Dear Stranger (Paper Cuts #3), page 2
Stranger88: Hang on. Updating my bio.
I snort. A second later, I refresh his profile and read his new bio which states, Just here to find a meaningful connection that ultimately leads to intercourse.
Stranger7721: Much better.
Stranger88: I believe in honesty. That said, there’s absolutely no way I can get laid at this present moment, so I’ll settle for talking to women on the internet. You’re not a bot, right? Please tell me you’re not a bot.
Stranger7721: Not a bot. Why can’t you get laid?
Stranger88: In the name of brutal honesty, I’m… married.
Stranger7721: Omg! Fuck off.
I’m seconds from blocking him when another message comes through.
Stranger88: You didn’t let me finish! I’m married… to my JOB.
On one hand, I can relate. On the other? An app like this would be the perfect place for a married person to have an anonymous affair, even if it’s only messaging.
Stranger7721: Convenient.
Stranger88: It’s the truth. If I could prove that to you, I would. Ask me something only a non-married person would know.
Maybe it’s the boredom and the fatigue washing over me, but I’m intrigued. And also stumped. It’s an impossible question for someone to answer, let alone for someone to ask. I change the subject.
Stranger7721: You still live in your parents’ basement?
Stranger88: Something like that.
I can’t help picturing a soft-bodied slob who spends all his time doing remote IT work in his parents’ house. Even so, communicating with this dude beats sitting here alone. And at least he’s not putting on airs, trying to be someone he’s not, like all the other people on this lame site. He could easily claim to be some Fortune500 CEO and quote Proust and Poe, and yet he’s not. Have to say it’s refreshing.
Stranger88: How was your day?
I can’t recall the last time anyone asked me that who wasn’t my mom.
Stranger7721: LONG. If we’re being honest here, I’m also married to my job.
Stranger88: Ah. You just want to get laid, too.
Stranger7721: Maybe… ;-) Actually, I just got an invite to a friend’s wedding, and it made me realize I’m the only one of my friends who is still unattached. This ad popped up and the next thing I know, I’m downloading this stupid app and talking to you.
Stranger88: So you’re looking for a wedding date… here?
Stranger7721: I have no idea what I’m looking for. I don’t think you can find anything meaningful on an app.
Stranger88: Sure you can.
Stranger7721: So you’ve convinced other women with your “just want to get laid” schtick before?
Stranger88: No, never. I was talking about Door Dash. I’m eating some damn good Pad Thai right now and I think that’s pretty meaningful.
I laugh out loud and look over at my bowl of dry, stale Cheerios.
Stranger88: Why? Is it working on you? Do you find me charming?
Stranger7721: Too soon to say, sorry. Let me ask you a question. I just signed up today, and I’m 7721. You’re 88. Does that mean you’ve been here a while?
Stranger88: Yes. And I still have no takers.
Stranger7721: Tragic.
Stranger88: I cry about it every night. Right into my pillow.
Stranger7721: Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t sexy though.
Stranger88: Who said anything about feeling sorry for myself? I’m feeling bad for all the women who’re missing out on me. Now that’s a damn tragedy.
I sniff a laugh, rolling my eyes. I like his sense of humor. But this world is full of people who are funny and charismatic online and awkward as hell in person. I can’t get my hopes up.
Stranger88: For the record, I’ve had more than one woman tell me I’ve rocked her world.
Stranger7721: Did you rock their worlds in your parents’ basement?
Stranger88: Not exclusively, no. I’ve also rocked worlds in bathrooms, dressing rooms, and libraries. I was with a girl at the office once. That was hot.
I blush. So maybe he doesn’t work from home.
Stranger7721: Was it?
Stranger88: Yeah. I was all stressed, wanting to blow off steam. And then she was there and… damn. It felt good. Gave me the energy to power through the rest of the day. Little afternoon pick-me-up.
