Whipped, page 6
Before she spoke, Cheyenne tucked a strand of light brown, wavy hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. With the sunlight streaming in behind Erica and shining into the doorway like a laser beam, her eyes were startlingly bright hazel.
“Hey, good morning. Can I ask you a question?” Cheyenne asked after hesitating as if trying to measure how much of a greeting was required.
Erica’s knee-jerk reaction was to point out that she had already asked a question, but she remembered Toni’s words and held her tongue. Instead, she stopped what she was doing and pointed to the chair across her desk.
“I got a call from the attorney on the Peters’ settlement, and he asked if we would agree to moving the mediation back a week. I’m not sure why he called me, but—”
Erica dug her nails into her palm to keep from reacting.
“And what did you say?”
Predictably, her face lit up like a firework display. She was really going to have to get that under control. Maybe there was a pill for it.
“He said his client is in the hospital,” she countered defensively.
“So you agreed to reschedule without asking me. That’s what you’re not saying?”
Cheyenne crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
“What was I supposed to do exactly? Say too bad, wheel your client in on a gurney?”
Erica tilted back in her chair. She wasn’t sure whether to be irritated by her naivety or amused at just how wrong she was.
“If you had checked with me first, or even consulted the case file, you’d see that Mr. Peters has been the unluckiest man in the world. The first time he requested a postponement, his flight from Amsterdam was canceled.” She propped her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “The second time, he claimed he didn’t receive notice. The third, he was taken to the emergency room for unexplained stomach pains.”
Despite Cheyenne’s dimming eyes and paling face, Erica listed another three bullshit reasons Peters used to delay mediation and waste his estranged wife’s resources. Cheyenne needed to understand the games people played, that she couldn’t assume anyone was a Pollyanna like her.
“They called you,” Erica explained, her throat dry and tight as she landed the death blow, “to get one over on you and clearly they succeeded.”
Cheyenne’s hazel eyes grew wet and glossy as her mouth formed a thin line. She parted it to speak, but slammed it closed again before jumping to her feet and darting for the door.
Erica’s stomach churned as she watched Cheyenne run her finger under her eye and move in hurried, long strides as if she couldn’t move away from her fast enough. The sight forced a lump into her throat she couldn’t dislodge.
It’s the only way you’re going to learn.
When Erica was the mentee, she’d detested being put through the wringer, but her mentor had known what Erica later figured out for herself. The only way to grow the thick skin she needed was to get burned. Each new injury would toughen her up and teach her an invaluable lesson.
She was still mildly queasy when the light from her silently ringing cell phone caught her attention.
Ugh. Gimme a break.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Hello, Mother,” she mimicked Erica’s tone with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s how you greet your Mami?”
Erica rolled her eyes. Her parents were prone to dramatics.
“What’s up, Mom? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Can’t I just call my daughter to see how she’s doing?”
You could, but you rarely do.
“How’s it going with the house? Did they accept your offer?”
“Yes,” Erica replied, wishing that would be enough, but her mother wouldn’t have asked a question like that out of the gate for no reason. There would be more.
“That’s great!” Her clapping echoed, indicating she was probably in the RV they’d converted into a mobile art studio.
“Do you have a closing date?”
Erica pinched the bridge of her nose. If only she could stave off her parents like she could cut off a headache.
“The prospective date is June twenty-fourth, but that might change if—”
“Oh, wonderful. That’s plenty of time,” her mother interrupted. “Let me see here,” she muttered, flipping pages.
With every second that passed, Erica’s skin turned icier.
What the hell is she planning?
“So, the Mango Arts Festival is the third week in October.
That gives you nearly four months to settle in!” she exclaimed as if offering some generous gift. “Papi put down a deposit on a fantastic booth. It’s right between the Arepa Empress and the guy who makes those moving landscapes from framed sand.
Papi thinks glass art is the right fit for the season. I’m not so sure. Fall says textiles to me, not glass, but you know he can’t be reasoned with.”
