CHAPTER 4
Viveka
My eyes drift from my computer screen to the front window that looks out on the street. My law firm is very small. As in, I’m the only one employed here. I didn’t need much room when I hung my shingle eleven years ago after I moved to the area with my now ex-husband Adam. Because my office is sandwiched in between Do or Dye on my left and a bail bondsman on my right, the only windows in the space are the front lobby. As such, I parked my desk there to have some natural light, even if the view wasn’t all that great.
It consisted of a similar strip of offices across the street, all the same as the one I occupied. Dulled and yellowed brick that was once white but is no more. Black shutters to the sides of the front windows, the paint cracked and peeling on the edges. The doors are commercial glass with aluminum handles to pull them open, with the business names painted on the glass windows.
When I first moved in, Adam surprised me by having my front window painted with fancy gold block lettering trimmed in white.
Viveka Jones, Esquire
Animal Rights Lawyer
Eleven years later, the paint is peeling just like the shutters and I don’t have the money to have it freshened up. Besides, any person who needs to hire an attorney of my ilk isn’t going to be checking to see how fancy my office is.
I turn back to the computer screen, my eyes scanning the outline of the brief I’ll be handing in to the judge on Tuesday when I ask for the injunction against Landmark Builders to protect the vulnerable and totally cute red-cockaded woodpecker to be made permanent. Ford will be submitting his own brief in opposition. In my twisted mind, I’ve dubbed these documents The Pecker Briefs.
Of course, every single time I’ve thought about woodpeckers or the word “red-cockaded,” I naturally think of Ford.
And his pecker.
Cock.
Dick.
Shaft.
Eight inches of make-me-wanna-scream his apartment building down.
Last night was intense. I was impetuous, rash, and bold in my decision to sleep with him. True to my word to him last night, I regretted not a minute of it. Ford is the absolute sexiest man I’ve ever been with. He’s completely unfettered in his sensuality, and he made my body do things last night I didn’t even know was possible.
I certainly didn’t know it was possible to come twice just with cock and no stimulation to my clit. I’m thinking the thick eight inches had something to do with that.
Of course, my only comparison is to the three men I’d been with prior to Ford. The first was a nineteen-year-old male model I lost my virginity to when I was sixteen. I fashioned myself in love with him. He’d just wanted to bust a nut, and it wasn’t a good experience at all. Three thrusts and he was done.
The next was a guy I dated while in Florida getting my undergrad. We lived in the same dorm, and we were together for two years. The sex was mediocre. Of course back then, I thought it was the best ever. We broke up when I went off to law school, and he went off with another girl he’d been banging behind my back.
The last was Adam. I met him at Emory during my first year of law school. He was in his second year of medical school there. It worked out nicely since we both graduated at the same time. Adam really liked Emory and accepted his residency there. I wasn’t so crazy about Georgia, but I loved Adam.
I took the Georgia bar exam and went to work at a slick corporate firm, because Adam felt that type of law would be a nice complement to him being a neurosurgeon. He was all about appearances. I was in love with him, so I let it be about appearances for me, too.
That all changed one night on my drive home from work. We lived in a relatively nice neighborhood given we were just newbies in our careers, but it was full of professional-type people just like us. It was summer, and there was still plenty of light as I drove slowly down our street. Three houses before I reached ours, I saw a man on the sidewalk trying to walk a reluctant dog. The dog was pulling back—almost in fear—from the man.
To this day, I can remember the cramp of pain that hit my chest over the look in that dog’s eyes. And then to my utter disgust and shock, the man hauled off and started hitting the animal. Hard blows to the dog’s head and back, until the dog just rolled over and went belly up on the man.
Later, Adam told me he’d never seen me so mad in his life. I don’t remember much about the entire incident, but from what neighbors told Adam, and from what he, in turn, told me, I stopped my car in the middle of the street, jumped out, and went after the man. I had my briefcase with me, and I pulled it out of the car. It was one of those hard ones with sharp corners, and I started whacking the man on the back as hard as I could.
He stopped beating the dog. Only by the grace of another man who was jogging down the street did I come out unscathed, too. He apparently had to pull the man beating the dog away from me. I wasn’t cowed or scared, though. I merely picked up the dog’s leash and told the asshole, “I’m taking your dog.”
He screamed and cursed at me, threatening to call the police.
I told him to “bring it”.
He never did come for the dog, but he did threaten Adam with a lawsuit since I’d hit him with my briefcase.
I didn’t care.
I had a dog, and I named him Stanley. He loved me beyond measure, but he never really warmed up to Adam. And from that day forward, I knew I wanted to be an animal rights lawyer.
