Page 16 of Bullet

Before I can talk myself out of it, or rather, before I need to talk myself into it all over again, I dial Hamish’s number.

His phone rings and rings. Does he have voicemail? Will I leave a message? I don’t want to leave private details on someone’s phone because you never know who might end up hearing it, but at the same time, the whole,It’s Lynette George, please call me,sounds far too familiar.

Suggestive.

This time, when I get hot all over, it’s not rage or mortification. The heat curls in around the edges, making the insides of my thighs and my breasts tingle, while other parts of me throb.

While I’m having a second mini internal breakdown from the knowledge that I’m alive, I’m a woman, and I do indeed have sexual needs, Hamish’s deep voice comes over the line.

“Lynette George.”

It takes me a hot minute to realize it’s not his voicemail. He’s really there. The pounding between my legs intensifies while a cold chill wraps around the back of my neck like his strong palm.

When I got up this morning, this definitely wasn’t how I saw my day going.

Straight to the dumpster with a can of gas and a match.

“Mr. Aberdeen.” I wince, but charge on ahead anyway. “I’m afraid I’m no longer going to be able to represent you. Please don’t send the money for the retainer. You’ll need to hire different legal counsel.”

“Funny,” he responds, his voice like a bucket of cold water upended on my head.

While naked.

Jesus Christ,whydoes my mind keep going there? Enjoyment, where I should feel outraged at the audacity of this man to laugh at me, which he does in that deep, rumbling chuckle that vibrates through my bones. If I’m outraged at anyone, it’s only at myself.

“Funny how? I’ve just been fired.” I demand, my irritation leaching through, but then again, what does it even matter anymore?

“I was just going to call you. The situation’s changed. Worsened. You were right. Harold wants to make my life—and I suppose the club’s, by extension—hell.”

I press my eyes tightly shut, in that silly way that people do when they’re afraid, or when they don’t want to believe thatsomething is real. If they can’t see it, then it must not exist. “Why? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing if you just said—”

“We can talk about it when you come to the club.”

If I didn’t have a death grip on my phone, I might have dropped it. “When I come to the club?” I parrot in disbelief. “Why would I do that? I just told you—”

“You’re looking for a job, no? The offer still stands. Of course, you’d have to meet with my Prez and our VP. Ultimately, the decision is theirs.”

I force myself to exhale slowly, so that he can’t hear it. If I want to keep being a lawyer, I know this is one of the best offers I’m going to get. No top tier firm in the city is going to have me now. I doubt even the crappy, terrible ones would take me on. I’ve been singled out and marked, like that dreaded letter over a Medieval doorway denoting plague. If I moved to another state, I’d have to take the bar again, which, in itself, isn’t a big deal.

The larger issues?

Uprooting myself from my home city, leaving behind everything familiar, selling my house, disrupting Willa after I just forced her into college here.

My god, what a shit show.

“When?” I don’t even realize I’ve spoken until Hamish’s chuckle rolls through the phone. His laughter isn’t malice, orI told you so.It’s a sound of real mirth, and it hits me hard,stabbing at my midsection and clenching around my lungs like a trap.

“Friday night. Ten or eleven. Your choice.”

Who meets that late on a Friday night? Oh, right. “I thought you wanted me to see the better side of the club.”

“Nah. You can take us for who we are now, or not at all. Something about beggars not being choosers.”

“I got fired because of you!” The acid in my tone is unmistakable, but he doesn’t rise to it.

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