“Okay,” Erica said slowly, as if proceeding with caution could change her fate. “What does that have to do with my closing?”
“Oh!” She laughed. “You know there’s nowhere near the festival grounds to hook up the RV. But this is perfect because now that we can set up at your place, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Erica’s nightmare manifested in her mind like a fever dream. Her parents and their massive RV tearing through the lush green front yard of the house that wasn’t even hers yet.
She’d be able to hide the eyesore behind her gated fence, but not without damage to the landscaping.
She wished the RV was the biggest inconvenience. The thought of her Bohemian parents making an artist colony of her house caused acid to climb out of her stomach and burn her esophagus. They were all chaos and disorder.
“Mom, I —” Erica wanted to protest. To say it wasn’t a good idea. Explain that she was too busy at work for a distraction like them, but the words died in her useless throat.
“Don’t get overwhelmed, honey. We won’t be any trouble, okay? I can’t wait to see you. After New Mexico we’re heading up the pacific coast. It’ll be so nice to spend some time together after so much time on the road.” After a pause she whispered. “Plus, your dad can’t wait to show you the gorgeous housewarming present we’ve been working on.”
Dazed, Erica set the phone down long after her mother hung up. The last time her parents made her a gift, it was when she came out to them after college. It hadn’t been a whole production; she’d just mentioned that she and her girlfriend
had broken up. Days later, her parents presented her with a metal sculpture the size of a beagle of two naked female figures intertwined in a suggestive pose.
Her temple throbbed as she imagined what they’d come up with without the space restrictions of apartment living.
Probably a hundred-foot-tall mixed media vagina to adorn my front yard and terrify small children.
“Hey.” A man’s voice pulled Erica out of her nightmare spiral. “Mario wants you to cover a deposition for him.
Apparently, he’s not making it back from lunch in time.”
Erica redirected all her ire at the messenger. Her lip curled.
“It’s ten thirty,” she growled, knowing it wasn’t this associate’s fault that a partner sent him to do his dirty work instead of calling her himself. “How can he possibly know he won’t be finished with a lunch he hasn’t started?”
The young man grimaced before looking around the hallway to ensure the coast was clear. “He may have been changing into a golf shirt when he told me.”
Rage burned through Erica like wildfire. Mario couldn’t be more of a stereotype if he tried, but shirking his responsibility onto a female subordinate while he fucked off to play golf was a new low. And that was saying a lot for a man who still called legal assistants secretaries and every woman, except for Toni, girl regardless of their age.
He probably never had to prove he could play nice before getting placed on the partner track. He didn’t have to teach a pug to be an attack dog.
“So, um. Are you going to do it, or …?”
Erica glared at him. “Send me the case file link so I can at least spend the next hour and a half trying to be prepared enough to avoid committing malpractice.”
He nodded and disappeared as if relieved to have made it out with his head still connected to his neck. Of course, even when the circumstances of his predicament weren’t her fault, she was still the ogre … the bad guy … the bitch.
CHAPTER 11
DRAGGING her sore body up the stairs from the parking garage, Cheyenne hated every life choice that had led to her pain. In Big Red’s training recommendations, her top tip was to skip the elevator and use stairs to build skating muscles. As she dropped her body into a sleek leather chair in the dark, empty reception area, Cheyenne was sure she’d managed nothing but turning her body to jelly.
As she caught her breath and waited for the feeling to return to her limbs, Cheyenne looked around the fancy waiting room. It was usually a hub of activity. In the hours before the firm opened, there was no buzz of conversation, no scent of brewing coffee or trill of ringing phones.
Cheyenne took a deep breath and willed herself to stop thinking about the muscles sore from last night’s work out and this morning’s exertion. She replaced it with gratitude and excitement for her new job.
