Confessions of a Litigation God: A Legal Affairs Full Length Erotic Novel (26 page)

“Get out,”
I say quietly, without malice, without feeling really anything at
all. “I want another draft of those Answers by the end of the
day.”

Mac takes a step
toward me, and my gaze comes up. I see her, but for the first time in
a long time, I’m not dazzled by her.

I’m afraid of
her.

Because without
really knowing anything about me at all… about my demons or
what makes me tick… she absolutely knows what to say to break
me down.

“Matt…
I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she says gently. “I
am, too. Maybe if we talked this out, we could figure—”

It’s like
thick concrete builds up around me, fashioning hard and without
yield. “There’s nothing to talk about. Now leave.”

“Please,”
she begs, eyes pleading, taking another small step toward me. “I
want to make this better—”

Mac’s
kindness… her sympathy… the way she understands me…
it’s overbearing and pain starts to fill me up. I feel the last
vestiges of my control snap, and I lash out before she can say
anything that cuts into my vulnerability further.

“You want to
make this better?” I lurch out of my chair and grab ahold of my
belt buckle. “The only way you can make this better, Miss
Dawson, is if you get over here on your knees.”

Her eyes… the
ones I’ve stared into over and over again, fill with tears, and
it knocks the breath clean out of me.

“You’re
despicable,” she says. My hands drop from my belt, and my head
hangs in shame.

Mac turns away from
me, head held high, and walks to my door.

Sadness, misery, and
panic flood through me. I couldn’t stop the words a moment ago,
and now I don’t know what to say to make this better. I only
know that I can’t let her walk out of here hurting like that.

“Mac,” I
call out to her.

She doesn’t
even flinch when she hears me. She opens the door and opens it.

“
Mac
,”
I say again, this time my voice is tinged with desperation.

She never even
pauses, stepping out of my office and softly closing the door behind
her.

Agony, shame, and
guilt well up inside of me like lava bubbling up from a volcano. Just
like lava, it’s hot and it’s burning me from the inside
out. I think the one woman who actually may have been the best thing
that ever happened to me, wouldn’t give me the courtesy of
stopping when I called out to her.

She wouldn’t
even look back at me, when I was clearly at my lowest. Surely, she
heard that in my voice?

Surely, she knew
that I was struggling.

And she did it so
quietly, with such finality to her actions, that I realize…
coldly, clearly, absolutely… I am nothing to Mac Dawson
anymore.

I look at the
paperweight that’s on my desk… a heavy, crystal orb that
sits on a wooden base and has the scales of justice engraved into it.
Reaching out, I stroke my fingers over the top… just before I
grab it and hurl it at my wall yelling, “FUCK!”

It shatters into a
million pieces, which is exactly how I feel right now.

I think I might be
going crazy.

That’s the
only thing than can explain my erratic behavior.

After Mac walked out
of my office yesterday, I’ve been waging a war with myself to
figure out how I can make these awful feelings go away. I’m
drowning in anger, sadness, lust, loneliness, a little more anger, a
lot more lust, guilt, frustration, hope, hopelessness, and yeah…
more anger.

After I shattered my
paperweight against the wall, I immediately plopped down on my chair
and started typing away furiously on my computer. I pulled up the ONO
website, flipped to my wish list, and scrolled through the profiles.
They all looked the same to me, like prize brood mares hanging their
heads out of their stalls at a horse auction. Not seeing anything
that popped out, I randomly chose one—Number 1633—and
sent her an email to see if she was interested in a hookup tonight.

I started packing up
some work to take home, responded to a few emails, and just before I
logged off to leave for the evening, I got a response.

Of course, she’d
love to hook up tonight. She even suggested the hotel and time. I
pulled her profile up again and took a closer look. She was stunning,
no doubt. Looked like a great pair of tits and her profile said she
liked a little bondage. I thought of some shameless stuff I could do
to her tonight, willing my dick to stand up and take an interest, but
the fucker pouted and refused to participate.

