In Her Defense Page 4

“By billing clients.”

  “That’s right. So when you sit at your tiny desk and punch in numbers and those numbers add up to Christmas bonuses and company cars and birthday cakes, it’s your job to shut the fuck up and put the money in the bank, not run squealing to an old man on the thirty-second floor with nothing better to do than interrupt my very busy day.”

  His eyes dart around nervously.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Let me spell it out for you. You’re support staff. I pay for the house, you clean it. You say thank you, Caitlin. I say shut the fuck up. Is that clear?”

  He looks mutinous, but gives a jerky nod, cheeks red. “Yes.”

  “Great. Now, who’s the head of IT?”

  “I am.” A deep, bemused voice comes from over my shoulder, and I turn on a heel to focus my fury on its source. He’s propped in the doorway, dressed in khakis and a button-up, like a frat boy. Only there’s nothing boyish about him. He’s tall, maybe six foot one, and big, but not muscular and not fat. Just...big, like the dumb football players on television, the ones who need remedial help. He’s got short, curly brown hair and warm, dark eyes that regard me thoughtfully.

  “I’m Caitlin Dufresne. What’s your name?”

  “Eli Grant.”

  “Hi, Eli.”

  “Hi, Caitlin.”

  “I’m here to speak to you about restoring my network access.”

  “You can log in right now.”

  “After-hours network access.”

  “Hmm.” He wrinkles his nose as though considering. “That’s a no.”

  “Joseph Morgan made a mistake.”

  “He seemed pretty certain when I spoke to him.”

  “Well, he was wrong. I want you to fix this immediately. I’ll speak to Morgan about it.”

  He shrugs. “Sure. You speak to Morgan, and when he gives me the okay, I’ll restore your network access.”

  “Do it now, please.”

  He regards me coolly from across the room, and heads swivel between us with each exchange. “No,” he says after a pause. “Is that all?” Without waiting for a reply, he turns and walks out. Through the glass I watch him disappear down the hall toward reception.

  I shoot Todd a fulminous glare, as though this is his fault. “What I said goes. For all of you.” Then I storm after Eli Grant, heels clipping along the polished wood floor. I get to reception just in time to see him enter the IT hall, and follow furiously. This side is divided into two halves like accounting, but just one side has glass windows and desks with workers. The other has solid walls and a heavy door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

  I don’t see Eli in the office and the locked door is rapidly swinging shut, so I catch it before it can close and slip inside. Eli’s waiting for me, unsurprised. The room is very cold, and goose bumps immediately spring up on my bare legs. A muted hum surrounds us, and Eli leans against a glass-enclosed tower with blinking lights, one of many. There are desks and computers with glowing monitors along one wall, but no other people.

  “Listen,” I begin, intending to make this quick before I freeze to death.

  Eli folds his arms across his broad chest and looks down at me. The heels made a statement in accounting, but in here, facing him, they feel suddenly unsteady. “I heard,” he interrupts, looking unimpressed. “I heard your entire condescending speech.”

  “Then you—”

  “Know I’m supposed to shut the fuck up and follow orders? You don’t run the show down here, I do. And you don’t run it upstairs, either. If Morgan wants you locked out of the network, then you’re locked out. I don’t know why, and I don’t ask questions. Most times, I don’t even care. But this time I’m going to enjoy it. That door says Authorized Personnel, and you, Caitlin Dufresne, are not authorized. Now get out of my room.”

  I can’t tell if I’m frozen by his words or because it’s so damn cold in here, but it takes me a minute to move. One thing people assume about me is that because I’m known for winning, I never lose. On the contrary: I know when to lose. I know which battles to pick, and right now I have no ammunition against this overgrown, power—tripping frat boy. Not yet, anyway. His authority extends to the end of the hallway. Mine encompasses every inch beyond that. “This isn’t over,” I tell him, reaching for the door. “Not even close.”

  “If you say so.” He leans past and covers my fingers on the icy handle, pulling the door open. It’s ridiculously heavy, and if not for his help, I’d have to use both hands to budge it. He squeezes my fingers when I try to remove them, but when I glower up at him, he merely smiles. “Have a great day,” he adds.

  Chapter Four

  I don’t have a great day. One of my favorite clients, Mr. Masaharu Noda, is fighting off his newest ex-wife, and I have to sit quietly in the corner while he speaks with his new lawyer, Seamus Penn, a fellow fifth-year, offering only the occasional nod to support Seamus’s advice. Seamus works exclusively with divorce cases and listening to them talk is torture, because he’s not as incompetent as his poorly knotted—and garishly yellow—tie suggests. I spend the entire two-hour meeting waiting for Seamus to screw up so I can run to the partners and explain that he’s going to lose Noda’s business if I don’t take over, but he doesn’t. In fact, Noda seems perfectly content with the change, and even voices his approval when he hears I’ll be taking a vacation.

  “It’s unnecessary,” I say with a tight smile, walking him back to the elevator.

  “We all need to relax now and then,” he says, winking.