If anyone had told her a few months ago she was going to end up practicing family law and really enjoying it, she wouldn’t have believed them. She allowed herself to feel pride. She’d taken a gamble on something new instead of worrying about falling flat on her face for once.
After a deep breath, Cheyenne smiled as she stood and walked through the glass doors with her head held high. A tiny part of her wanted to post about her new life on social media.
Something indirectly mentioning roller derby or her job. It wouldn’t be as pathetic as telling Lisa about it directly, but it might have the desired effect of making her jealous.
Jealous enough to miss me? Curious enough to reach out?
Cheyenne banished the thoughts and the flutter in her stomach that showed up when she thought of her. Anyone cruel enough to dump her a month before the bar exam because she woke up one day and decided she wasn’t being challenged enough didn’t deserve a second … or actually fourth chance. No matter how beautiful her face or perfect her body.
What did that even mean? Since when were relationships supposed to be like the Sunday crossword puzzle? Hadn’t a loving, stable, year-long relationship been appealing enough?
Obviously not.
Cheyenne’s stomach soured as she thought about the bare skin on her wrist. If she had agreed to get the stupid matching tattoo, would she still have left?
It was too early for any of the staff to be in, and associates were more likely to work late than early, which was why Cheyenne had gone in at six to get ahead on work before the endless stream of interruptions started. So when she heard Rachmaninoff rushing toward her as she approached her office, she had to investigate.
The somber tones of his second piano concerto propelled Cheyenne toward the halting, melancholy sound. She was steps away from Erica’s office when she realized where the music was coming from.
She hadn’t considered it before, but if she had to guess, she supposed she’d peg Erica for a fan of the Russian composer.
They had similar dour and remote personalities.
Maybe this is an opportunity, Cheyenne thought before she let herself retreat from the lair to avoid disturbing its inhabitant. If they could find some common ground, maybe things wouldn’t be so unnecessarily tense. Erica could start seeing her like a person instead of a thing on her to-do list.
She’d tried so many different avenues of connection; what was one more? Gathering her courage, she approached with caution.
“That’s one of my favorites,” Cheyenne said as she leaned against the frame of Erica’s open doorway. “Opus eighteen might be one of the best things ever written,” she added without explaining that she’d played it at a showcase in Indianapolis many years ago. There was no way for it to sound like anything but a brag, which wouldn’t help her cause.
Illuminated by the glow of the computer and backlit by the soft, early morning light, Erica was as stunning as she was imposing. She’d recently cut her short hair but left the side-swept bangs long over her forehead so she could just tuck it behind one ear. Without her suit jacket, her clavicles were sharp as knives as they emerged from the sleeveless silk shell.
“What?” she asked as if already exasperated by Cheyenne’s existence.
Cheyenne’s chest burned. “The piece you’re listening to,”
she said, wishing she could stop trying to please her like she was under a compulsion spell. “Did you know he composed it after receiving hypnotherapy treatments?” Her laugh was a nervous gurgle that built low in her belly and escaped her mouth like silverware scratching a ceramic plate. “It makes you wonder what he was going through, right?”
Erica’s face bore the softness of dried cement. For untold seconds she just sat there staring as if trying to figure out how a raving lunatic got into the building much less her office.
“It’s just music to drown out the distractions around me so I can get my work finished,” Erica replied with a mix of confusion and worse … secondhand embarrassment.
“Right,” she squeaked despite the worst cottonmouth she’d ever had. “Guess I’ll leave you to that then.”
Without another word, or even a glance, Erica turned her attention back to the screen and continued typing. Wishing she could dissolve into the fancy wood floor and disappear, Cheyenne slunk out of Erica’s doorway and tried not to run back to her office. Thankfully, her legs were still too sore to move very fast.
Cheyenne shut the door and closed her blinds. She hadn’t expected Erica to follow her, but she needed to wait out her shame in private just in case.
Dropping down into her little loveseat, Cheyenne covered her face with her hands. She’d never understand why Erica was so impossible to please. Why any minuscule progress she made in civility was immediately lost.
