“And this affects you how?”
“You humiliated me when you found out I lied to you.”
“I apologize.”
“Don’t.” She shook her head. “You made me cry because you told me that I was a liar for hiding the truth and pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”
“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be the only person to classify you as a liar after what you did.”
“Yet, every day that I f**k you, every night that I talk to you on the phone, I’m no closer to getting to know anything about you.” There was concern in her eyes. “It’s always me talking about me, or you talking about abstract things that make up a blurry picture.”
“It doesn’t matter. I told you that I—”
“That you’ve never lied to me,” she said. “I believe that, and for a moment I thought that you were always completely honest with me, but when I look back, you’re only honest about what you want to talk about. Hence, the random appearance of Mrs. Hamilton, and—”
“I’ve told you about that already.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her close to me. “So, I’m not going to waste my time rehashing shit I’ve already gone over with you.”
“Just...”
“Look.” I pressed my finger against her lips. “You’re the only woman I’ve f**ked regularly in six years.”
“Am I supposed to be proud of that?”
I pulled her into my lap. “You’re the only woman—only person actually, that I talk to outside of my hours at this office, the only woman I’ve ever f**ked over the phone, the only woman who’s been in my car, and the only woman who’s lied to me and still gotten me to stay...”
She sighed, staring back at me.
“Now,” I said, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to f**k you in this chair. And when we’re done I’ll kindly show you how to research someone the right way, because contrary to what you think, my client does have a background.”
“No, I double checked everything and I—”
I pressed my lips against hers. “After I f**k you.”
Consent (n.):
A voluntary agreement to another’s proposition.
Aubrey
Subject: New York /Your Panties
For the record, I did go to law school in NYC. I was the valedictorian of my class.
—Andrew
PS—If you stash one more pair of your wet panties/“For your fetish” notes in my desk drawer, I’m going to assume that you do want me to sleep with your pu**y over my face. My tongue has been aching to do that since I first “met” you so there’s no need for unnecessary hints...
“Aubrey?” My mother’s voice took the smile right off of my face. “Aubrey, were you listening to your father just now?”
“No, I’m sorry.” I sighed, dreading that I was still sitting at a dinner with them.
They’d called me the second my rehearsal was over and demanded that I drive home so we could all ride to our “favorite” restaurant together. It was where all their country club friends ate regularly, and I knew they just wanted to come here to assert our seemingly perfect family image.
“Are you listening now?” My father raised his eyebrow.
“Yes...”
“We brought you here so we could tell you that...I’m running for governor in the next election,” he said.
“Do you want my vote?”
“Ugh, Aubrey.” My mother huffed and snapped her fingers for the waiter. “This is one of the happiest moments of your life.”
“No...” I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t...”
“All those years of hard work, building our firm to be one of the most impeccable in the city,” she said as she looked into my father’s eyes, “it’s about to payoff in a huge way. We already have a few verbal commitments for the campaign’s budget, and since we’re going in on the same side as the incumbent—”
“You have a really good chance of being governor.” I cut her off. “Congratulations, Dad.”
He reached over the table and squeezed my hand.
My mother couldn’t seem to shut up. “We’ll have to take new family photos—stocks, you know? Photos we can give to the press for their write-ups, so you’ll have to wear your hair in something other than that ballerina thing.”
“It’s a bun.”
“It’s an eyesore.”
“Margaret...” My father chided. “It’s not an eyesore...It’s just—”
“It’s just what?” I looked back and forth between them.
“It’s important for us to look like a cohesive All-American unit on the campaign trail.” My mother took a glass of wine from the waiter and waited for him to step away. “We may have to make some stops together as a family.”
“You’re running for governor, not President, and what twenty-something do you know travels with her parents during a campaign just for photo-ops?”
“Our opponent has twenty year old twins who are homeschooled,” she said. “They travel to third world countries every summer to help the poor and I’m pretty sure they’re going to be at every stop on the campaign trail.”
I snorted. “Why are you trying to compete with genuine people? Don’t you think they’re the type that deserve to win?”
“Aubrey, this is serious.” My dad looked upset. “This has been a dream of mine for a very long time and we want to make sure that nothing stands in the way.”
The two of them exchanged glances and I raised my eyebrow.
“Nothing like what?” I asked.
“Okay...” My mother lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder before speaking. “We need to know if there any skeletons in your closet—any pictures on social media that make you look like a party girl, any ex boyfriends’ or sexual partners that you may have dealt with, or anything that would make us look like bad parents.”
“You are bad parents.”