Authors: Jessa Hawke
“Really? Honey, marriage will happen for you! You’re my little pride and j—”
“Oy, ma, I’ll go out with him! Just no more marriage talk, okay?” Marriage is the last thing on my mind these days. Certain hunky lawyers are definitely first.
“He’s gonna pick you up Thursday at seven.”
“Ma! You told him I’d go already?”
As I listen to my mother prattle on about how she was not sure whether or not I would have said yes and when was I going to give her grandchildren already, I had promised I would wait until school was done, I became glad, not for the first time, that I was spending this summer far away from home. And who knows, maybe this date would lead to something good for me. An appreciation for guys my own age. After all, Mikey Kanstafolous was working as a paralegal right now; surely we would have some things to talk about.
He picks me up right on the dot. I have dressed up conservatively for the occasion in a blue lace dress, but still his eyes assess my body when I opened the door; he seems to like what he sees. Foreboding fills me as I take in the groom my mother has offered me. He’s tall, certainly, with dark hair and dark eyes, but there’s something about him that smacks of someone who is not comfortable with himself just yet. Maybe it’s the amount of gel in his hair, or the fact that his eyebrows look expertly waxed, but Mikey Kanstafolous is living on borrowed confidence.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I wonder if I should be ordering the least expensive thing on the menu. After all, paralegals don’t make as much as lawyers do. I hate feeling this way, but Mikey seems nice enough as he holds the chair for me.
“So, I remember you from Hunter,” he tells me as the waiters bring out our Caprese salads, fresh with sliced mozzarella.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, stabbing a cherry tomato with a fork.
“Yeah. You were sitting on the bridge with your friends, and they were all discussing some party they had gone to. You, though, you had your nose in a book. I always thought you were a nice Greek girl.”
I choke on a piece of tomato, and Mikey leans forward to pat me on the back. Nice Greek girl? Poor Mikey Kanstafolous. I guess no one told him about my professor and I going at it on the desk. I doubt he’d still be here if he knew.
As Mikey launches into a story about some lecture class we apparently had together, I think about what would happen if I dared to tell Mikey about that little incident. He’d look at me in stunned silence and pretend he was cool with it, probably. And then somehow the story would get back to my mother, making my next trip home more than a little bit awkward. In my family, we don’t talk about sex; we sweep all mention of it under the rug as if families like the Kanstafolous’s don’t have nine kids and didn’t procreate like rabbits.
Mikey is asking me about some other professor I barely remember, and that’s when it hits me. Am I able to answer him like a normal human being? Sure. Is there even a part of me that’s thinking that this is a little nice, that we have touchstone points on which to connect? Maybe. But there’s an overwhelmingly large part of me that’s asking my own subconscious if I truly give a damn. Because that’s what this is like for Mikey. A simple world of simple marriages, where the normal is not only possible, it’s expected. Mikey’s world is all about stuffed grape leaves and sex within the walls of the bedroom.
When I come back from a trip to the bathroom, Mikey hands me my coat. I like that he’s already paid the check; it’s a classy little move that I recognize from the stories my old Greek friends used to tell me about dating. I start wondering if maybe there’s something appealing after all about the normal side of things, and smile favorably upon Mikey, who lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees. He drives and walks me to my door, making small talk until the last, as if he’s afraid I’m going to turn around and run inside like some kind of scared chicken. I don’t know what kinds of girls he’s dated up until now, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that there have been many who have played it up shy and done just that.
“I had a good time tonight, Adrian,” he tells me, and it’s like I can see the gears in his head turning, the machinations taking place. When he leans in, his lips are predictably dry, flaky, and soft, like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces at the least provocation. I promised my mother I’d give it my all, so I lean forward and take Mikey by the head, press my body against him, and give him all I’ve got. I’ve got some considerable stuff, and he begins to squirm against my body as if he’s trying to climb inside of me while my clothes are still on. I feel the sharp jut of his half-chub on my thigh and that’s when the full realization of what this evening is hits me.
I feel nothing for this guy. He’s stiff, he’s old-school, he’s boring. This whole night, I’ve been coaching myself to pull through like a champ because I felt I owed it to my family. But what about owing myself, Adrian, a little something? Mikey is moaning against my lips and it’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes, even though his are closed. He tries to fumble between my legs and another face pops into my mind, a face with blue eyes combing my chest, lingering on the parts of me that heat the quickest. It’s joined by another set of eyes, these green, and I picture Lee Evans’s hands spreading open the cheeks of my bottom.
Mikey mistakes my shortness of breath for arousal and tries to jam his whole tongue into my mouth, as if that’s going to intensify the experience for me. I think about what my mother would say if she had any idea that right now, I’m picturing burying my boss’s faces between my legs, and it spurs me on. Mikey’s body becomes Hannigan’s body, Hannigan’s body melds into that of him and Evans. I cannot tell myself exactly what is going on, but I know that I am being touched in all the right places at all the right times, and suddenly, I am panting as hard as little Mikey, except that the fool won’t bruise me the way I want to be bruised.
I break away from him, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he is dazed, aroused, and DEFINITELY going to call me again. Inwardly, I groan. He leans over for a lingering goodbye kiss that I can’t wait to shake off, and it’s like I can read his inner monologue. He’s congratulating himself on having gotten the goodnight kiss that clearly signifies I want his dick, and also commending me on not being so much of a whore that I let it get much further than that.