Defeated, Cheyenne allowed herself the indulgence of fantasy. She imagined Erica’s expression when she saw her skate into the rink with her team. Her horror at having to face her on equal footing.
Cheyenne knew that last part wasn’t true. Even in derby Erica was way ahead of her both in experience and skill. At least getting better at skating was more in Cheyenne’s control than lawyering. She just had to work harder. If there was anything Cheyenne knew how to do it was train to within an inch of her life to accomplish a goal, and for the first time in her life, this was a goal she’d set for herself.
“ALRIGHT, LADIES!” Big Red clapped her gloved hands, making a muted sound as she rolled over the wood floor of the basketball court. After three weeks, Cheyenne already knew to expect drills given the staggered squares made of blue tape on the floor.
“And gentleman,” Anwar muttered playfully under his breath while leaning his sweaty body toward Cheyenne. After twenty minutes of conditioning, they were finally getting to the fun part.
With the acute hearing and eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head quality of a substitute teacher with a checkered past, Big Red’s eyes shot to Anwar. Her glare was even more chilling than Erica’s, and as she rolled toward them like an arrow loosed from a bow, all the life drained out of Cheyenne’s body. In a flash she was back in her Catholic School uniform staring down the ire of a nun.
Big Red’s Amazonian frame descended on them like a skyscraper’s shadow. “Do you have a problem with me using ladies as a gender-neutral term for a group of people much like we have all been called guys our whole lives?”
“No,” he stammered, standing straighter. “I love being a lady,” he added with apparent sincerity.
Big Red’s emerald eyes scrutinized Anwar’s face looking for the slightest hint of mockery. Not finding any, she spun on her skates and swerved backward to the center of the imaginary track.
“Tonight, we’re working on finding our center of gravity,”
Big Red announced, her palm splayed on her lower abdomen.
“Spread out with plenty of room to fall without taking anyone down with you and start by standing still and leaning forward as far as you can without falling. Then do the same by leaning to each side and then backward.”
Cheyenne nodded. The task didn’t sound too hard. She pushed back to give herself some space and was about to start when Big Red added a twist.
“When you get the hang of that, do it with your eyes closed, then on one foot, and finally while skating slowly.”
Is that all? Not while doing a handstand? Or balancing on a tightrope? Cheyenne joked in her mind but didn’t dare say anything aloud.
Looking down at her burnt orange skates with burgundy laces, Cheyenne assumed the derby stance by bending her knees and dropping her butt a little. When she felt stable, she tipped forward.
Moving an inch at a time, Cheyenne held her breath as her black wheels trembled beneath her. Steady. She willed herself to lean a little further. Too far, she realized as the wooden planks rushed up to meet her face.
“Ugh,” she groaned with a cough, the impact nailing her square in her chest. It took her a second to pop up on her knees and struggle to her feet without using her hands.
“Good job, meat,” one of the seasoned skaters said as she circled closely around her. “You get to keep your fingers.”
The wild amusement in the skater’s brown eyes made Cheyenne wonder whether she would’ve rolled over her fingers if she’d put her hands down. Something told her that, at the very least, she’d consider it.
Maybe that’s what happened to Fran.
Twenty minutes later, Cheyenne had fallen a dozen times but managed to find her tipping point going forward and side to side. She’d practice the other scenarios on her covered patio later in the week.
“Good work, meat.” Big Red called to the group as they gathered at the center of the room. “Since none of you quit or broke anything, you get to play a game.”
Cheyenne glanced at Anwar, who was preoccupied with gazing at Big Red. She smiled and then focused on the rules. It was a take on musical chairs. While the music played, rookie and veteran skaters rolled around the track. When it paused, they stopped on the nearest unoccupied square. Like musical chairs, one square would get removed each round along with the skater who didn’t land on one. At the end, only one person would be left standing.