I open my mouth. I know the feeling of being stressed. I live it. But I never once thought of relieving it that way. It’s bold. Genius. Risky. I could never. But the idea of it excites me anyway.
Stranger7721: So you did it right on the desk in your cubicle then?
Stranger88: In an unused cubicle. My office is too private. That’s no fun.
I gnaw on my lip, intrigued. He has an office. Interesting. That image of the IT slob is slowly disintegrating in my head, being replaced by someone else…
Stranger7721: Was she your admin?
Stranger88: No. I don’t dip my pen in the company ink. She was from a delivery service.
I let out a ragged breath. All I can think is that he must be very good at convincing people, just like he said. We have clerks come up to our office from the copy place all the time, and they’re there and gone so fast, trying to keep up with their delivery schedule. How on earth did he manage to…?
Two possibilities stand out in my mind—either he’s bullshitting me or he truly is as charming as he claims to be.
Because his bio is as no-bullshit as they come and because I’m getting a little flustered just typing with him… I have to think it’s the latter.
But if that’s the case, why’s he on this app talking to me?
I find myself growing hot. I’m speechless, ready to close out the conversation when he sends another message. Clearly, I’ve waited too long.
Stranger88: I take it you don’t do things like that?
Stranger7721: One-night stands? No, I think they’re gross.
Stranger88: Fair enough. And you’ve never done public?
I guess I have no reason not to be honest.
Stranger7721: No, I never have.
Stranger88: You don’t know what you’re missing.
Probably. I have the feeling I’ve been missing a lot, but public sex is the least of it. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten quite so hot under the collar. I undo the top button on my blouse and imagine what it would be like, all stressed out, getting it on in a corner of Foster and Foster while other people are working and meeting and taking calls all within earshot. It sends a little zing of excitement through me, one I’m not sure I want—especially from some random stranger on an app.
I shift in my seat and sit up straighter.
Stranger7721: And I suppose you think you can show me.
Stranger88: I don’t think I could. I know I could.
Why am I so intrigued by this guy? Odds are he’s an IT slob bullshitting me for fun. Or maybe a group of teenage boys killing boredom by trolling people. I’ve always been a healthy skeptic, but yet I’m flushed and breathing hard at his invitation.
Stranger7721: But in 90 days, right? Those are the rules.
Stranger88: I don’t ever play by the rules.
Despite my heart beating faster, I shake my head, then close out of the app without saying goodbye. I do play by the rules. Law is my vocation, after all. A lack of it tends to bring out the worst in people. Plus, I don’t do one-night stands, and I never have. Odds are that in ninety days, I’ll have forgotten all about this BLIND LOVE app anyway.
Odds are, I’ll still be alone too.
Heading upstairs, I change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. Usually, I spend this time in the dark before I drift off, going through a mental list of things I need to accomplish at work the following day.
Only tonight I think of a nameless, faceless man, bending me over the desk in one of the unused cubicles at Foster and Foster, providing a much-needed relief from all that built-up tension.
And it’s all Stranger88’s fault.
2
“You know you’ve got it in the bag,” Mike Wilson, my fellow associate, says to me as we sit at the head of the conference table.
The meeting doesn’t start for ten more minutes, but that’s how I operate. Early bird gets the worm. You have to show you want to be here and show you care enough to be here early—or at least that you care more than everyone else.
I grin as the other associates begin to file in after a few minutes, then say in a low voice, “I wouldn’t say that. Not yet.”
“Why not? Like anyone else could hold a candle to you?” I smirk. Mike is the Le Fou to my Gaston, and I love him for it.
I know I have a damn good shot at the new junior partner position opening up. I had a long talk with Ed Foster, senior partner, last night, where he’d shared some of his private label scotch which he usually only breaks out when a big case is won. He’d clapped me on the back, laughed with me, and even invited me to his hunting cabin upstate for the weekend.
So yeah… it is in the bag.
But I’m trying to be humble.
