Chapter 1
I glanced over the top of my cubicle toward a window about ten feet away. Snow was coming down hard, in big, fat flakes that shone white against the black night and stuck to the pane whenever a sudden gust of wind slammed against the building. I looked at the clock on the opposite wall and sighed. You'd never know by the looks of the office that it was almost nine p.m.
“The Pit,” as everyone called the group of cubicles that housed temps and interns, included a pod of hopeful, over-achieving, third-year law students like myself. The four of us still had one week left on the job. After working the standard summer internship at Sterling Grove’s full-service firm, I had been asked, along with the other three interns, to stay on when the firm took on a major trial case. The trial had finished up last week, and the firm had won, with some thanks due to the countless hours Steve, Cherie, Eric, and I had put in over the last four months. Our hard work paid off when we were offered full-time positions after we finished school and passed the bar exam. It was no small carrot—the firm was one of the largest in Boston, and the positions some of the most coveted for any new grad.
But unlike the other interns, I wasn’t actually sure I wanted to work at Sterling Grove. It wasn’t that it wasn’t a good firm (despite the first-year associate hours that would be undoubtedly hellacious). There was simply something missing. Two and a half years ago, I had left a job in investment banking for law school, hoping to find a career that would make me feel, well, complete. Law had seemed like a good idea. It was lucrative, analytical, and I had the potential to do more for the world than just stockpile money. And upon starting my classes, I quickly learned that I loved the philosophical side of justice just as much as the practical. Law school was a practice of existing somewhere in the middle.
The difficulty was in choosing a focus. Two and a half years later, when most of my classmates already had jobs locked for the following year, I still had absolutely no clue what I wanted to do with my degree. I had excelled in my classes and attracted three job offers already, but had turned down all of them. Although I was interested in almost everything I had participated in, nothing made me feel that “oomph,” that one-hundred-percent knowledge that this was what I was supposed to do. Two and a half years later, I was still looking.
“I see you looking for a cab, Crosby.”
A pair of thick black glasses, bright white teeth, and a mop of curly black hair popped over the cubicle barrier. I smiled, careful to avoid my co-intern's eyes.
“I’m not looking for anything, Steve,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not sure I’m going either.”
“What?!”
Steve Kramer, a student at Boston College, looked around briefly to make sure none of our supervising associates were in the common room before skittering around to sit on my desk, disregarding the legal pad under his butt. The two temps who shared my cubicle glanced up with mild annoyance before leaning back to their work.
“Dude,” Steve said as he grabbed the arms of my desk chair and rolled me to face him. “You gotta come. The trial is finally over. It’s our last drunken hurrah as interns together.” He didn’t seem to notice when I immediately rolled back to my original position.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s already so late. Plus, the weather is turning to shit, and I really need to finish this brief tonight.”
“Finishing a brief” was legal equivalent of telling someone you needed to wash your hair or walk your dog. Unfortunately, for all the promise Steve showed as a cutthroat attorney, he never seemed to clue into basic social cues from women.
“Come on, Crosby,” he cajoled, again pulling my chair close. “I’m not letting you go until you say yes. It’s our only opportunity to celebrate the end of this insane internship. You don’t even have to pay—Cherie knows the owner at Manny's and can get us comp’d pitchers.”
It wasn’t really the end yet—we still had a whole week. But considering the fact that classes were starting on Monday, it was more fitting to celebrate the end now instead of next Friday, when most of us would be more interested in getting ahead on our reading than tipping back shots.
Manny’s was a well-known bar in Chinatown and just a short cab ride away from the office. I wasn’t much of a drinker, which made me less than excited about going. Nor was I particularly interested in fending off the odious advances of Steve, who had been trying to talk me into a date since September. He was okay-looking, but, like most of the men I’d been out with, just didn’t quite do it for me. Apparently, I seemed to have the same problem with men that I did with choosing a job.
I sighed.
“You know he’s not going to leave you alone until you say yes.”
I glanced over to a neighboring cubicle, where Eric, my classmate and neighboring intern, hadn’t even looked up from his work to make the dry comment. I looked back at Steve, who waggled his prominent eyebrows. I sighed again.
