Damn. That felt good.

My heart was pounding like crazy; adrenaline pumping through my veins as I smirked down at the bewildered, stunned blonde man on the floor. Rodney Barrington, the man for whom I had held one hell of a grudge for far too long, was glaring up at me in surprise from his position on the glossy marble tiles, his left hand clutched over his jaw where I’d hit him. My own fist was pulsing with pain from the impact, and I knew my knuckles would be bruised later, but right now? I was on cloud nine. This was the most fulfilled, the most satisfied, I had felt in a long, long time. Not even the glory of winning a court case could outshine the triumph of getting to do the one thing I had been fantasizing about for years now.

When I had first walked into tonight’s convention, I had been bored out of my mind, dreading the hours of mingling with near-strangers and trying to strike up inane conversations with colleagues and rivals alike. I had never been a big fan of small talk, and especially not with people I barely liked anyway.

Of course, these days that category tended to include just about everyone. I was bored with the monotony of life lately, with the constant media scrutiny and the never-ending stack of case files to sort through and read. Transcripts to scan and copy. Evidence to tuck away. Confidential papers to shred and burn. Don’t get me wrong: my job was my life, and I was grateful to have a career I was successful at, but sometimes one just needed a little break from it all, something to brighten up through the doldrums and renew one’s battered spirit.

This sucker punch to the annoyingly handsome, smarmy face of my old college rival, Rodney Barrington, had been just the pick-me-up I needed. I shook out my hand, flexing my fingers as the bones stung and ached. This was better than the sore muscles I felt after a vigorous workout, by far. I would wear these bruised knuckles like a badge of honor.

By now, the crowd of well-dressed men with pocket squares and women with pearl necklaces and pencil skirts that had been clamoring around Rodney (apparently, he was just as good at being the center of attention now as he was back in college) had all backed away to create a wide berth around him. They all stared at me open-mouthed and wide-eyed, like I had just performed some awe-inspiring magic trick or something. Though, I reminded myself amusedly as I turned on my heel to walk away, what I had done was probably even more shocking than anything a street magician could pull off. I had quite literally knocked Barrington down a peg. This big man on campus who had turned into the big man in the courtroom was on the floor, finally beneath me.

A grin slowly crept across my face. I grabbed the lapels of my expertly-tailored suit jacket and straightened it out, fidgeting with my paisley tie for a moment before strutting away from the scene of the crime.

I heard the telltale clicking of designer loafers and stiletto pumps rushing to Barrington’s aid as I stalked off. As much as I wanted to glance back at the scene for one last dose of satisfaction, I told myself that it would be more dramatic, more impactful if I just left without looking back. I didn’t want to give Barrington or his colleagues a single chance to claim I was weak or uncertain about my decision to clock him across the jaw. I was tough enough to not look back. I was strong enough to walk away like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Though, truth be told, this was no casual decision on my part. Nothing I ever did was casual. I was Hudson North, the new face and muscle behind the law firm founded by my infamous father, Chauncey North. It was imperative that I project an air of total control and strength at all times. That was all part of my carefully-curated public image. Maybe Barrington was known as ‘The Fixer’ in the courtroom, but me? I was called ‘The Bulldog,’ named for my aggressive tactics and intense presence on the job. I knew what people thought about me when they watched me doing my work in court. They all took one hard look at my dark, furrowed brow, my chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, my almost perpetual scowl, not to mention my imposing height of six-foot-three or my muscular frame, and knew I was a force to be reckoned with. And that was just how I liked it.

It was all by design; to inspire fear in my opponents, respect in my colleagues, and confidence in my clients. I never backed down from a challenge, and I treated every case with the same outward bravado and assertiveness, even if I was secretly bored or worried on the inside. I had learned a long time ago from my father that to show a single flashing glimpse of weakness would be tantamount to career suicide.

So, I had to be this version of myself. Not just Hudson North, the soft-spoken Harvard Law graduate who doted on his mother and had a soft spot for dogs, but ‘The Bulldog,’ who scared the hell out of everyone and fought every case like it was a gladiator deathmatch. And what was strange was that the longer I played that character, the more and more I began to lose sight of that other, softer version of myself. But if there was ever anything I learned from my father, it was that the job had to come first, even at the expense of personal fulfillment.