Mike’s right. I’ve been here the longest. I have a more favorable track record of case outcomes than any other associate here. And though I don’t like to throw my Ivy League pedigree around, but I did graduate from Harvard and then Yale Law at the top of my class. I’m a shoo-in.
Except there’s one thing stopping me from saying it aloud.
As if on cue, that one thing appears in the doorway in her sedate gray suit and blouse.
Holding her legal pad tight to her chest, she meets my eyes for a split second before scanning the room. She frowns when she realizes the only open spot is the seat next to me.
Sighing as if being this close to me is a sentence in front of the firing squad, she marches over. Ordinarily, I’d pull it out for any other associate because the chairs are heavy and unwieldy.
But I won’t do it for Tenley Bayliss.
Knowing her, if I did, she’d give me eye-daggers and snap at me that she’s perfectly capable of pulling out her own chair. She’s one of those women’s lib-types who would rather have a door slammed in her face than be forced to thank a man for holding it open for her. Fiercely independent and unapologetic about it.
Not to mention, she hates me.
All the men here, really, but me, especially.
And the feeling is mutual.
Talk about an ass-kissing, brown-nosing, perfect little snot. She started at Foster and Foster six months after I did, and since then, there’s been a fire under her perfect heart-shaped ass to prove herself.
She’s in her office when I get here in the morning, and she’s still there when I leave at night. I think she has less of a life than I do, which is saying something. And either she’s oblivious to the fact that no one in the office likes her, or making friends isn’t something she wants to do. She’s always pointing out flaws in our arguments, contradicting us, trying to look like the smart one by throwing us under the bus so she can win brownie points with the Fosters.
The worst part? She’s almost always right.
The woman is a shark.
The Foster brothers love her because she’s a legal robot, living and breathing the law as if it’s the only thing on her mind. No denying she does everything right, without breaking a sweat, and has had some really good wins lately.
Tenley struggles to pull out the chair, then sits and walks the chair under the table until she’s right up next to it, pen at the ready to take her nerdy little notes.
Teacher’s pet.
Takes one to know one, if I’m being fair.
She stares almost with reverence at Ed Foster as he walks through the door and sits at the other head of the table. Meanwhile, everyone glares at her, unable to hide their disgust over her fawning. She doesn’t notice. For all her smarts, the girl cannot read the room at all. That or she simply doesn’t care.
I’m inclined to believe the latter.
Ed starts the meeting as he usually does, making idle small talk, and we all laugh and tease one another, which is great for team building and relieving stress.
Not Tenley, though. She’s quiet, and by the time I look over at her notebook, she already has half a page of notes.
On what? What the hell is she taking notes for?
“Enough of that,” Ed says, tenting his hands fingers in front of him. “What we need to talk about is the Stokes child custody case. Mr. Stokes isn’t coming to town, correct? Do we have his statement?”
Mike nods. “We have it on tape.”
“Did you transcribe it?” Ed asks.
“It’s a little hard,” Mike admits. “It’s not the best quality, sounded like there was some machinery in the background. But I’ve pieced it together as best I could.”
“I don’t think that’ll hold up,” Tenley points out. “Not against the ‘mirror the tape’ rule.”
Everyone stares her way.
Mike gives her a smug look. “Well, you haven’t heard the tape. I’ve done due diligence to make sure—”
“Actually, I did hear the tape,” she says, sitting up straighter and directing her response to Ed. “And the transcript that gets distributed to the jury should not be an amalgam of the recording and the hearsay testimony of persons present at the conversation. And that’s what your transcript is. It won’t hold up in court. If I were the judge, I’d throw the whole thing out on account of that alone.”
Mike begins to argue, but Ed cuts him off. “Is that true? I need to have a listen. I don’t need to tell you Michael—that can damn your entire case. I’ll make the determination.”
Mike shrinks back in his chair, wounded, because we all know Tenley is right.
Maddeningly, she’s always right.
A stony silence settles in. I decide to break it.
