Chapter Nine
It’s eleven a.m., which makes it five hours since I reluctantly left the comfort of my bed.
Three Bankers Boxes sit at my feet, packed full of my hard work. Exhibit number sixteen is on my lap, ready for Kenneth as soon as he asks.
When he came in this morning, I had everything organized and ready. I felt like a hostess on a game show, albeit a highly caffeinated one, happily displaying the game-winning prize. “Impeccable work, Katie. Well done,” he had said. After my long night, the compliment felt extra good. I mentally add appreciative boss to my gratitude list.
Kenneth fires questions at the witness. He’s been at it for two hours. I force my sleep-deprived brain to stay focused, the effects of the caffeine long gone. Four defense attorneys sit across from us, wearing power suits and pugnacious expressions. I’ve heard the word “objection” so many times today, it’s starting to sound strange, like it shouldn’t be a word at all.
Kenneth slices through the objections with dexterity, like a skilled Samurai wielding his sword. He turns to me. “Give me the one with the motor.”
Exhibit sixteen doesn’t have a motor, and he just finished with fifteen. “I think you mean exhibit sixteen,” I whisper, happy I can contribute.
He darts a warning look at me. “Give me what I asked for. I know what the hell I’m doing,” he hisses.
The defense attorneys sit across from me, four pairs of eyes watching me fumble. They exude a cool confidence, but they’re primed to attack. Flipping through the files, I press my foggy brain to remember where the file with the motor is. It was an oversize document, requiring eleven-by-seventeen paper. It’s in the forties. I pull the lid from the second box and shuffle through the folders. Exhibit forty-four is bulky with a large document. I yank it out and scan it, but before I have a chance to confirm it’s the correct one, Kenneth grabs it from me.
He glances at it and continues with his questioning. He went out of order to impeach the witness—to catch him in a lie. I try to tell myself it’s fine, he got what he needed, but I can’t stop my face from flaring red or my palms from tingling with sweat.
I pass the next seven exhibits to Kenneth without incident, even though my carefully numbered manila folders—per his instructions—are now out of sequence. At noon, we break for lunch. Kenneth and I shuffle from the conference room in silence. Once on the elevator, he slaps his hand against the button and exhales a frustrated breath.
Geez. If he’s that mad, he should say something. All this slapping and sighing seems unnecessary. But then, what if he’s waiting for me to apologize? It was my mistake, after all. “I’m sorry about the exhibit. It won’t happen again.”
Hands clasped in front of him, he tilts forward, as if in a full-body nod. “Mistakes are expected in the early days. Learn from them. Limit them.” He turns his full gaze on me, his pale-blue eyes boring through me. “But don’t ever question my capabilities. Trust me, I don’t need the advice of a law school grad. Your job is to start thinking the way I do, like a damn good attorney. Pay attention. Predict. Stay in the game. Because it’s all a big chess match, Katie.”
The three cups of coffee I gulped earlier this morning sit uncomfortably in my stomach. My mistake was stupid. I meet Kenneth’s gaze. “I understand. Like I said, it won’t happen again.”
The doors open, and he nods. “Very well. Meet me back here in one hour.”
He stalks off to our suite, but I linger behind, turning down the hall to the restrooms. I push the sleeves of my blazer up to my elbows, pump a good bit of institutional foamy soap into my palm, and scrub my hands and forearms with the vigor of a doctor getting prepped for surgery. If only I could scrub the day clean and start over. But yeah, there are no do-overs in the real world. I dry my skin and smooth my blazer. Deep breaths, Katie. You’ve got this.
The reception area is quiet when I walk in. Patty must be at lunch. Good. The mere thought of engaging in polite conversation is exhausting.
As I round the corner, Brooks McDonough barrels from his office. “Yes!” He dances in a circle, pulling his fist in toward his body. “Yes!” I freeze where I am, not wanting to get mowed down by his exuberance. He looks my way, and his cheeks redden. I didn’t peg him as someone to embarrass easily, although his red face could be a result of the worrisome tie. “Hi. Katie Capwell, right? I’m feeling celebratory. Do you know why, Katie Capwell?”
