Page 12 of The Enforcer

No matter what it takes.

Chapter Six

Shane

Unfortunately for me, I’m not the type to forget the shit I say when I’m drunk. I may let my mouth run away from me, but I always remember.

Throughout the entire firm’s case review meeting the next morning, I go over and over what I said to Zeke and feel worse about that than my pounding head, though that’s not too far behind. The hangover is real and I wish I had stayed home, but this wasn’t a meeting I could miss.

All forty of the employees are packed together in an auditorium on the top floor of our office building, listening to one of the senior partners discuss the wins and losses of the firm and how we can improve. He mentions garnering clients that we know will help our win column and I frown. I don’t really agree with only representing clients that are sure wins, as it doesn’t accurately represent what we can do as a firm. I know clients don’t want to go to a firm with a large number of losses, but if I were a client, I’d think a law firm with too high a win rating is fudging their records. Especially if the rating started going up suddenly.

As he drones on and on, I let my mind wander back to last night. It’s like my mouth decided to separate from my brain and spew all kinds of shit I would have otherwise kept to myself.

My brain keeps sending up images and feelings from last night and I’m helpless to stop them. How Zeke’s fingers felt in my hair, stroking and scratching my scalp. How hard his back muscles were as I wrapped my arms around him and tucked my hands behind his back. How strong his thigh felt under my head, making one of the best pillows I’ve ever felt in my life.

I groan, thinking of how I made a fool of myself and one of the paralegals, Tucker Green, turns to look at me. He’s one of the few friends I have in this place. I’m sure he can tell that this isn’t normally my behavior.

With a wide grin, he leans over and asks in a whisper, “Long night?”

With as dry a look as I can give him, I answer, “What do you think?”

“Mr. Astor,” the senior partner, Garth Clinton, says, tapping a rolled-up stack of papers onto his palm. “Is there something you’d like to add to the suggested plan to improve our wins to losses ratio?”

Knowing he won’t let me slide with interrupting this meeting or get away with not answering, I take a moment to compose myself and stand, buttoning my jacket. Even though I’m hungover as fuck, I answer his question. “I don’t have a solution, but I don’t think taking on easy wins is the way to go.”

Mr. Clinton gives me an amused look. “No? Do tell. Why do you think that?”

Tucker turns to me with an apologetic look for bringing attention to me. I discreetly give him a thumbs up, letting him know I’m not upset with him. I watch him blow out a relieved breath.

Turning my attention back to Mr. Clinton, I say, “Because it’s disingenuous. Clients don’t want to hire a firm with a terrible win rate, but they won’t take us seriously if we’re too perfect. Sure, it would look good on paper, but a lot of potential clients would think we either don’t report our case reports accurately or they’ll think that we’re a lazy firm that doesn’t know how to work hard.” I slide my hands in my pockets in a nervous gesture, but don’t back down from Mr. Clinton’s gaze.

He analyzes me, two fingers pressed against his lips as he takes me in. I’m not sure what he sees, though I know it’s not someone that is hungover. I made sure I didn’t look like I got very little sleep and had more shots last night than I should have. I stare back, exuding as much calm and confidence as I can.

“Come see me after this meeting, Mr. Astor,” Mr. Clinton says, then moves on with the meeting.

A weight forms in my stomach. I nod, even though he’s no longer looking at me. I sit down heavily, the other associates and paralegals seeming to shrink away from me. I don’t blame them. The tone of Mr. Clinton’s voice sounds as if he wants to chastise me for saying what I said. He’s a big believer in ‘praise in public, punish in private’, which helps avoid embarrassment, but we all know what “come see me” means.

Tucker, being a bit more discreet now, whispers, “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, then curse under my breath when it sloshes my brain around. “No big deal,” I murmur, rubbing at my temples. “He’ll rant for a bit, then let me go. No harm done.”

He pulls his lips in, not looking convinced.

The meeting lasts for another hour or so, but I’m in my head. What does Mr. Clinton want? Am I going to be reprimanded for telling the truth? Will he force me to take cases that are guaranteed winners, not allowing me to challenge myself? I wouldn’t want to work for a firm like that. I want to work where my effort has merit, even if I dabble with some very illegal things from time to time.

Once the meeting is over, I walk to Mr. Clinton’s office. He holds his finger up as he gives instructions to his personal paralegal on drafting documents for his upcoming case. I stand by his door, not wanting to sit down without his leave.

They sit in discussion for almost five minutes and I fight to keep the irritation from my face. It would be nice if we can get the ass-chewing over with; I have cases to work on.

Finally, his paralegal walks out and Mr. Clinton waves me in. Blowing out a long breath, I sit in the chair in front of his desk and interlace my fingers, trying to appear put together, not like someone that has a pounding headache and dry mouth.

Again, he stares me down like he did when we were in the auditorium. His eyes bore into me, like he’s trying to see into my soul. I can see why he’s such a big deal here—with a lesser man, a look like this would have them confessing all their secrets. But I’ve been on the receiving end of stare-downs from Prez. This is light work compared to that.

With a stern expression, he says, “You don’t think it’s a good idea to have more clients that have cases we can win?”

“Sir, I?—”

“You’re the only one that’s been honest with me.” My eyebrows shoot up. “I’ve been pitching the idea to lower associates and junior lawyers to see what they think about that absurd plan and they all kiss my ass, thinking I want to hear what I say parroted back to me. You’re the first person that told me it wasn’t a great idea.”

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