“What, your caseload too light, Bayliss?” I ask. “You have to go sticking your nose in other people’s business? Listening to their tapes?”
Around the room, a couple of people smile slyly at me, indicating they were thinking the same thing. I kind of feel bad for it, but that’s what she gets for chiming in on other people’s caseloads without being asked.
She shoots me a stiff look, and for a second, I see a bit of red creeping out of her ruffled, high, puritan collar.
“I care about the kid. I don’t want him to suffer from the scars of an absent father because of something his idiot attorney did.” Tenley leans back, arms crossed, ignoring the laser-beam glare Mike’s giving her.
Shots fired…
But that’s fine. The more unlikeable she is to fellow associates, the more I can taste that partnership.
That taste disappears from my tongue the instant I glance at Ed, who’s beaming at her with the kind of the adoration an owner would show their beloved golden retriever.
Shit.
I don’t let it rattle me though. She might be hard-nosed and gritty, a true shark, but she’s damned unlikable. That could cost us clients. She is not an asset to the firm. Not the way I am. Everyone loves me, and I mean everyone. Plus, I know her type. Ambitious to a fault. I’m the same. But I also know that people use their ambition as a mask to hide what’s going on underneath.
Despite it all, I’ve often wondered what I’d find if I peeled back her layers.
The meeting wraps a short while later. I head out and find Kenzie hanging at my office door.
“Hey, Kenz.” I aim to be friendly, but not overly so. The girl’s looking like she wants to make a meal out of me, but I don’t mix business and pleasure. Not in real life. And especially not when a promotion’s on the line.
“Hey, Brooks! Just wanted to see if you’d like me to order you lunch? I have the menu for that place on the corner that has those paninis you like.” She waves it in front of me.
Kenzie is an intern, three weeks now. She’ll be in her last year at U of M this year. Interns do things like make copies and compile briefs. One thing that’s not on their list of duties is ordering associates their lunch.
I guess I’m special.
“You’re the best. I’ll take the bacon club. And one of those strawberry smoothies you got me last time.” I reach into my wallet and hand her two twenties. “Get yourself something, too.”
She giggles and goes on her merry way.
As she leaves, I see Tenley thundering by, shooting me another one of her hellfire looks.
Whatever she’s thinking, she’s got it wrong.
I would never hook up with an intern—though I can’t lie, I’ve been tempted before and the only one seeing the inside of my bedroom on a regular basis these days is my housekeeper—every other Wednesday. Kenzie smiling at me is probably the most action I’ve gotten in months. Even if it sparks my dirty mind, I’d never make a move. I’m always careful not to be too nice, to stick within the boundaries of propriety.
Tenley could learn a thing or two from me.
But will she? Hell no.
She’ll go on sticking her head everywhere it doesn’t belong and I won’t see her for the rest of the day, until I walk past her office at quitting time and find her hunched over her desk surrounded by thick stacks of files.
The rest of the day flies by because there’s too much to do. Just as I expected, I don’t see Tenley until closing time, when the only people left on the floor are the cleaning staff. I wave goodbye to Marty, the janitor, as he comes into my office to empty my trash.
“Take care,” I say, grabbing my jacket off the hook behind my door.
“Hey, Brooksy, my man, you see the game last night?”
“Oh, yeah, team’s looking real good. I think the Sox have it in them to go all the way this year,” I say. I’ve never been that into baseball and I didn’t watch the game because I was elbows-deep in a divorce briefing, but I heard enough commentary on the radio on the way into Portland, so I can hold a conversation.
These are exactly the kind of skills that make me an asset around here.
Unlike Tenley Bayliss.
If someone asked her about baseball, she’d probably look at them like they had red horns growing out of their forehead.
Speaking of the devil, Tenley’s still sitting there at her desk, on a phone call, barking something about a motion that she’s going to make, and how she doesn’t give a damn if the other attorney doesn’t like it because she came to win.