“I don’t. But I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I say, thoroughly enjoying his enthusiasm.
“We escaped death today, my dear! My client was spared his life. I just got the call, and all charges were dropped.”
Even though it’s quite possible his client is guilty of something, it’s hard not to be happy for him. “Congratulations. That’s a big win.”
“You bet it is.” He loosens his tie, and we both exhale. “With some of my clients, I fight hard, but in my heart, I know there’s a chance they’re guilty. But not this time. No sir. This time, one of the good ones dodged a bullet. It’s a phenomenal feeling.” He wipes his brow, and I swear his eyes look glassy.
“That’s really nice to hear. If I’m ever in trouble, I’m coming to you,” I say with a laugh. “You’re one of the good ones, too.” A strange flicker of envy flashes through me, but I dismiss it. I’m helping people, too—just in a different way.
He pats my shoulder with a beefy hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your day. I’m off to the trenches.”
“Go get ’em, young lady.”
By the time I reach the gym, my head is spinning. The depositions after lunch were fine. Good, even. When we took the elevator back to our suite, Kenneth introduced me to an attorney from another office, calling me his illustrious new clerk. But when we reached our offices, the compliments were replaced with an icy silence that I couldn’t begin to decipher.
People mill around near the mats, talking and stretching before their class begins. Claire is nowhere to be seen, and I say a silent thank you. It doesn’t bother me that she’s going out with Brad, but that doesn’t mean I want to overhear details of their dates. A hand touches my shoulder, and I jump.
Ryan laughs behind me. “One day when someone taps your shoulder unexpectedly you’ll know how to throw a killer back-elbow strike.”
“A girl can dream.”
“Stick with me, and you’ll be a walking lethal weapon. You ready to warm up?”
“Yep. I should warn you, though—I may punch a hole through one of your mitts today.”
He raises a brow in question.
“Second day of work.”
“Let’s hit the treadmills, and you can tell me about it.”
I hop on the track, and he holds down the button until I’m walking at a brisk pace. The desire to tell him everything burns inside me, but I refrain, focusing instead on keeping a steady stride.
He sits sideways on an exercise bike, facing me. “So, break it down for me, Katie.”
The pragmatic, protective part of me thought he’d blow off asking about my day. Because what guy likes to hear anyone vent? But he didn’t blow it off. My reflection in the mirror ahead winks at me as if to say, I knew it all along. “It was good until I misunderstood what my boss wanted at a big deposition today, and I made a mistake.”
“I’m guessing you hate mistakes as much as you hate sucking at things.”
“Yes.” I catch a glimpse of his grin.
“Was your boss pissed?”
I picture Kenneth’s face in the elevator, all squints and slashes. “Maybe, but firm is more like it. He’s highly intelligent. I think I’ll enjoy the challenge of working for him.”
“Based on what I know of you, I think you’ll meet the challenge.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead. “Hell, you survived law school.”
“I liked it—there was a specific goal and a clear path to reach it.”
“So you’re a girl who likes a plan.” He nods to himself as if making a mental note, and I wonder, once again, if he thinks I’m neurotic. “What if there hadn’t been a clear path?”
The red numbers marking the time flash in front of me like a warning, and I automatically increase my pace. For the second time in less than a week, all I see is a big blur. How does one navigate with no path? “I might have floundered.” He doesn’t respond, and I turn my head to catch the pensive look on his face. Damn. He’s definitely thinking I’m too uptight. “So, um, what did you study in college?”
“Bio.” He says it with a smack, as though punching the word. “I dropped out after my first year and decided to get my training certification instead.”
“My mother would’ve killed me!” As soon as the words are out, I wish I could suck them back in and swallow them. I didn’t mean to insult his choices. His silence only makes me feel worse. “I didn’t mean—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a popular choice for everyone, but it worked for me.” He leans in, pressing the incline button, increasing it from two to five. Is it his way of making it so we can’t talk anymore?
Tapping the treadmill like it’s a trusty old horse, he says, “We’re going to get your hamstrings warmed up here.” The easy tone of his voice feels like an offering—a get-out-of-jail-free card.