  I shoot him a knowing look. If he “relaxed” with his wives and not the hired help, he wouldn’t be getting divorced again. “Call me if you need anything,” I say when the elevator arrives. “I’m always available. Even in LA.”

  “LA,” Noda muses, stepping in the car. “I’ve been once. Too hot.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Could be good for you,” he adds, nodding at my calves, exposed beneath my skirt. “You can get a tan.”

  There’s no time to reply before the doors close on Noda’s smiling face. He’s sixty-one, made his money in his twenties and spent the rest of his life “relaxing.” And what does he have to show for it? Four ex-wives and a positive attitude? No, thank you. And who the hell cares if I don’t have a tan?

  “Shouldn’t you have gone with him?”

  I turn to see Seamus standing behind me. “Why?”

  He taps his wrist and I glance at my own watch. 7:15. Shit. “I have to shut down my computer.” I hurry back to my office and pause, hand extended toward the power button. Then I hesitate, glance around suspiciously and try to log in to the network. Again the giant red letters appear: ACCESS DENIED. Fucking IT.

  I power down the computer and head to the elevator. The car arrives in record time, but when I use my key and push the button for the lobby, nothing happens. Well. Todd Varner might regret tattling on me to Morgan, but it would seem that Eli Grant doesn’t give a damn.

  I step out of the car and flag down one of the fourth-year associates. “I need your elevator key,” I snap, then add, “Please” when he hesitates.

  “We’re not supposed to help you,” he says awkwardly.

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

  “Joseph Morgan said no one is allowed to share their network passwords or keys with you after 7:00 p.m.” A pause. “Or before 7:00 a.m.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Give me the key.”

  “Um...no.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He’s fresh-faced and cocky but not stupid, because he takes off down the hall without another word. I watch him run then turn to Belinda, one of the secretaries, who’s been watching from her desk. “Is t
hat true?” I ask. “What he said?”

  “Yep. And Morgan said anyone caught helping you would have to take the stairs for the rest of the month, no matter what time it was.”

  I stare at her for a beat. “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

  “No can do.”

  “A hundred.”

  “Sorry.”

  She’s got a mug on her desk with something printed on it. A basketball. “Front row seats to the Bulls season opener?” I try. Now I’ve got her attention.

  Belinda glances around to be sure no one’s listening. They’re not. “Talk to Charlene on twenty-nine,” she says, sotto voce. “Tell her I said it was okay.”

  It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Courtside,” Belinda calls as I head for the stairs.

  Eight minutes later I’m on the street. Charlene, the receptionist for an insurance company on twenty-nine, most likely saved me from breaking my neck. Navigating two flights in heels is dangerous; I may have to bring sneakers in case I lose track of the time again.

  As relieved as I am to have made it down in one piece, now that I’m outside, I don’t know what to do. It’s mid-July, bright and sunny, and I have nowhere to go and no one to call. My sister’s working and Dorrie’s at a sleepover, and they’re really the only two people I know outside of work. I take a few steps in the direction of Zadie’s, a local bistro that’s popular with people from the firm, but then I stop. What am I going to do? Sit by myself while they all stare at me, whispering to each other that Caitlin Dufresne has no friends? Fuckers.

  A drink sounds good, though. I’ll need all the fortification I can get to get through this week. Hell, this whole month. Anyway. I’m not one to curl up and die. I’ll just go somewhere different, off the beaten path. Some dark, little hole-in-the-wall where nobody knows my name. I shrug out of my jacket and stuff it in my oversized purse, leaving me in the red pencil skirt and a black silk shell. It’s ridiculously hot out here, and I miss the air conditioning already.

  Seven blocks later my feet are killing me. I normally walk from my apartment to the cab and the cab to the office, that’s it. But this is what’s required to get away from the swarm of white collars and onto a quiet side street with brick storefronts, neon signs and people wearing flip-flops. The Lonely Goat is a dank-looking pub with a grimy front window, ivy growing around the wooden door and a dozen aging patrons too tired to spare a glance when I enter. Perfect.

  I ask for two shots of vodka with lime, then find a corner booth, cracked green vinyl pricking the back of my legs as I slide in. The seats around me are empty, the antique lamp hanging overhead offers little to no light and I feel blessedly anonymous as I toast summer hours and down the first shot. I sigh and close my eyes, slouching against the cushion as I feel the vodka burn.

  I hate everybody right now. I hate the partners for this ridiculously unfair treatment. I hate Louis for going to Brazil. I hate Susan for working a double when I need company, and though it’s petty, I hate Dorrie a little too, for going to a sleepover. I really hate Todd Varner for telling on me, and I really, really hate Eli Grant for—

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  My eyes fly open, and there he is. Eli Grant, towering over the booth in his dreadful blue, plaid button-up and khakis, beer in hand. “What are you doing here?” I demand, not bothering to sit up.

  “Same as you, I imagine.” He nods toward the remaining vodka shot. “Rough day?”

  “Go away.”

  He ignores me and slides into the booth.

  “What are you doing?” I feel his feet bump mine as he slides them under the table. “Please leave.”

  He copies my slouched position and sips his beer. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know you and I don’t want to.”