“Fine!” I said, and turned back to my desk. “I’m going, I’m going. Can I get back to work now?”
~
We arrived at the tail end of Happy Hour while the band was finishing their sound check. We weren’t alone—Manny’s attracted the twenty-something young professional crowd of Boston, most of whom consisted of lawyers, bankers, and grad students working around Beacon Hill. The men wore a standard after-work uniform of suit pants and striped, button-down shirts, matching jackets tossed over the backs of chairs and ties loosened as they tossed back cheap beer. The women were dressed much like myself, in pencil skirts or pantsuits, their blouses undone one extra button to make it clear this wasn’t an interview. I kept my buttons where they were.
I filed into the small booth that had been claimed by my cohort and allowed Steve to hang my coat on the hooks next to us. Steve and Cherie jetted off to the bar and returned shortly with a tray full of tequila shots and a pitcher of PBR. Everyone eagerly took one of the shot glasses and the accompanying limes. I was the last to take one after Steve looked pointedly at me. With a quick eye roll, I raised my shot along with everyone else.
“This is the end,” Steve intoned, mimicking the words of Jim Morrison. “My only friend, the end.”
“Shut up and drink,” jeered Cherie.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Steve protested, stopping everyone from drinking. “I bought the shots, I get to toast. Okay. It’s been a pleasure working with you all, and I’d just like to say: may you finish the year without flunking out of law school in your last semester. May you all succeed and get filthy rich like I know you want to with these overpriced degrees. May you all make name partner within five years. Except not at Sterling, because that’s going to be me.”
We all yelled and threw balled up napkins and cardboard coasters at him before gulping down the harsh liquor. It was the cheap stuff, of course, but it would no doubt get everyone trashed while liquor was half price. Steve began to dole out PBR-filled pint glasses.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I said, slipping out of the booth to his obvious disappointment. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to get my own drink.”
“Too good for the blue ribbon, huh?” Steve teased.
“Everyone’s too good for that horse piss,” I retorted with a grin before making my way over to the bar, where I ordered a whiskey with a splash of water.
“Not a PBR fan?”
I turned to find a good-looking guy next to me, leaning against the bar. Like the other men, he also wore a button-down and suit pants, with his sleeves rolled up his forearms to reveal an expensive and ostentatious watch. Flashing with a bright band and even a few small diamonds encrusting the edges, it was the kind of watch meant to tell people he had money. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his dark blue tie was slightly askew. He was cute, in that young M.B.A.-kind of way, with close-cut brown hair and a square, goatee-lined jaw. He also held a glass of brown liquor, which he raised.
“Not so much,” I said as I slipped the bartender my card and nodded that she could cash me out.
“Trevor,” he said, reaching out a hand.
“Skylar,” I said as I accepted the firm handshake. That watch really was bright and shiny. I took a sip of my whiskey and closed my eyes momentarily with pleasure.
“What are you guys celebrating over there?” Trevor asked.
“The end of a trial,” I replied. “We’re all interns at Sterling Grove.”
“Ah,” Trevor said knowingly, although his lack of further response made it clear that he knew little more than the name of the firm. “I’m an analyst over at Chase.”
He said it in a way that was obviously meant to impress me. While he probably didn’t know much about my life, I was extremely familiar with his. One year on Wall Street had been more than enough to convince me I needed to do something for a living wouldn’t cost my soul and sacrifice others’ in the process.
But despite his occupation, Trevor had a nice face. I was in no hurry to return to Steve’s attention, and after talking with Trevor for two more drinks, I started thinking about other places we might go.
It had been a long time—too long for someone my age who had no attachments and no hang-ups about casual sex. But I would have been lying if I said that any of those encounters were more than barely satisfying. Most of them had simply scratched a strong, primal itch to be with another person, but also ended up with me scratching myself better, later, alone.
It didn’t help that when I did get attached, it was with the worst people on the planet. Out of the two major relationships I’d had, the first, my high school sweetheart, was currently serving time for aggravated assault. Poor Robbie hadn’t stood a chance, growing up with the remains of the Brooklyn mob living within a five-block radius of his house. The second…well, let’s just say I avoided talking about him at all. Patrick’s serial philandering had left a scar that was still fairly raw.