“Thanks. They were feeling excluded.”
“Can’t have that.” He resumes his spot on the bike, and I continue walking, my mind full of questions.
“Jasmine said you do tae kwon do, too. Is that right?”
“Yeah.” He tugs a loose thread from the bottom of his T-shirt and begins wrapping it around his pointer finger like a tourniquet. “It’s in my blood. Funny thing is, if my mom hadn’t shown my brother and me a bunch of Bruce Lee movies when we told her we wanted to play the drums, I’m not sure I would’ve started.” He unwinds the thread and flicks it to the ground.
“Did you ever take the drum lessons?”
“Nah. I forgot all about them once I started martial arts.”
“You’re lucky you found something you liked when you were so young. Why do you teach kickboxing instead of tae kwon do?”
He leans forward. “I teach tae kwon do at another studio a few days a week. The end goal is to open a martial arts studio with my brother.”
“That would be awesome to open your own place.” Admiration colors my tone, and he shifts his eyes to me. I can feel his gaze even though I look straight ahead, watching the glowing numbers on the display.
“Thanks. Doing martial arts was the first thing that came easily to me. Or maybe it felt easy because I loved practicing. It was that way with studying to become a trainer, too. It just felt really right.”
He slaps the stop button on the treadmill. “Okay. Your warm-up is over. Let’s hit the mats.”
I roll off the treadmill as it slows to a stop and head to the front to get my gloves from my gym bag.
“Hang on. No need to glove up yet. I’m going to introduce you to some badass kicks today.”
“That might take more than a day. You’re overestimating my coordination skills.”
He flashes a grin. “And you’re underestimating my teaching skills.”
I roll my eyes as I follow him to the row of bags. Jasmine stops near us, her arms full of folded white towels. “Yo, Katie. What’s up?”
Her hair is different. It’s shaved on the sides, and the spikey part is dyed turquoise blue. Where does she get the guts to take such risks? It looks great on her, but I can’t imagine shaving any part of my head, let alone dyeing it blue. “Hey. Your hair looks cool.”
She smiles. “Thank you. I was going for something different. Ryan says I look like a Smurf.”
“A cute Smurf is what I said.”
“You’re worse than my little brother.”
“You’re like family to me, too.”
She sticks out her tongue at him, and he chuckles as we move to the bags. The way he looked at her makes it seem like they share an inside joke. I wish I could duck outside and grab a lungful of fresh air to clear my head. Or maybe I need to bang my head against one of the heavy bags. I shouldn’t be jealous of their relationship.
“We’ll start with the roundhouse. It’s not the prettiest kick, but it’s the most devastating. Watch.”
Facing the long black bag, he steps into fighting stance, and before I can blink, his leg meets it with a thud. If it were a person, it’d crash to the ground as if it had been hit by a freight train. He might not think it’s the prettiest kick, but I thought it was beautiful. I want him to show me his idea of a pretty kick, though I’d probably pass out like a teenage fangirl.
He turns back to me. “It’s like swinging a baseball bat in the sense that you’re using the rotation of your whole body when kicking. The key is staying on the balls of both feet. You want to connect with the shin right above the foot, keeping that leg straight as you make impact. You also need to fully rotate your right hip over the left. That’s what’ll give you momentum.”
“Piece of cake, right?”
“Right. Go for it.”
I step into fighting stance and face the bag, feeling like I’m about to dive into a potentially cold pool even though I’ve tested the water with my foot and know it won’t be so bad. The fear that I’ll do it wrong and get hurt is real. Taking a breath, I pivot and turn and rotate, but the impact is more like a friendly tap. “Was that kind of right?”
“Try again.”
I pivot hard and swing my leg, but my kick is too low, and my hip isn’t anywhere near where it’s supposed to be. “What exactly do you mean by turning my hip over? I feel awkward.”
He places both hands on his hips. “They’re centered right now, but I want the right to end up over the left. Watch my hips as I turn.” He does the move slowly this time, and I watch with interest, reassuring myself it’s okay to stare, since he’s the one who suggested it. But to be honest, my insides are jelly.