I thought about
pulling it out, right then and there, and rubbing one off while I
stared at the profile picture of Number 1633, just to show my cock
who was in charge.

But the truth of the
matter was—I just wasn’t interested. She wasn’t
Mac, and it wasn’t just my dick that wanted that dark-haired
devil of a woman. Apparently, my conscience wanted her too.

And that fucking
pissed me off.

Made me so angry
with Mac again, that she would tie me up like this and ruin me from
getting sexually distracted by someone else. So, even as I was
cursing Mac’s name, I sent Number 1633 a message back and told
her something came up and I couldn’t make it.

When I got home that
night, I poured myself a scotch and sat on my couch, staring blankly
at the wall. My anger had dissipated, and I was actually thinking of
calling Mac. The reasonable part of my psyche… the one that
understands concepts of right and wrong and isn’t ruled by my
own selfishness, knew I would be best served by calling her and
apologizing. Telling her how sorry I am to have played with her
feelings. Beg her forgiveness for the brute way I acted with her this
afternoon.

I actually get a
little nauseated from the shame I feel when I think about how I told
her to get on her knees before me. I was such a prick. I’m
surprised she didn’t slap the shit out of me because it would
have been warranted.

Just as I almost
have myself talked into swallowing my pride and calling Mac, the
other part of my psyche rears its ugly head. That’s the part of
me that is selfish, stubborn, and cruel. The part that is only
looking to protect myself and who isn’t willing to admit his
mistakes. It whispers to me,
Don’t do it. Don’t call
her. You’re just opening yourself up to hurt down the road.

I let both halves
argue with each other for just a few moments, and then I did
something that was crazy stupid. I mean, so fucking idiotic, I should
probably have a mental health evaluation.

I called Marissa.

I did it to reorient
myself. I needed to make sure that I didn’t get sidetracked
from the cold reality of my life.

I called Marissa,
and I picked a fight with her.

It didn’t take
much. All I did was tell her I was cutting of all financial support
unless she dumped her new boy toy, who she apparently reconciled with
last weekend. I told her she had to dump him because I didn’t
want him lying half naked around the house.

Now, I never in a
million years would cut off financial support, because that is for
Gabe’s benefit. Not to mention, it’s court ordered so I
can’t just stop paying.

I know that.

But apparently, she
doesn’t, because she went ballistic and spent half an hour
chewing my ass out. When Marissa gets mad at me, she loves to throw
in my face all the men she cheated on me with. She went on and on
about what great fucks they were, and that she couldn’t wait
for me to go on a trip out of town so she could just fuck and fuck
and fuck.

You’d think
that stuff would make me angry, but it doesn’t. I’ve long
since lost any care or affection for Marissa, so the reminders of her
betrayal don’t hurt me in the slightest. I’m so past
that.

But what this phone
call did was helped to put things back in perspective with me. That
with the pleasure of love comes the risk it is not as infinite as we
think. When it ends, those who love deeply… purely…
well, they suffer agonizing pain when the infinite becomes finite.

Once I felt strong
again… that is, once I didn’t feel the need to call Mac,
I hung up on Marissa while she was still raging, and poured myself
another scotch, well pleased with myself.

***

Mac didn’t
come into work Thursday and because I absolutely refused to walk by
her office to see her, I only knew this because Karen popped into my
office to talk to me.

“Matt?”
she said hesitantly as she knocked on the door casing.

“What’s
up?” I said as I looked up from my computer.

She stepped just
inside the door and said, “I just wanted to let you know that
Mac has taken a few sick days... just thought I’d let you know
so you could redistribute anything you may have had her working on.”

Immediate concern
for Mac flushed through me. “What’s wrong with her?”

Karen shrugged her
shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re
not sure?” I asked in disbelief.

“No. She just
said she wasn’t feeling well and probably wouldn’t be in
until next Monday.”

She stood there and
waited for me to say something.

“Is there
anything else?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.

“Well…
perhaps you should call her to see what’s wrong?” she
said encouragingly.

