Page 6 of Devilish Debt
Yeah.
I’m a little jealous.
Not because I want either of them – not even a probable cause amount – but because they get to haveeach other.
They ultimately didn’t let their age differences divide them.
Or societal restraints destroy them.
Or depravity laws – many of which are outdated, might I add – ruin them.
Theessenceof them.
However, please, let the record show that shit’seasierfor them.
They don’t have partners at their firm like Cian McDermott who I already know wouldn’t bother hiding his hypocritical disgust.And it would be hypocritical considering the fact he’s sleeping with our significantly younger –yet totally legal– office assistant.
And they don’t have clients like Elanor Bogosian who would immediately stop being their client, and stop recommending them clients, and stop inviting them to places where they cangetmorewealthyclients once the aforementioned Mayor of Prudeville got anyinklingabout the less traditional choices they make in their personal life.
I do.
I have all that shit.
You can find it in the rider of the invisible contract you sign when becoming a high-price, high power attorney.
Cheers.
All of a sudden, the doorbell rings pulling everyone’s attention in that direction, prompting me and Val to declare in tandem, “I’ll get it!”
“Wow,” Dad mirthfully chuckles while reaching for his own tequila glass.“Where was thisservicowhen you wereniños pequeños?”He quirks a dark eyebrow as my sister beats me to retreating.“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re both desperate for any excuse to leave this dinner conversation.”
“I’d put money on that,” Ace chortles beside me, broader frame reclining.
“Put me in for a pink slip,” echoes Woods from his other side, creamy vanilla shaded finger finding its way into the air.
“And the fate of my future Fiat,” Bunny cheekily adds, caramel mocha-colored frame summoning her husbands’ glares again.
“No Fiat,” they huff in unison.
“What’s that old saying?”taunts the long-legged female on a bite of her meal.“HappyWife, HappyLife?”
“How about that old slogan, ‘Silly Rabbit, Tricks are for Kids’?”pokes my best friend.
“Kid loves my tricks,” she saucily winks causing their younger partner to blush and smirk.
See.
This is exactly whyIshould’ve answered the door.
I don’t have enough tequila in my glass to keep choking down their flirting, but can’t just pour myself a fourth refill without a valid excuse to get up for something else.
Mom’s counting.
I know she is.
I can see it in her eyes.
One more glass, and a mental health exam will begin because that’s what happens when you’re the only lawyer in a family of doctors.