“Now you try. Focus on form, not power. The power will come from doing the move correctly. I want you to kick, reset, and kick again. Then I’ll let you punch holes through my mitts.”
“Thank you. I look forward to that.” Turning my attention to the bag, I adjust my feet and tighten my fists. The bag looms in front of me, taunting me. Swallowing hard, I tell myself to just do it, but I’m frozen. “I’m scared.”
He laughs. “Why? What’s the worst thing that’ll happen? You fall on your ass, and I help you up?”
“Very funny.”
“Don’t take this so seriously. The only way you’ll learn is by making mistakes along the way.”
“My fear of failure is strong.” In a guarded tone, I say, “Please don’t laugh if I do fall.”
A strange look crosses his face. “I promise I won’t.”
I turn to the bag, but my mind lingers on his expression. Shaking my head, I reset and do the kick. It’s not perfect by any means, but I tried.
“Better! Keep it up.”
As I try again, I remember what he said the first day I met him: it helps to get a little angry. I don’t zero in on what I’m angry about, but I seem to have plenty in reserve. It’s just me and the bag, and I’m going to win.
Sweat slides down my face into my eyes, and I dab at it with the gym towel I brought. My breath is ragged, but I feel alive.
“That was awesome. You moved past the mental block and went for it.”
“I remembered to get angry.”
“Works every time.”
“Somehow I don’t think it’s as much of a struggle for you. The bag cowers when you approach it. And let’s not even talk about the battle ropes. They surrender to you.”
He wipes a hand down his mouth, but I can see the smile. “You make me sound like a superhero.”
“Well.” I grin at him. “Now that you mention it…”
He laughs. “So I can throw a good punch. You’ll get there. Hell, you’ve already come a long way.” He looks at the mirror in front of us and studies himself, expressionless. “It’s easy to build a muscle. Other things don’t come so easily for me.” He flicks his eyes back to mine. “I can relate to your fear of failing.”
My curiosity is like a boulder rolling downhill. Even if I wanted to stop myself from probing, I couldn’t. “How so?”
“School.” He pulls in a breath. “It was a freaking battle.”
“The people or the academics?”
“Both. I have dyslexia.” He slides his hand up the front of his shirt, as if zipping on a protective shield. “People thought I was stupid. They’d talk loud enough for me to hear. It made me not want to try anything. Getting the diagnosis helped, but the label was there. I was the dumb kid.”
Horrid, awful people. “That must’ve been really hard. Kids are cruel.”
“Yeah.”
The look in his eyes tugs at my heart. It makes me want to go back in time and lecture all the jerks who hurt him. “But look at you now. You’re doing what you love, and you’re really good at it.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from someone like you.”
My shoulders rise and sag. Someone like me? He’s smiling, but it feels like an insult. “I beg your pardon?” As soon as the words are out, I realize I’ve answered my own question. I’m someone who says I beg your pardon in an accusatory tone. I can’t meet his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He tilts his head as though he’s silently trying to nudge me back up. “You’re a lawyer. I’m a college dropout. We’re different. So when I said someone like you, I meant you’re smart, accomplished.”
“Thanks.” His compliment lies on the floor at my feet, fluttering like a fallen butterfly. For reasons I can’t begin to decipher, I leave it there.
He clears his throat and points to my legs. “You might want to ice your shins later. You’ll build up a tolerance as you go, but the first time’s always a little dicey.” He glances at the clock. “I’ll walk out with you. You’re my last client tonight.” As we reach the cubbies, he pauses near Javier. “Hey, man. I’m out. See you tomorrow.”
They bump fists. “Cool. You off to see the ladies?”
“You know it,” he says with a conspiratorial grin that stirs my curiosity.
We walk in silence until we reach the door, my mind stuck on who these ladies might be. Trying for a casual tone, I say, “What are you doing tonight?”
He winks. “Salsa dancing.”
It’s a lie. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Especially after the way he opened up about his dyslexia. He’s like a multifaceted prism, and I want to know all of his colors. Maybe I should ice my heart instead of my legs. My feelings for him are getting way too warm.