Adam was not happy, but when he transferred residency to Duke two years later and we moved to the Raleigh-Durham area, I talked him into letting me venture out on my own as a solo practitioner seeking justice for all sorts of furry and feathered animals.
But I never really had his full support. It was more of a “pat me on the head” and tell me to have “fun with my little hobby.” I didn’t care, though. I was doing what I was meant to do. I moved into this dingy office eleven years ago, and Stanley came to work with me every day until he died.
As always when I think about Stanley—my very first furry child—I get a little misty-eyed. I’m immediately blinking back the tears when the door opens, as it is never very professional for a potential or current client to see me crying.
Luckily, it’s just Frannie strolling in, so I don’t worry about it. She takes one look at me and says, “You’ve been thinking about Stanley, haven’t you?”
She knows me that well and doesn’t even wait for me to respond. Plopping down in the modest—okay, cheap—guest chair on the other side of my desk, she leans forward expectantly.
“What?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“Don’t you play stupid with me,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “I’ve been dying to hear how last night went.”
“Oh, that,” I say casually, knowing it will irritate her. I’ve actually been waiting for her to wander over so I could tell her all about last night. She was the one I’d called from the restaurant, asking if she’d go let my dogs out and feed them. I was currently a proud mom of another rescued golden retriever—from the pound, not from a man beating the poor thing—and a tiny Pomeranian, also rescued from the pound.
Settling into my chair, I kick my feet up on my desk. I dressed casually today because I don’t have court, depositions, or clients. Casual means jeans, a frilly blouse for a hint of femininity, and a pair of strappy sandals with a low heel.
Placing my hands over my stomach and lacing my fingers, I try to keep my expression serious. Frannie is about ready to fall out of her chair as she leans forward, waiting for my story.
Finally, I break the silence and grin. “I had three orgasms last night.”
Her eyes go round, and her mouth drops open. “Three? You had sex three times with the man?”
I shake my head, my grin getting bigger. “Only once. Well, only once with penis in vagina. He gave me two orgasms, and then after… well, just with his hand.”
“After?” She gasps.
I nod exuberantly. “He was amazing. I mean… Frannie, I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
“Did he have you barking at the moon?” she asks sagely.
I giggle, having no clue what that even means. “Let’s just say he had me making all kinds of sounds I didn’t even realize were possible. No way could I try to replicate them right now.”
She wiggles her butt, moving it to the edge of her seat. Her voice lowers. “And when are you going to see him again?”
“In court on Tuesday,” I tell her, my smile slipping a bit.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says, dramatically holding both hands up, palms toward me. “You do not have sex with a man you just met, let him wring three orgasms out of you, and not have plans to hook up again.”
“Well, we didn’t make plans.” I raise my chin up in defiance, really as a fake show of confidence in how I let it play out. The truth is, though, I wish he’d have asked for my cell number or gave some hint he might want to see me again.
But he didn’t, so the only thing I can think is it was just a one-night stand. I knew going in that was probably all it would be, but coming out on the other side?
With my body feeling like jelly and my knees weak as he walked me to my car?
I wanted another night, damn it.
“So call him,” Frannie suggests.
“Nope,” I say with a hard shake of my head. “Not going there. It sounds desperate.”
“Girl, if I had the night you had, I’d be desperate for more,” she mutters.
And yeah… I feel the same. But that’s not unusual. Frannie and I are so much alike, despite the moderate age gap. And it’s more than just age. Frannie’s been married to her husband Billy for twenty-four years. They have two kids, ages twenty-five and twenty-one. Not hard to do the math on that one and figure out the first baby came before marriage.
But the very first day I’d opened my law office beside Do or Dye, Frannie came over and introduced herself. We hit it off like I’d never done with another woman before. I expect that’s because in the modeling industry, for those three wretched years I was doing that type of work, all the women were catty and competitive. After that, I was serious about college and law school, as well as Christopher. There just was never a time in my life that was conducive to developing a friendship of my own.
Until Frannie.
“Call him,” she urges. “Just pick up the phone and dial his office. You’re a modern, progressive woman. You can totally call him up and invite him out. Or to your house. Or here… desk sex is good, too.”
I snicker. “You’re so bad.”
“Do it,” she demands, pointing to the phone on my desk.
“Seriously?” I inquire, still very unsure. What if he thought last night was horrible and wants nothing to do with me?
“Yes, I’m serious,” she says. She stands from the chair and reaches out to pick up the receiver. When the phone rings, it startles us both. She gives a yip and jumps backward, and I start laughing as I reach for it.
I take in a deep breath and answer, “Viveka Jones.”