  “Isn’t that why you came to this place? To avoid people you know?”

  “And people I might see again.”

  He laughs and looks around. “I don’t imagine you’ll bump into any of these folks outside this bar. Or me. Not unless you deign to visit us lowly ‘support staff’ on seventeen again.”

  “I won’t. Don’t worry.” I haven’t planned how I’ll exact my revenge on him just yet, but it won’t involve a second trip to the freezer, that’s for sure.

  “Too bad.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, really. I mean, you’re rude as hell, but things can get pretty dull over in accounting. You gave them something to talk about for the rest of the summer.”

  “Happy to help.” I swallow the second shot and bite the lime.

  “Is it really that bad?” Eli asks, eying the shot glasses. “Leaving at seven?”

  “Look at me,” I reply. “This is what I’m doing.” If it was just one night, I’m sure I could cope. It’s been so long since I’ve actually done something other than work that I can’t imagine what I might do, exactly, but I’m sure I could find something. But thirty nights? Four weekends? Two years ago we’d had a problem with the elevators, and one evening I’d almost stepped into an empty shaft when the doors opened before the car had arrived. I don’t want to admit it to anyone—Eli, in particular—but these summer hours feel like that: a yawning black hole with nothing to fill it. Terrifying. Endless.

  An aging server appears to clear the glasses and empty bottle. She asks if we want anything else and Eli requests four of whatever I had.

  “Are you saying you have a drinking problem?” he inquires. “And if you leave work at seven you’ll go to a bar?”

  “No,” I return slowly. “I’m saying I don’t have anything to do after seven. Or rather, I have work to do, and being prevented from doing it really pisses me off.”

  “That much I gathered.”

  I scowl and pick up a shot when the server reappears with four brimming glasses. “Cheers,” I say.

  Eli clinks my glass and we watch each other as we drink. “Do you have any friends?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Yes.” Well, I have a sister. And a niece. “Do you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why are you here, drinking alone?”

  “Not alone,” he corrects. “I have company.”

  “Not for long.” I drink my fourth shot, feeling woozy. I don’t drink often, and I’m not sure I had lunch. Unfortunately Eli notices and gets the waitress’s attention, ordering two burger platters and a side of onion rings.

  “I hope you’re planning to eat that by yourself,” I say coldly. “I’m not having dinner with you.”

  He props his foot on the seat beside me, blocking me in. “Simmer down. If you have a drinking problem, it’s that you can’t handle your liquor.”

  “I beg your pardon? I can handle anything.”

  He laughs. “Prove it.”

  “No. No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. You’re trying to trick me into staying with you while you drown your sorrows, and I’m not falling for it. Now, if you’d like to go to the lake and actually drown, you could probably convince me to come along and watch that.”

  More laughter. “I guess your reputation isn’t an exaggeration, is it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The ‘coldhearted bitch’ thing. She-devil. Hell on heels. You know.”

  “I’m good at my job.”

  “I know you are. But when you’re not working...” He gazes around the dim room, and I feel a split-second pang of self-pity at what that ellipses implies.

  “Fine,” I say eventually. “I don’t have many friends. And I don’t know what to do with free time. But don’t for one second think I forgot you didn’t answer my question. Why are you drinking alone?”

  At the reminder, Eli picks up the final shot and tosses it back. “I,” he says, biting into the lime and licking the
lingering drops off his lower lip, “was drinking alone because my best friend got engaged today.”

  “Is your best friend a man or a woman?”

  “A guy. His name’s Kent.”

  “Are you in love with Kent?”

  “What? No.”

  “Is his fiancée a witch?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I give up. Why is this cause for doing shots at The Lonely Goat?”

  Eli pushes the empty glasses aside as the food arrives. Two steaming, massive burgers with all the fixings, each with a side of fries, and a bonus plate of onion rings. In spite of myself, my mouth waters. I definitely didn’t eat lunch. Did I eat breakfast?

  “Go for it,” Eli urges, dipping a fry in ketchup and popping it in his mouth. “My treat.”

  “I don’t need your treat.”

  “I know.” A smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners, making him look kind. If he hadn’t taken away my network and elevator privileges, I might have believed it.

  I bite the dill pickle garnish in half. “Answer.”

  “I was halfway in love with her when they hooked up.”

  I freeze midbite. “Come again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Were you together, or was this a love from afar thing?”

  “Together.”

  “She cheated on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With your best friend?”

  A nod.

  “And you still call him your best friend?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me you hit him.”

  A faint smile and shake of the head. “Nope.” The waitress wanders by and he orders two glasses of water and four shots of Captain Morgan, giving me an evil wink. I scowl and he chuckles. He has a nice laugh. Deep and rolling, like he’s actually amused, not the phony or frightened laughs of my coworkers.

  “Why not?”

  He swallows a mouthful of food and I bite into my burger, hot, juicy goodness exploding on my tongue. I close my eyes and stifle a moan. I don’t know the last time I had a burger, and it is divine.

  “I don’t know,” Eli replies. “I guess I thought maybe they were better together. I’m okay with it now.”