All About the D(2)By: Lex Martin & Leslie McAdam
He didn’t sound like a pervo-lunatic on the phone. He said things like, “Acquiring an attorney seems prudent,” and “Given my other ventures, I need a wall of separation to protect my assets.”
In fact, he sounded like a businessman. A really freaking sexy businessman with a deep voice that made me shiver.
Are his photos sexy too? Or would I be grossed out by his junk? Because dicks can be gross, like little hairless moles poking their pale heads out of the ground. Not that anyone ever sends me dick pics. I don’t say this with any sort of judgment. I mean, guys don’t think of me and send me nudes.
Truthfully, I’m probably too girl-next-door to get the interest of some dude who waves a massive wand. So what if I like to wear overalls and grungy T-shirts on the weekend? I don’t need guys to send me cock shots anyway.
My hand twitches to click the link.
Oh, shit. I’m about to surf porn at work. Miss I-Wear-Sensible-Shoes because they’re cost-effective and comfortable is going to surf porn at Waller, Goldman & Associates.
I’m seriously considering having my head examined when my ex’s words worm their way into my mind. “You’re so practical, Evelyn. That’s not a bad thing, but I need to be with someone who has more imagination. Someone who’s exciting and spontaneous.”
I cringe at the memory even though it’s been two years since Elliot and I broke up.
What did he mean, spontaneous? In how I lived my life generally? In what I wore? Or… shudder… in bed?
His answer: All of the above.
I’d barely contained my tears as I laughed it off and scuttled out of Elliot’s Ikea-clad apartment before I broke down into full-blown sobs. Because being with him had made me feel like I wasn’t hopeless when it came to romance. But apparently I was wrong.
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath. I can be spontaneous, damn it.
Just last week, I got the quiche when I always order the French dip sandwich.
I wait for a sense of satisfaction to settle over me. Except it doesn’t. One, because we’re talking about a stupid sandwich, and two, that day my BFF Kendall coerced me over the phone into ordering something different. And three, if I’m determining my level of spontaneity by what I got for lunch, I’m probably a lost cause.
Damn you, Elliot.
Three minutes. I’ll review Josh’s website for three minutes.
I reach over to set my timer before I click the link in his email.
And I immediately regret it.
I try to close the page. Try to hit the back button. Try to quit the browser. But the hourglass icon pops up.
Christ on a cracker, the hourglass won’t stop turning. Our traditional law firm hasn’t caught up with the times and upgraded our internet. Perpetually slow bandwidth has now gone from a daily annoyance to makes-me-want-to-tear-out-my-nails. Yes, a decade after the iPhone, some law firms still use dictation machines. At least we have email.
My three minutes are up and the damn thing is still frozen.
I blow my bangs out of my face and pray I don’t need someone from the tech department to fix this.
Finally, Josh’s blog starts to load even though I’ve done everything I can to get it to stop. Sweat builds on my neck and under my boobs as the page fills at a snail’s pace.
Deep breaths, Evie. The ground won’t open up and swallow you. What’s the worst thing that can happen besides boob sweat?
I could get fired and lose my job, my 401k, and my health insurance. Maybe I’d have to sell my house because no respectable law firm will hire someone who was laid off for being a deviant at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. My dad will be humiliated and wonder why he bothered working all that overtime at the fire station to help send me to good schools. No big deal.
A throaty voice in my doorway makes me jump.
“Evelyn, you need a vacation.”
Angela picks this moment to saunter into my office. Yes, she saunters, swinging her ass like she’s bouncing to some silent beat—the ones her perfect, buoyant boobs keep as they struggle to stay contained in that expensive silk blouse. I’d kill to have her bra size instead of my DDs.
She pauses in front of my desk, and I’m almost at eye level with her knees. The woman is tall, built like a Victoria’s Secret model, the kind you want to hold down and force-feed some deep dish pepperoni pizza. Beautiful black hair tumbles down her shoulders, emphasizing her porcelain skin and sky-blue eyes. Her burgundy Chanel suit molds to her body and screams Confident Bitch from here to the Pacific.
Side note: the only reason I know she’s wearing Chanel is because she told everyone about it this morning. She doesn’t have student loans and isn’t crazy enough to renovate a house. Must be nice to have disposable income.
With irritation, I realize I could never pull off that outfit even if I had her body, but I guess that’s what I get for having my head buried in work and school my whole life.
Where exactly does one learn how to be sexy and wear clothes like her? My dad never gave me the 411 on that.
“Hey, Angela. What’s up?” I ask as calmly as possible even though the blog is still loading. Fortunately, she can’t see the screen from this angle. But I can. So far, it’s just a skyline of New York. Maybe I misunderstood what’s on his website.