Sold on St. Patrick's Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance Page 9

  “And all the rest of you, listen up!” I shout, and everyone stands straight at attention, as if I’m their superior.

  But I’m not. I’m something better. I’m a trainer working for a private contractor employed to teach these new recruits what I spent years learning and practicing as a pararescueman. The normal rules of the military don’t apply here, and for once I’m glad I’m no longer a part of it.

  “If you didn’t clear this tower in time, there’s no way I’m letting you out on the rocks. Here you’re grasping cold, hard metal but in the real world it’s slippery and unpredictable terrain. There’s a rigorous test you’ll have to pass if you ever want to make it off this tower and onto the mountain. We don’t let just anyone do this.”

  “Yes sir,” they mumble, most of them looking earnest and eager. But Tub of Lard just looks scared. I snarl at him and nearly spit in his face, trying my best to show him he doesn’t belong here, before he fails the test and gets sent home anyway.

  “Do you understand, Trainee Garrison?” I yell into his face. “This is no place for stragglers. There is no room for you here.”

  “Yes sir, Yes Trainor Bradford,” he huffs, looking as if he’s going to cry. Good, I hope he goes home to cry to his mommy and never comes back.

  I look away from him with disgust and notice my new boss staring at me from the observation deck. I inwardly wince, prepared to be “talked to” about my “unpredictable and sometimes out of control” temper. But instead he gives me an approving nod.

  Whew. I’d forgotten this isn’t the military. This is the private, civilian world. They like my “craziness” here. So I guess I’d better embrace my new circumstances.

  “When you get down to the bottom, have a good think about whether or not you really have what it takes to be here. And that goes for all of you. I’m going home. You pussies aren’t worth my time.”

  On my way home, I call my brother Ramsey. I took my car to work so that I could bring all the equipment I can’t load onto my motorcycle. But I sure wish I could be riding the open road right now instead of enclosed in a car. I always think better on my bike.

  “What up, lil bro?” he asks, his strong, deep voice sounding knowing and reassuring. “How’s the world of the evil private enterprise treating you?”

  Even though Ramsey is only my older brother by a little more than a year, he’s always been my rock.

  “I can’t complain,” I tell him, and realize it’s true. “You know, I really wanted to stay in the unit with you and Harlow and all the guys. But my style of leadership is accepted here instead of punished. So I guess it was meant to be.”

  “Well, you got out just in time,” Ramsey says, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “There are rumors that you might get convicted of that assault charge, and that would have only lead to a dishonorable discharge.”

  “I’m not going to be convicted.” I want to reach through the phone and punch him. How dare he lose faith in me?

  My mind flashes back to when he advised me to get out of the military right away, after everything had gone down that lead to the assault charge. He said the timing was right: I was up to renew or leave, and no questions would be asked.

  But if I stayed past the time I was charged with a civil crime, I would be investigated and likely dishonorably discharged. I guess my big brother just wants to gloat and say I told you so.

  “I know you’re not going to be convicted,” he says. “Calm down, Mr. Hotshot. I’m just telling you, brother to brother, what the word on the street is, so that if you hear it through the grapevine, you’re not surprised. They said your best bet is to go with the old PTSD defense, but couldn’t that stain your career as well, since you’ve mentioned possibly wanting to join back up?”

  There’s something almost inquisitive in his voice, as if he’s doing a research paper instead of talking to me as his brother. It’s not like Ramsey to be asking me questions. But I have no time to dwell on it, because I’m beginning to get impatient.

  “I’m not going with the PTSD defense.”

  “Jensen, I know why you did what you did. I think everything will turn out just fine. Justice has to be on your side.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” My tone is half serious, half sarcastic. “I’ve gotta go. There’s another call I have to make.”

  “Okay.” His voice sounds a bit regretful, as if he doesn’t want me to hang up. I think about asking him how he’s doing, but that sounds like such a silly question. He’s Ramsey, always a steady eddy type of guy. I’m the loose cannon, not him.

  “Let’s meet up for a beer later,” I say, anxious to get off the phone.

  “Sure. Or whenever works best for you.”

  I hang up and call the legal organization. It takes a minute for Tim to come to the phone and I’m about to honk my car horn at him, as if that would help speed things up. I just need to do right this second what I should have done a long time ago.

  “Jensen?” he says, as soon as he picks up. “I’m sorry for the delay, I was meeting with…”

  “That’s fine, Tim. I understand. I just wanted to let you know, I’m going to need another lawyer.”

  “Another lawyer? I don’t understand. Dylan is the best we have, and he’s done such a good job preparing your case so far.”

  “You and I can agree to disagree on that,” I tell him. “But I know my rights and I’m entitled to fire him if I want to, even though the organization is footing the bill. I’ll take someone different please.”

  I’m willing to take my chances with a less than subpar lawyer. There’s no way I’m going to get the reputation of being “crazy” around the unit I spent the last decade serving with. There has to be some other lawyer who will listen to me about not wanting to go with the PTSD defense.

  Will it be the newbie with the hot ass? I both hope that it is and it isn’t, at the same time. I don’t want some part- time over- achiever on my case. But I’d sure like to tap that and I don’t see how I’d have any other opportunity.