So, my classmates knew me as a loner. But that didn’t mean I wanted it to be that way forever. Just because things hadn’t worked out before didn’t mean they couldn’t in the future.
I looked at Trevor, who was jabbering about some kind of deal he had made that week. He stopped when he found me staring at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked. “You need another drink?”
I looked down at the remnants of my third glass of whiskey, which was nearly empty. I had reached my self-imposed limit for the night, where I was tipsy but wouldn’t be hungover the next morning.
I pushed the glass away.
“Let’s dance,” I said, and held out my hand so he could lead me to the back of the bar, where a bunch of people had started an impromptu dance floor next to the juke box. As the lazy riffs of “Beast of Burden” came on, Trevor pulled me into his chest and swayed awkwardly and out of sync with the music while Steve, Eric, and Cherie all watched with interest. He smelled like bourbon and body spray, but I enjoyed at least the feel of his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and the muscles of his chest beneath my cheek.
“Hey,” he said as the Stones launched into the chorus the second time. I looked up, and he touched his nose to mine.
All right, why not? Jagger asked if he was strong enough, and I closed my eyes as Trevor leaned in.
His tongue slipped into my mouth and touched mine before darting out again. He did this again. And then again. It was…not pleasant. Like being kissed by some kind of reptile. When I pulled away, he moved his mouth, rubbery and wet, to my neck before leaning back with obvious, drunken desire gleaming in his muddy brown eyes.
“You’re really hot, you know that?” His words were slightly slurred. “I have a total thing for redheads, and you are at least a nine. Maybe even a ten by Boston standards.”
“Um, thanks,” I muttered. My long red hair, which was wavy, unruly, and roughly the color of an heirloom tomato, was almost always the subject of tired come-ons. I was proud of my natural color, but was like these guys literally couldn’t see anything but the top of my head.
“You want to get out of here? My place is just off Newbury.” Like Chase, the street name was meant to impress—Newbury was a nice part of town, and expensive.
Five minutes ago, I might have said yes, but I had no intention of having sex with Captain Jabbing Tongue of the Good Ship Sexism that night. I gently untangled myself from Trevor’s grip and was careful not to answer the question. “I’m going to stop in the ladies’ room.”
Trevor nodded happily. “I’ll just go close out my tab, honey.”
I ducked through the crowd back to the booth, where Cherie hooted and Steve pretended not to notice me.
“I’m heading out,” I told them as I grabbed my coat.
“Skylar’s gonna get some!” Cherie crowed, clearly worse for wear. “I saw you making out on the dance floor. Girl got a hot date!”
I snorted. “Hardly. Trying to get rid of one, if you know what I mean. I’ll see you guys on Monday. Tell Eric I said bye, wherever he went.”
Cherie and Steve waved slurred goodbyes, although Steve’s was a bit lackluster. I checked the bar, where Trevor was patiently waiting for a bartender to ring him up. Once he turned his back to sign his tab, I wove around the crowd and out the front door.
Outside I was met by the makings of a full-on Nor’easter as a blast of snow and wind pummeled me in the face. At least ten other people were standing on the curb, trying without any luck to hail cabs driving by, all of them occupied.
“Shit,” I muttered, checking to make sure Trevor hadn’t come out yet. I buttoned my wool pea coat and wound my scarf around my neck, wishing I had foregone my pencil skirt for pants and my goose-down parka. It might have made me look like the Michelin Man, but at least I’d be warm. The nearest T-stop was at least ten blocks away, and I was going to have to walk. Damn.
“Skylar!”
As one particularly cold gust nearly knocked me over, a cab stopped in front of me, with Eric popping out the back window.
“Hey!” I greeted him as I stepped out to the car. “I thought you were already gone.”
“You’re never going to catch a cab right now. Need a lift? Caleb is dropping me at a friend’s place a few blocks away before he takes this one back to Chestnut Hill.” He nodded his head at the unfamiliar guy sitting in the front, who waved. “You could call for a car and wait at my friend’s place if you want. That is, unless you wanted to go home with Douchebag in there.”
I followed his glance to where Trevor was pushing open the pub door. I turned back in a hurry. “Shove over and let me in, will you?”
~