You know what’s nice about older men? Liking sex is actually a plus in their eyes. I can’t imagine either Hannigan or Evans commending me on my coyness or virginity. There’s no Madonna-whore complex there.
“I’ll call you,” Mikey Kanstafolous says to me with one last longing look before heading to his car. I straighten out the demure lace dress and my own damned thoughts. It is decided. Go big, or go home.
Those are odds I’m willing to take.
* * *
I issue the memo with a shaking hand. It’s not often that I go old school, but this one has to be hand-written because there’s too much chance that an electronic one might accidentally be sent out to the whole company, and if there’s something that powerful lawyers and new interns do not need floating around, it’s news of some indiscretion at the office. Besides, I think a personal touch is what is necessary here. So I pen the following words:
Boss Hannigan. This is an official request to litigate me, Adrian, at seven this evening at the office.
Am I riddled with nerves as I place it on Mike Hannigan’s desk? Strangely, no. I know that there’s always a fifty percent chance he’ll take me up on this. Now, all I have to do is wait until he comes into his office; only twenty more minutes to go.
I’m calmly typing up the psychiatrist’s notes on the custody battle when Mike Hannigan hikes his fine behind to the front desk, my memo between his fingers. For a moment, neither one of us says a word, and I try to gauge his reaction by the look on his face. The man is good; I cannot decipher a thing, and for the first time, my heart is thudding.
“Litigate you, Adrian?”
“Perhaps not the best choice of words, Mike.”
He looks bemused for a moment, then his face reclaims its steely mask. His eyes roam up and down my body again, snaring on the dip in my purple shirt with a strategically placed front bow. Suddenly, I hang on the verge of relief, because it is impossible to mistake that appraising look for anything other than interest. He comes around the desk until he is leaning, his mouth so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his breath tickling the fine hairs there.
“How do you want it done, Adrian?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. Heart in my mouth, I begin to speak. I tell him that I want it on the big oak table where we oversee our divorce cases, where the battle over china dishes and children gets so intense that sometimes, people get physical. I want my clothes to still be on, and my skirt to be up around my waist. I want to be on all fours, taking his cock deep on the gorgeous wood because that is where we will sit for the rest of the summer, again and again and again, and none of our clients will be the wiser.
When I am done, my chest is heaving a little. I have no idea what Mike Hannigan’s face looks like; his breath is still even, measured. There is a long, pregnant pause and then he says, “See you at seven, Adrian. Take your vitamins.”
When he leaves, I go slack, as if his very presence was the only thing keeping me upright during out interaction.
At twelve thirty, Lee Evans comes waltzing in, fantastic green eyes snapping with delight as he sees me with my hand wrapped around a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee that I offer him.
“Is someone eager to please, sugar?’ he drawls to me.
“Maybe,” I answer him, smiling because I know Lee is a gentler touch than Hannigan, although no less excitable. “What did you have in mind?”
He looks so taken aback for a moment that I think I’ve miscalculated my hand; maybe he wasn’t interested all along and now I’ve gone and hit on a powerful lawyer, embarrassing myself. The merriment fades from his face and as he looks at me, there is a mix of emotions on his face that I cannot read all too well. One thing is clear, however. Whatever I have just said has definitely snagged his attention.
“That depends, doll,” he says to me slowly. “You see something here you like?”
I stand up, propping my wrists and palms against the ledge of the reception desk. Before I can change my mind, I substitute sheer bull-headedness for courage, lean forward, and kiss Lee Evans straight on the mouth, right there, in broad daylight. It is nothing like kissing little Mikey Kanstafolous. Lee’s lips are soft and he tastes like the spearmint gum he’s been chewing. His shave is close, although I know by the time seven rolls around, there will be sandpaper on his cheeks, scraping against my palms. “Does that answer your question?” I ask him, matching him gaze for gaze.
His whole demeanor changes instantly. Something hot is seeping into his eyes, changing their color from green to an almost honey color. When he opens his mouth, he tells me what he would do to me. He speaks in almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid that at any moment, a client is going to come rushing through the door, but I can hear him, loud and clear. He tells me that he would make me go down on my knees and lean back on my hands. That he would want the skirt up over my fat little ass and thighs and to watch me finger myself right in front of him until he came all over my chunky tits. I watch Lee’s eyes light up as he talks about this, and realize that he likes it a little messy; inside of this powerful lawyer is a little boy who wants to pee in the snow and forget writing his name.
Whether it is in preparation for the evening or not, Mike Hannigan does not give me anything to do for the rest of the day. I stop by my flat and freshen up, leaving behind my bra and thong; I won’t be needing those tonight. By the time I make it back to the office, it’s already coolly dark outside. I walk into the case room and walk around slowly, flicking on each of the lamps until there is a nice, hazy glow to the room. I walk around the heavy oak table that has seen so many trials and human tribulations and trace the smooth wood of it with my fingers. I imagine it leaving a residue on the tips of my digits and slide my fingers down my breasts and thighs, tracing a path that I want a dream lover to follow.
“Someone looks like she’s enjoying herself,” Mike Hannigan says from the door.
I snap my hands back to my sides, flushing at having been caught. While it’s true that fucking in the case room has been an idea dancing around my mind from my first day here, it’s not necessary for anyone to know that. There is a minute where Hannigan and I consider each other from our vantage points, and then he crosses the room and grabs my body in his large, square hands.