Page 2 of Tiny's Law

“You’re quitting?” Though it doesn’t seem possible, her eyes widen even further, and her bottom lip trembles. Oh fuck. She better not start crying on me. “Y-you can’t quit.”

“I am, and I did.”

“What am I going to do?”

I chuckle. “They’ll assign you to someone else, I’m sure.”

She remains stoic, looking like someone kicked her puppy. I turn my attention back to the screen where I attach the last remaining case documents and send them to Robby.

“Can I go with you?”

“You don’t even know where I’m going, kid. Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going.”

She nods, pinching the pendant on her gold necklace, sliding it along the chain like she does every time I give her a task that I know she’s uncomfortable with. It’s her tell.

That’s the thing about me; I’m pretty damn good at reading people. Emma has so many tells she’s practically translucent. She shifts from foot to foot, the dainty gold daisy at her neck sliding back and forth, back and forth.

“Nevertheless, wherever you go, I’ll go.” Her intake of breath echoes throughout my office, and like the brave girl she is, she brings her eyes back to mine. “If you’ll have me, that is. I enjoy working for you. I don’t like any of these other jerks here.”

The very elementary insult coming from her mouth makes my lips tip up in amusement. If there is one thing Emma doesn’t do, it’s curse or be mean to anyone in general.

This field is going to eat her alive.

“Between you and me, Em, I have no fucking clue where I’ll go. But, yes.” I nod, and the way her eyes light up has an unfamiliar pang pulling at my chest, “I will let you know. You’re a pretty damn good assistant yourself.”

“Thank you, Kourtney. That means a lot.” She looks around my office at the many items I have lining the bookshelves on the far wall. Things like old court journals, textbooks from law school, and my degree in the silver frame my parents gifted me at graduation. “Do you need help packing some of your things?”

I shake my head and wave her off. The movement causes me to catch sight of my thumbnail, where I absolutely ruined my fresh manicure by biting it to shit. “I’m going to get out of here. Maybe get my nails fixed, drink way too much wine, and veg on my couch while I think about what the hell I’m going to do next.”

Emma giggles and nods. “I think I should go talk to HR myself, give them my two weeks.”

I eye her suspiciously. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I hate being this person and admitting it out loud, but my dad takes care of me. I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. I just do it for fun.”

“You do this shit for fun?” Emma has been my assistant for the last year and a half and doesn't talk about her home life much. Yeah, I had some ideas and suspicions, but I never brought anything up.

Her cheeks redden, and she nods. “Gets me out of the house.”

“Shit. Well, go home. Fuck this place. Don’t even give them two weeks.”

“Isn’t that rude? Won’t that look bad?”

“If you’re planning on following me, does it matter?” I smirk.

“I guess you’re right.” Tucking her jet-black, silky hair behind her ear, she turns on her plaid Burberry heel and leaves me alone in my office once again.

I look around my office again before shutting down my computer and packing the few things I need right now in my bags.

Rosinda, the receptionist, eyes me oddly as I pass by her desk and give her a small wave.

Rosinda isn’t the only one eyeing me curiously, and I assume it’s because I’m not just carrying my small briefcase as if I were heading to court but the three large bags I carry in and out with me every day. It’s only ten in the morning, and I shouldn’t have all this shit with me until five, like normal. Or more like nine p.m. as of the last few weeks.

Driving away from the office is a blur, and I don’t even realize I’m pulling into the Total Wine parking lot until my Range Rover is parked in the closest spot to the door. I curse myself for not paying attention when opening the car door as my $800, black leather Louboutin lands directly in a fucking puddle.

“Fuck,” I hiss as the disgustingly warm liquid seeps down into the sole of my shoe. “Ugh. Just great. These are brand fucking new!” I know I probably sound like a psychopath cursing to myself in the middle of a parking lot at ten in the morning, where I plan on going inside and spending entirely too much money on wine so I can go home and drink my frustrations away by myself. Still, when in Rome or whatever they say.

I make a pit stop to the bathroom and dry my foot off as best as I can. Unfortunately, I don’t think my shoe will make it, which pisses me off even more.

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