, the point between Cheyenne’s nicely shaped eyebrows.
Cheyenne’s jaw tightened again. Erica had cornered her without even trying. If she argued that she wasn’t having a tantrum it would only prove Erica’s point. If she let it go, she was implicitly agreeing with the assessment and correcting her behavior accordingly. Erica guessed that Cheyenne’s frustrated silence was a result of not wanting to do either.
Erica put an end to her misery. “I have a motion to enforce the terms of a marital agreement. You’ll have to meet with the client. She and her ex have been divorced for almost twenty years and she can be an absolute nightmare.”
“Twenty years? And they’re still hiring lawyers to fight about their marriage?”
Erica rolled her eyes. “People can fight about things until their dead, and even then, battles might continue.”
“It can’t be kids, so what’s—”
“Why would you assume it can’t be about the children?”
Erica interrupted, unwilling to hide her irritation at Cheyenne’s lack of critical thinking. “There’s more to agreements than custody until legal adulthood. There can be college tuition agreements, trust funds, insurance premiums, all manner of possible issues that go beyond the age of eighteen.”
Cheyenne’s face paled as she reached for the little notepad in her jacket pocket. “What does she want to compel the ex to do?”
“She alleges that he’s not fulfilling any of the terms of the marital agreement. She calls us every few years saying the same thing, which is why you have to meet with her and determine what terms, if any, require the court’s involvement.”
Writing furiously, Cheyenne filled two pages in her pad.
“I’ll call her and see when she can come in.”
“Consult my schedule too.”
Cheyenne’s knitted eyebrows and wide eyes reflected her surprise. “I thought you said I could handle this by myself.”
“And you will, but do you think I’m going to let you meet with a client for the first time by yourself?” Erica didn’t mean to laugh, but the proposition was ludicrous.
Cheyenne’s face darkened. “What do you think I’m going to do, Erica?”
She pronounced the c in Erica’s name so hard it was almost disdainful.
“I’m letting you ride the bike, if we want to keep torturing that metaphor, but it doesn’t mean I’m letting you go off the side of a cliff. You’re going to take a lap around the block and I’m going to be there to make sure you don’t fall on your face.”
With something of a glare, Cheyenne flicked her pad closed and gripped it in her tight fist. “I’ll put it on your calendar,” she said before disappearing.
As soon as she was gone, Erica let out a massive exhale and relaxed into her chair. Pain shot up her side, prompting her to stand and walk stiffly to the door where she drew the shades over the glass.
Protected from view, she lifted her shirt and pulled off the lidocaine patch stretching across her lower back. After taking two pain relievers, she tore open the pouch on a new patch.
Wincing at the sharp mentholated smell, Erica popped the patch onto her back and turned her heating pad on. What she wouldn’t give to have Cheyenne be the only pain in her ass.
CHAPTER 6
CHEYENNE’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in the nearly empty parking garage as she trudged to her car. At eight o’clock at night, there were only a handful of vehicles left. Erica was still there, of course, along with half a dozen other associates. All the partners and staff had gone home hours earlier.
Tired, Cheyenne flung her bag into her Mini Cooper before plopping in after it. Erica’s client had been even more exhausting than described. After two hours, she’d narrowed down her myriad of complaints to a single viable claim. After that, drafting the motion was the easy part.
To restore some of the energy the woman had sapped from her like a Dementor, Cheyenne needed just the right playlist for her ride home. Some Hayley Kiyoko was definitely in order. Before she blasted Girls Like Girls, Erica burst out of the stairwell.
Even from across the garage, it was visible. Just like Dasia had guessed, Erica had a purple mark on her cheek that could only be a bruise. Fishing her phone out of her bag, she wasted no time in opening the group text.
Cheyenne : Holy shit! D was right. Erica def has a black eye. I just saw it when she was getting in her car.
Dasia : I told you!
When Erica pulled out of her spot, Cheyenne ducked down as if sitting in her car at work was a crime.
Anwar : You should follow her. Find the underground fighting ring.
Chuckling, Cheyenne popped back up when the coast was clear. With music blaring from her speakers, she started for home. Halfway toward the highway, she spotted Erica a few car lengths ahead of her at a red light.
She’s probably just heading home.
When Erica turned a few streets later, Cheyenne did too.
Not because she was following her. It was a more roundabout way, but it was still toward home. At this late hour she didn’t need to take the highway anyway, she reasoned.
Instead of continuing down the main road, Erica turned onto a side street. Cheyenne slowed down and looked at where she was heading.
There was nothing down that way but huge warehouses in an industrial zone. She pulled into the empty parking lot of a closed daycare and reached for the phone in her cupholder.
Cheyenne : You guys … she just went down a dead end in this industrial park.
Anwar : Follow her!
Cheyenne : No way! What if she sees me?!? She’s going to think I’m stalking her!
Anwar : I mean … you kind of are stalking her. But who cares! Go go go!! Don’t you want to know if she’s an underground wrestler?
Without Dasia to act as the voice of reason, Cheyenne let Anwar talk her into following Erica. Convinced there’d be nothing to see but hoping it would make for a good story at happy hour on Friday, she whipped out of the lot.
Sparsely lit, the two-lane road was dark and a little foreboding as Cheyenne dodged potholes and chunks of stripped asphalt. As she crawled forward, Cheyenne checked among the lots scattered with tractor trailers looking for Erica’s car.
This is so stupid.
When she’d driven for a few minutes and found nothing, she dropped her shoulders and hurried toward the dead end
marked with reflective red signs. She hadn’t done a three-point turn since taking her driver’s test a decade ago, and she hoped she remembered how.
Just before the end, lights danced in the corner of Cheyenne’s eye. Near the middle of an industrial block, a single building showed signs of life. In the darkness, she couldn’t see Erica’s car, but she guessed it was one of the few dozen parked together.
I might as well check if I came all the way here.
As she neared, Cheyenne slowed. In the group of people standing near a massive metal door was a tall woman with cropped dark hair. She’d recognize that painfully straight posture anywhere, even under the pale-yellow light emanating from the building.
What the hell are you doing here and where the hell are we?
Cheyenne found a dark spot between two large trucks and parked. She could’ve gotten a better view, but she didn’t dare get any closer and risk Erica noticing her creeping.
Straining her eyes, Cheyenne focused on some of the gnarly looking women chatting with Erica. Tattooed and tough, Cheyenne wondered how her uptight mentor came to know them. She zeroed in on the black duffle bag Erica had slung over her shoulder. There was a logo on it, but she was too far away to see any details.
Cheyenne : Well… I found her.