I blinked at her,
trying to comprehend what she was saying. That made me sit back in my
chair, because never, in the ten years Karen has been working for me,
has she known me to personally call an employee that was sick. The
fact that she would suggest I do so now meant that she was probably
very much aware of my feelings for Mac, and apparently was
sanctioning said feelings. I kind of figured as much when she never
questioned the fact I flew to Nashville.

I also found it
ironic that my head of human resources, the person that is tasked to
make sure everyone in this firm stays on the straight and narrow to
abide by all labor laws and ensure we don’t commit any civil
violations, was essentially condoning an affair I’m having with
an employee.

I’m thinking
she was due for a raise, but I didn’t let her know that. I just
said, “I’m sure she’s fine,” then went over
some other issues in the firm we needed to talk about.

About mid-morning, I
got an email from Mac. I was in the middle of dictating a settlement
demand letter, leaning way back in my chair, feet kicked up on my
desk, when I heard the chime and saw the tiny pop-up box on my
computer alerting me to the incoming message. When I saw
From:
McKayla Dawson,
I pushed forward in my chair so fast I almost
catapulted myself across the desk. I hit the mouse and opened the
email, momentarily envisioning she was apologizing and begging me to
come over and fuck her.

Instead, it was a
brief email on the
Jackson
case. She had apparently made all
the stupid changes I had requested and her message was short and
impersonal.

Attached are the
changes you requested.

Guilt crashed over
me for making her do that, because her work was quite good. It was
true what she said… most of my changes had to do with
semantics and while it was also true what I said, that a poorly
chosen word could cause major legal ramifications, she had not done
that here.

Pushing the guilt
aside, I fired back a quick email.

Are you okay?
Miss Anders said you were taking a few sick days.

She never responded
and after staring at my computer for fifteen minutes waiting for
another email from her, I finally gave up and went back to work.

That evening, I
cracked open a new bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. I was again
struck with the urge to call Mac, because fuck… I missed her
and I was still floundering over my feelings of remorse for what I’ve
done to her. I struggled, clutching tightly to my phone, reminding
myself over and over again that I didn’t want to get involved
with this shit. That I had made a pact with myself when my divorce
was finalized that I was through with relationships.

I ended up drinking
almost half the bottle while the war inside me raged, and even though
I was hungover as shit the next morning, I was proud of myself that I
didn’t break down and call her.

There was a
correlation, I quickly figured.

Stay drunk, and
defeat the urge to reach out to Mac. Eventually, my desire for her
would wane, and I would be able to move on.

On Friday, I left
work early. It’s something I never do, because I take my job
seriously. I take my duties to my clients seriously. But I was
restless, my thoughts constantly racing and my stomach constantly
churning with the myriad of emotions I was suffering. I was working
on some legal research when my mind wandered and I started thinking
of Mac.

Shocker, right?

Except this time…
I pushed past the guilt of my past actions, and started thinking
about “what ifs”.

What if Marissa
wasn’t the one I was supposed to be with, and it was supposed
to be Mac? Maybe my marriage crumbled for a specific reason that Fate
had planned out for me.

What if I would be
insanely happy with Mac?

What if I’m
missing out on the best thing that has happened to me outside of
Gabe?

I was driving myself
crazy with these suppositions and decided that the best way to numb
the crazy was to get drunk.

I took a walk,
wandering aimlessly, until I stumbled upon a tiny bar that looked
pretty cool. It was simply called
The Bar.
The door was open,
and I could hear laughter coming from inside. Seemed like a nice
place, so I went in.

By seven PM, I found
myself good and drunk again. I played a game of darts with some
regular customers that hung out there. They were on first-name basis
with all the bartenders, who supplied a steady flow of liquor. They
were nice enough guys and I couldn’t remember what their names
were, even though they kept reminding me. But they asked me if I
wanted to join them, and I did, so we shot darts and drank. We
actually made a rule, if your dart didn’t hit the board at all,
you had to take a shot. The drunker we got, the more the darts went
astray, which caused us to drink more, which made us drunker.