Of course, I was a workaholic anyway, so I just told myself that being a damn good lawyer was enough fulfillment for me. It was better if I just let myself believe that. It was easier.

Leaving a trail of stunned convention-attendees in my wake, I sauntered out of the luxurious hotel and stopped on the sidewalk, looking up and down the Las Vegas Strip. I closed my eyes and pulled in a long, slow breath of dry, warm evening air. The moon was just barely rising up and making its pale face visible through a thin sheen of pinkish clouds in the sky. I wondered sometimes what it would feel like to look up and see actual stars up there, but here in Sin City, there was no chance of that. Too much light pollution. Besides, there were stars all around me already; neon signs flashing, bright marquees silently shouting headlines and headliners, and, of course, the constant ebb and flow of celebrities in and out of the city.

This was the town where I grew up, the place that I had called home for most of my life, except for the years I spent away at college in Massachusetts, and for the most part, I liked it here. But like any hometown, it held both good and bad memories, and sometimes the latter kind threatened to open up and swallow me whole. Still, as long as I could just keep working hard and ignoring everything else, those bad times would never catch up to me. At least, I hoped that was true.

I whipped out my cell phone and pressed the third number on my speed dial, then pressed the phone to my ear. It rang once and I said curtly, “Quincy, I’m outside.”

“Very good, sir. Be there in a moment,” replied my driver. Click.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and I shifted uncomfortably as I stood on the pavement, waiting impatiently for the car to pull up. Now that I was away from the scene, the high I had felt right after punching Rodney Barrington was starting to fade out, and the pang of guilt was already settling in. Well, maybe not guilt so much as regret. I was no stranger to causing a scene, as that was part of my public persona, and it was almost unavoidable considering how notorious my own father was for similar reasons. It was genetic, and it was the way Father taught me how to be. But this was some next-level showboating. It was rare for me to back down from a decision I made, since everything I did and every word I said usually came after hard deliberation, even if it looked to be spontaneous.

Some of my more dramatic tactics did happen on the fly, rising organically out of whatever the particular situation at hand called for. And it was true that my desire and subsequent plot to blindside Barrington like he blindsided me back in college had been stewing around in my mind for years. But still, I knew it was dangerous to let my anger take control like that.

The bottom line was that I needed to command respect, and if everybody thought of me as a lit fuse ready to blow up at any moment, I would be seen as less of a bulldog and more like a bull in a china shop. It was a delicate tight rope to walk across, but then again, that was the way it had always been. My father certainly had garnered his own share of scandals and media criticism.

In fact, I thought to myself as Quincy pulled the big black car up to the sidewalk and I slid into the back seat, it was my father’s most recent scandal that had really kicked off my crusade to regain the respect he had lost us. Our law firm, the one I was groomed from a young age to inherit, was once called North & Son. I was, of course, the son. But now, it was just my name emblazoned in thick gold lettering across the company sign. Hudson North, Esquire. And in slightly smaller font below it: Corporate Law.

Now the reputation of the firm lay squarely and solely on my shoulders, ever since my father shrugged it off to run away with Tiffany Larsen, the beautiful witness in his last gigantic court case who was thirty years younger than him. He had been disbarred as a result of his “little indiscretion” but in typical Chauncey North fashion, he flippantly decided that if the courts were done with him, he was done with them, too. He slipped neatly but inelegantly into a comfortable, lavish retirement, divorcing my mother and marrying Tiffany.

That was nearly two years ago, and I had finally almost dug myself out from underneath the heaping pile of scandal and backlash his antics had brought upon our company and family name. It was exactly the kind of explosive departure the media had come to expect from Chauncey North, but when I had first taken over the firm, nobody had really known quite what to expect from me. I was dubbed the “heir” to the North legacy, the so-called prodigal son who was fresh out of law school and still too green to really fill his father’s shoes.