  Tim sighs, as if I’m driving him crazy. I have the tendency to have that effect on people.

  “All right, Jensen. I’ll see what I can do to get a new lawyer up to speed in time for your pre trial conference that’s only two days away at this point.”

  His tone is clearly meant to signal how much I’m inconveniencing him. But I say a sincere “Thank you very much, Tim,” and hang up, ready to toss a dice on a lawyer that will take me seriously about not wanting to use a bullshit PTSD defense just because it’s “the thing to do” and not because it’s what’s best for my case or for me.

  Chapter 9

  The normally comfortable conference room chair feels like a block of cold, unwelcoming ice under me. Mr. Holt clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Ms. Morrell, I believe you and I both know why we’re here.”

  I nod, too upset to say anything. I still can’t believe my dismal performance during trial has cost me the Marks case and apparently my job.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” he continues. “I think it would be wise of you to take a leave of absence, to figure out if you have what it takes to work at this firm. And for the firm to figure out if you’re the type of lawyer we want to continue to employ.”

  Leave of absence. My heart speeds up upon hearing that phrase. That means a break. Not a permanent firing. Perhaps I still have a chance. I’m not sure whether this is a victory or a defeat. I guess it’s something in the middle.

  But yet. Even being told to take a mandatory leave of absence is embarrassing. What will my parents think? I try desperately, stupidly, to save my once- lofty position at the firm.

  “Mr. Holt, I’ve always received exemplary evaluations,” I begin, half knowing it’s foolish to think I can persuade him— that his mind isn’t already made up— but half not caring in my desperation. “My billable hours are off the charts, and I’ve been handling all my own cases for some time now.”

  I stop, re
alizing I’ve opened the door to the perfect opportunity for him to point out that he entrusted me with a top client only for me to blow everything. But luckily he doesn’t say that. He says something arguably worse than that.

  “Your evaluations also repeatedly say that you have trouble… shall we say… fitting in with the firm. That this may not be the right… culture… for you. And that your connections and outside activities leave something to be desired in terms of the firm’s interests and goals.”

  “But I met with the director of the Veterans’ Legal Alliance, to volunteer to represent their clients and bolster my ties with the military community,” I protest.

  “Riley,” he says, with a frown, dropping all pretense of formality. “That’s nice that you went and spoke with the guy. But nothing ever came of it. And sometimes there are situations where the term ‘too little, too late’ applies.”

  I resist the urge to hang my head. I don’t know why I even bothered trying to dissuade him.

  “And anyway,” he says, waving a hand at the expansive window view of the Sandia mountains as if none of this is very important to him. I remember when I was a clerk during law school, how big and important I felt to be working at such a fancy firm. And now I just feel like a loser who couldn’t cut it. “The networking and community involvement stuff is neither here nor there. Sure, we like well- rounded associates and we do like to preserve our military and government work by flaunting our associates’ involvement in those matters. But you would have been saved by the fact that you’re a stupendous lawyer, the crème of the crop. However, there are certain values we need Holt associates to possess, that I’m just doubting whether or not you have, after the Marks trial.”

  “Values?” I try not to sound too sarcastic. But I can’t help thinking that he means the opposite of values.

  “Such as zealous and overly loyal reputation of our clients. And a desire to win…”

  …No matter what the cost, I finish the sentence for him in my mind, as his words trail off. I realize the irony— that my fiancé’s father is sounding a lot like my father. I know for sure that my parents would want me to do whatever necessary to “win” and to keep advancing up the law firm’s corporate ladder. They’re not going to believe I was let go for being too “ethical.” They wouldn’t even know or care what they meant. And maybe if my leave of absence is a short one, they won’t have to find out.

  “I do understand, Mr. Holt,” I tell him, standing up and extending my hand for a parting handshake. I have to realize that the war is over— I’ve lost, or at least I’ve lost for now— and all I can do is salvage what little dignity I have left, and hope that after a leave of absence I’ll be welcomed back without too much damage to repair. “And I can assure you that I do have what it takes to remain employed here and to hopefully become partner as I was slated to do.”

  “We’ll see,” he says with a shrug, halfheartedly returning my handshake. I’ve obviously been dismissed. I just have no idea for how long.

  The walk to Brian’s office feels like the longest of my life. I have no idea how he’ll react to the news. Unlike my own parents, he’s never had to fear his, so I have no reason to think he’ll be disappointed in me just because his father is.

  But then again, there are certain obvious things he has to do to keep his father happy. Work at the firm, although not very hard. Date a respectful girl, and until recently his father has been perfectly happy with it being me, but I’m not sure that that won’t change. And don’t get too drunk in front of clients or colleagues. Wait until he’s out with his old fraternity brothers for that.

  He’s in his office, which is rare at 4 pm– happy hour at the bar downstairs started an hour ago— and it looks like he’s actually working on a case again for once. His back is to me and he’s staring at a computer screen full of emails with Kristin Taggert, an associate at our rival firm of Coleman and Williams, and one of my opposing counsel in the Marks Capital case.

