Page 36 of The Devil You Know

He's quiet for a moment and finally nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I blink in surprise. Males, especially male lawyers, love to tell you you’re wrong about these things, then pontificate for hours on how you’re wrong.

“I honestly have no idea what to say when you agree with me,” I tell him, hiding a smile. “You just made it awkward.”

He laughs. “How rude of me. I’ll try to do better.”

The car slows and I realize, to my surprise, that we’ve arrived at the Getty Center. Even more surprisingly, I sort of wish we hadn’t.

Ben climbs out first and extends a hand to me. I accept, reluctantly, and try not to think about how much I like the feel of it—his large, firm hand swallowing mine. Staying close to my side, he moves me toward the red carpet, where a photographer stops and insists we pose. I’m on the cusp of saying, “we’re not together” when Ben’s arm eases around my back, as if we’re a couple. It’s bizarre, how natural it feels. There’s no weird “where should I put my hand?” moment, no question of whether we’re too close or too far apart—we just fit. But I’m not going to think about that right now. Boundaries, Gemma.

“Do I need to remind you not to hook up with a client’s wife in the bathroom at regular intervals?” I ask with a grin while the photographer gets in place. “Or do you just, like, set an alarm on your phone to remind yourself?”

There’s a flash. The photographer has just caught me smiling up at Ben like he’s Prince Charming. Super. “I wasn’t hooking up with her,” Ben says, steering me toward the entrance. “That client’s wife? He was taking money from their kids’ college funds to go to Vegas, and she wanted me to tell her how she could stop him.”

I still. Offering legal advice to someone opposing your client is a breach of ethics. She put him in a terrible position. “What did you do?”

He observes me for a moment. It’s a risk, answering this question. I could get him in a lot of trouble if he messed up. “I gave her some advice and the name of an attorney who could help.”

I stare at him, shocked that he’s trusting me with this. I’ve been terrible to him. I’ve been terrible to him about this. “You let everyone think you were hooking up with her all this time to protect her.”

He shrugs, as if it’s meaningless. “And to protect myself. Fields wouldn’t have approved, obviously.”

“That—” I whisper, “was very decent of you.”

His eyes hold mine, and I swear for a moment I see an apology there once more. “I’m capable of it on occasion.”

I give him the smallest nod and look away. Something about this conversation leaves me feeling oddly fragile and defenseless. I hate this feeling. I hate the inclination to trust him.

“I see some guys I know over there,” Ben says, nodding to the right. “Let’s get a drink and I’ll introduce you.”

I follow his gaze and stiffen. A partner from Stadler is among that group he’s indicating. I can still see him as he was on my last day, sitting behind that glass wall, condemning me with his eyes.

“You go ahead,” I say, taking a sharp left. “I’m heading this way.”

I don’t give him a chance to object as I push my way forward, wishing fervently that I hadn’t come. But that’s always the risk, isn’t it? You might run into something from your past, and discover the shame of it all hasn’t improved in six fucking years.

For lack of anyone else to speak to, I find a group of female attorneys I know only vaguely and insert myself into the conversation. They’re older than me, more secure in their fields. None of them were at Stadler, obviously, or I’d have to run from them too.

“How’s the shark pit?” Emily Greenfield asks dryly.

I smile, and it’s a relief to have it come naturally for once. “I think sharks are unfairly maligned.”

“Tell me if you think that in a decade when they haven’t made you partner,” she replies. “I was there, you know, when I was just starting out. My career went nowhere until I left.”

My stomach tightens. I want to think I’m different somehow, but she’s really good at what she does. “Things are changing. I’m not sure any firm can get away with only promoting men these days.”

“FMG will,” she says, and her certainty shakes me a little. Does she know something I don’t? “Come talk to me when you get tired of the boys’ club there.”

I accept the card she hands me with a polite smile, though I have no intention of using it. I’m not interested in giving up on the boys’ club—I want to sit at their table. When they’re holding men to a different standard than they do women, I want to be the one who tells them no.

I walk away, wondering what the hell I’m going to do here for another two hours. From a distance I see Ben smiling his best glib, square-jawed smile at a woman who is probably the next Miss Universe or Vogue cover. He glances around him, his eyes finding mine for half a second before they return to hers. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

I head toward the bar because only a second glass of wine will persuade me to work any harder at this than I am, then find myself talking—reluctantly—to some wannabe rock star. I hear Keeley in my head saying, “give him a chance”, but that’s because he’s exactly what Keeley wants—hot, under-dressed and over-confident. If she were here, the two of them would already be making plans to escape. She’d know of a better party, or he’d suggest a spontaneous trip to Amsterdam, and she’d be saying, “let me just grab my passport.”

“You want to get out of here?” he asks. “A friend of mine is having a thing at this club in West Hollywood.”

That’s when I see Ben, still across the room, but staring at me and Machine Gun Kelly or whoever this guy is, as if he’s about to kick someone’s ass.