But once the media saw me win my first big case and printed photos of me in my fitted Armani suit, fierce facial expression, and imposing frame, my reputation was sealed. Now, I just had to live up to it-- forever. If that meant burying my true self and ignoring my personal life completely, then so be it. I had been groomed for this my whole life. I never knew anything else. And besides, I was really damn good at it.

“How was the convention, sir?” asked Quincy politely, glancing at me in the rear view.

I forced a terse smile and replied, “It was… enjoyable. At least, parts of it were.”

“Very good, sir,” he responded, and that was the end of that. Good old Quincy. He had been serving as a driver to my family for decades now, having been hired by my father back in the eighties. He was middle-aged now, and sometimes it did strike me as bizarre that he had known me since I was a child, but then again, that was the way it often worked out in family businesses. Besides, Quincy was an excellent driver and knew when to keep his mouth shut, and he never pried into anyone’s personal life.

I supposed that nearly four decades of working with my father had taught him the virtue of staying out of it. God only knew how many scandals and indiscretions Quincy had overlooked on my father’s behalf. And now, there was no point in telling him about what had transpired between Barrington and me at the convention. He’d find out about it in tomorrow’s paper, I was sure.

It was a short, quiet drive across town to the luxury townhouse that served as both my home and my office. It was located in a well-to-do subdivision, close enough to the action but still conveniently tucked just out of the way of the hustle and bustle of the city. It was like a little oasis, a hiding spot where I could decompress and drink coffee in silence.

My clients appreciated the quiet neighborhood, as well. It put them at ease. All the way there, though, I was definitely not at ease. My mind was racing, the thoughts swarming like a plague of locusts. Had I finally overstepped my boundaries? Had I let my rage overcome me to the point of screwing up my carefully-rebuilt reputation in one fell swoop of the fist? I wondered if Rodney Barrington was the same sleazy backstabber I remembered him as from college. Would he run tattling to an authority figure this time, too? I gritted my teeth, feeling another rush of anger. That conniving bastard. I had trusted him once, even considered him a good friend, and he had repaid me with a proverbial knife between the shoulder blades.

The black car pulled to a stop outside my townhouse and I stepped out, thanking Quincy and telling him goodnight. He rolled off down the street and I sighed as I walked up the front steps to my home, fiddling with the keys. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally wiped out. Usually Sundays were a day of frantic activity, as I struggled to fit in all the workouts and catching-up I had to do to prepare for the upcoming work week.

But tonight’s convention had been a break from the norm. As much as I understood that these social events were crucial to my success as an attorney in a city like Las Vegas where image and relevancy were everything, that didn’t make me dread them any less. It was all a giant, unending performance.

I had to play the part I had been bred for, and sometimes it got tiring. Nobody knew the real me these days, except maybe my mother. And even she didn’t know everything about me. There were some secrets so earth-shattering, so life-altering, that even my own mother couldn’t know them.

I shrugged off my jacket and loosened my tie as I walked toward the stairs to head up to the second floor, which was the part of the townhome I used as my private space. It was where my bedroom, bathroom, living area, and kitchen were located, while the first floor served as my office. I wanted to go upstairs and collapse in bed to agonize over the events of tonight’s social engagement, but I groaned and reminded myself that work had to come first. And I knew I would have a thousand emails and voicemails to deal with.

Mondays through Fridays, I had a secretary named Penelope who sorted all of that stuff for me, but this was the weekend, and she wasn’t here. So, I sat down at my big, mahogany desk and began playing my voicemails, yawning as I listened to message after message from colleagues, reporters, and potential clients. The final message, though, caught my attention and made me sit up straight.

It was a call from a representative at Southwestern First Bank, asking to speak to me about taking on a fraud case involving a man named Mark Delaney. As the representative shared some of the details, my adrenaline got to pumping once again. I smiled and nodded as I reached for the work phone on my desk. I immediately called them back.

It rang twice and then there was an answer. “Hello, Southwestern First Bank off-hours legal team. Who may I ask is calling?”

“Hudson North,” I replied gruffly. “You contacted me earlier. I apologize for the late hour, but I would like to take on your case. Can you come in tomorrow morning to discuss it?”