“Vivvy…” My mother’s voice hits my ear, and I can’t help the grimace. Frannie’s eyebrows rise in concern.
I lean forward and put the call on speaker, laying the receiver back in the cradle so Frannie can listen.
My mother continues. “I’ve left you several messages on your cell, but you haven’t called me back.”
Frannie rolls her eyes and settles into the guest chair, glaring at the phone. She doesn’t like my mom, and she makes no apologies for it.
I, on the other hand, love my mom, but that’s because I feel obligated to. I mean, we’re blood. I have to love her, right?
“I’ve been busy,” I say, forcing my voice to soften and not sound so guarded. Can’t help it, though. My mother causes my defenses to lock into place every time we speak.
“Well, I’m going to be visiting the area, and I wanted to set aside some time so we can get together,” she says, her Swedish accent still fairly thick even after twenty-two years in the States. While I worked to soften mine over time, she has actually made hers more pronounced.
She once told me that all rich men love exotic, foreign women so she really hammed it up sometimes.
My stomach sinks. The last thing I want to do is visit with my mother, and oh God… I’m going to hell for even thinking that. I suck it up, put on a brave face, and ask, “When will you and Stephan be arriving?”
Stephan is husband number three—some tycoon who makes his money in things I don’t understand. He’s also eighty-three years old.
My mother sniffs. “Oh, good God. You don’t think I’d bring Stephan with me, do you?”
Well, yes, Mother. He’s your husband after all.
“Then you’ll be coming by yourself?” I ask, which means she might want to stay with me, although that’s a long shot. She prefers luxury accommodations, and my little house is as about as far from luxury as possible. She’ll spend the entire time berating me for not making my marriage work because while Adam doesn’t make the type of money Stephan does, being married to a neurosurgeon is still quite respectable.
“No, I’ll be traveling with a friend,” she says evasively.
“Who?” I ask. My mother has no friends. She doesn’t care enough about people in general to develop a sincere friendship.
“Just a friend,” she clips out, and my eyes shoot over to Frannie’s. She gives me a knowing look.
It means my mom will be traveling with a boy-toy.
I wrinkle my nose at the thought. My mother is fifty-three, but she likes her men young. I’m guessing her “friend” will be in the late twenties to early thirties range.
So gross.
“I’m thinking the end of next week,” she continues. “Carmine wants to try some deep-sea fishing off the coast, so I’ll hang out in Raleigh while he does that.”
Frannie mimes gagging by sticking her finger in her mouth and silently retching. I nod in agreement.
“I’ll call you in a few days once we make our flight reservations,” she says, not even bothering to ask if this is a good time in my life for a visit. “Chat later.”
And she hangs up.
Frannie shakes her head, giving me a pitying look. “How someone as sweet, caring, and humble as you came from those ovaries is beyond me.”
The bark of laughter that escapes is well warranted. Frannie never fails to brighten my day, even on the heels of a telephone call with Tilde Sjögren. Of note, she refused to take her husbands’ last names because she didn’t want to lose the exotic nature of hers. She about had a cow when I married a man with a simple name like Jones, and she tried to talk me in to keeping my maiden name.
I give Frannie a wry smile. “You know, I think that call would have actually bothered me more had it not been for those three fantastic orgasms I had last night. I’m feeling all kinds of loose and relaxed, even after that.”
“Girl, I need to talk to Billy,” she says as she pushes up from her chair. “I love my husband, and he makes sure I get my happy ending. But after almost a quarter-century of marriage, I think I deserve three in one night.”
I have to drop my feet to the floor from my desk, doubling over in laughter. I practically wheeze, “A quarter of a century? God, that makes you sound as old as Methuselah or something.”
Frannie stares down her nose at me primly, tapping her finger on my desk. “I’m just saying… knowing that’s possible, I’m going to be educating my man on the wonders of a woman’s body and what she might be capable of with the right effort.”
“Oh, God help poor Billy,” I say, still chuckling.
“You going to call Ford?” she asks, getting us back on track with what we’d been originally talking about.
“I don’t think so,” I say, having lost all my fire and gumption she had me worked up to before my mom called. It’s just not in my nature to be so forward.
Frannie plants her palms on my desk and leans over, her expression going somber. “You should call him. You’re amazing, and I bet it would make his day. But I also get it might be hard for you. So I’m going to make a prediction.”
“And what’s that?” I ask dryly.
“You’ll hear from him by the end of the day,” she says with a firm nod of her head. “Mark my words.”
I don’t think it will actually happen, but I enjoy the fluttering in my belly over the prospect. Regardless, I have to get to work on my pecker brief because no matter how magical Ford’s dick or hands are, he’s still my enemy come Tuesday morning.