  My mouth drops open. What I want to say is “You really are working on the Marks Capital case now, aren’t you?” but the answer to my question is obvious. It’s puzzling, because Brian is not the caliber of associate that Mr. Holt would normally put on such a big, important case. But maybe with me off the case, he’s giving Brian a shot.

  I have a hunch that Brian wouldn’t appreciate being startled with such a brazen, obvious question.

  So instead, I just say “Hey there,” and lightly rap on the window part of his already-open door, which admittedly I should have done when I first approached, except that he’s my fiancé, and I’m upset at just being placed on a leave of absence. And I’m upset that he’s been ignoring me, apparently opting instead to steal my big case.

  He jumps, and then quickly hits “X” on his browser. He swivels around in his computer chair to face me.

  “Riley.”

  “Brian. I… I just came from a meeting with your dad. I’ve been…”

  “Canned. I know.”

  He half frowns, but doesn’t seem to think it’s nearly as big of a deal as I do.

  “Oh Brian,” I shut his office door and begin to cry. I can’t help myself, and I figure if there’s one place I can feel safe to be vulnerable, it’s with my fiancé, even if it is in his office at the firm his dad owns, from where I’ve just been “canned,” apparently.

  “He didn’t say it like that. He said ‘leave of absence.’ Do you really think it’s permanent?”

  He shrugs, his facial features softening a bit. He always hates it when I cry, which is rare, but it does happen.

  “It’s all because of the Marks case. I know you and I have been… distant… lately, but I was trying to talk to you about it last night, and…” and you weren’t listening, I want to say. You were staring off into space as usual, and barely acknowledging my existence. “…anyway, I don’t know what happened but your dad is somehow caught up in something… bigger than him.”

  I choose my words carefully, not wanting to accuse his dad of what I know to be true: ethical misconduct.

  “Somehow someone gave him information that we really shouldn’t have had,” I continue, “and I just couldn’t… you should know, if you’re going to be on the case now…”

  I decide to warn him, because I don’t want him to be met with the same fate I’ve been dealt, although I doubt that’s possible, as the son of the firm’s founding partner. “Something is really off about that case. I wouldn’t trust Kristin Taggert. Something is not right and it’s going to end up biting everyone in the ass.”

  I really should tell the client, I think. He has the right to know. But that would definitely make my leave of absence permanent.

  “Riley, I don’t know what’s been up with you lately, or what happened in the Marks Capital case,” Brian begins, and I can’t resist interrupting him.

  “What’s been up with me lately? You’ve been completely checked out for a long time now, despite my attempts to find out what’s wrong…”

  “It’s clear to see that we’ve just drifted apart,” Brian continues with another nonchalant shrug, the coldness back in his voice. “I think we could use some time apart.”

  Some time apart? He’s putting me on a leave of absence from our relationship right after I’ve been put on a leave of absence from the firm? What a cold- hearted asshole!

  But I can’t seem to do anything but sob. I start wiping at my eyes, trying to calm down because obviously Brian isn’t here to comfort me but instead only plans to add on to my misery.

  He gets out of his chair and walks around to my side of the desk. I begin to think it’s to give me a hug but instead he puts his arm around me and walks me to the door of his office.

  “There, there. It’ll be okay. You’re always a fighter. You always come up on top.”

  He opens the door, ready to deposit me and our relationship on the street just like his father had done with my job.

  “When will we talk again?” I ask, like an idiot.

  “Let
’s just give it a cooling off period and see what happens,” he says, with a smile, as if he’s being kind to me.

  I turn around and walk out to the elevators— shoulders back, head up, as cool and collected as I can possibly act— before anyone at the firm can see me in this sorry state. I’ll come back later to collect my things. Mr. Holt hadn’t told me what to do with them but I’m assuming they’re not going to let my office sit occupied by my things while I’m not here.

  As I leave the building, my shock soon turns to anger. Just like that, I’m single and unemployed. But I’m determined to save both my relationship and my career, and Brian’s right that I always come out on top. I always get what I want.

  I hear the wise version of myself whisper: It’s just that for the first time in a long time, the only reason I want it so badly is because I’ve been deprived of it. Shut up, I tell that voice. I do want this and I will get it back. You just watch.

  Do it. Just do it.

  I’m at home, and I figure what do I have to lose? I’m in need of a salary, and I know that this position could help my chances of getting back to the firm. I’m just not that excited about representing criminals.

  But what if it’s that Jensen dude?

  A chill runs down my spine. I still can’t figure out why I hate him yet feel strangely attracted to him. And I need to keep thoughts of him out of this. I have to worry seriously about saving my career, not have wistful, conflicting thoughts about some loser criminal with tattoos and a beard that’s way too long. He’s not even my type, at all, in any way, shape or form.

  “Tim McDonald,” says Tim’s voice after I’m put on hold for a few minutes.

  “Hello Mr. McDonald.” I clear my throat, hoping I didn’t just croak out his name. “This is Riley Morrell.”

  “Oh yes, Riley!” His tone sounds instantly more cheerful. “I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you again. I know the prison setting can be scary, but that’s really how you had to be thrown into the organization…”