“One last question,” one of the reporters shouted. I squinted to see at the guy in the middle of the crowd.
“Last one,” I said, glancing at my watch. We had five minutes to spare.
“Mr. Reuben, what can you tell us about Gabriel and Nicole getting back together?”
That made me stall. I was caught off guard, not only by the question, but by the way my chest tightened in response. My first thought was, “she wouldn’t do that,” and that scared me ten times more than the one that quickly followed which was, “I hate when clients don’t keep me informed with the decisions they make.”
In the end, I dreaded that my two seconds of silence would be misconstrued and used against that case, but I was able to compose myself. “I’m not here to comment on that case. I’m here representing Mr. Weaver. Thank you.”
My phone rang the second we walked in, and seeing Corinne’s name on my screen has never made me feel more anxious and relieved at once. Unfortunately, I had to put it on the dish and walk through the metal detector before calling her back.
“Why are these fuckers asking me about Nicole and Gabriel?” I said when she answered the call.
Her silence was telling. My heart sunk a little more.
“Don’t tell me,” I said when she started to speak. “I’ll call you back when I get out of court. I can’t deal with unfortunate news right now. Handle whatever you can handle without me.” I hung up the phone before she could say a damn word. It must be the premiere. It had to be. There was no other explanation for it. Fuck if I liked the sound of it, regardless of the situation.
PICTURES. PILES OF pictures sat on top of my desk. In magazines, in newspapers, in print from what my buddy in the gossip industry was able to gather for me. Images of Nicole and Gabriel kissing on the carpet for the premiere of his newest blockbuster. Images of them gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Images of her laughing at whatever he was telling the interviewers from major networkers. Was it an act? Was it real? If it was an act, she had a real future in Hollywood and it had nothing to do with costume design. I hated those pictures. I hated the way he looked at her. I hated that she looked at him—period. I wasn’t a jealous man, but damn did that shit fester inside me.
“At least she only agreed to a premiere,” my secretary said as she walked into my office with her laptop in hand.
“What do you mean?”
Corinne sat in the seat across from me, setting her computer on my desk. She turned it over and pointed at the headline of a popular gossip blog.
Gabriel Lane vows to work on his marriage.
“It’s gossip,” I muttered, running my hands over my face, feeling the exhaustion take hold of me.
“I know, but still. They look pretty freaking happy,” she said, turning her computer to look at it again.
“Do you need anything else?” I asked. Corinne’s eyes widened.
“No. You told me to show you whatever was being talked about, so that’s what I came to do. I think this is it, though.”
I nodded. “Thank you. Can you bring me coffee please? I feel like I’m about to pass out on my desk.”
She stood. “Sure. You want me to hold your calls for an hour?”
I closed my eyes. That would be nice. An hour powernap on my couch. My eyes popped open, trained on the couch across from my desk, and suddenly all I could do was picture me sitting there and Nicole riding me. Fuck. I shook my head.
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll be back with the coffee,” Corinne said in a singsong voice as she walked out.
I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly picturing Nicole and me all over my office, but ever since she came in that day and I was assigned her divorce, she was all I saw. Originally, it had taken months to stop seeing her everywhere when I walked in. Back then, for concentration purposes, I’d had half a mind to trade offices with Bobby, but he had a shit view of the parking lot and the street, and I had the ocean, so I sucked it up and stayed. Now I wish I would’ve traded. I’d rather see grout than deal with thoughts of fucking my client. My beautiful, spirited, off-limits client.