Dr. D Spills the Tea

“This . . . isn’t going to work out.”     It was an odd thing to say—considering the woman’s legs were over her head and George was overtop of her, hair a mess, clothing mussed and hardly removed.     “Oh, Diana—”     I laughed.     It was hilarious in a way.     Here I was feeling guilty thinking about how I probably couldn’t marry this man because I’d practically said my vows to my career and he’d been screwing his secretary.     “s**t,” he cussed, pulling back, and Victoria, quickly pushing her skirt down, clearly flustered, was carefully keeping her eyes away from me.     “Have a good evening, George,” was my two-cents as I stepped backwards.     “Have a good—are you f*****g serious?” I heard him snap as I shut the door between us.     Relief.     Raking a hand through my hair, I sighed as I made my way down the familiar hallway, away from his office, straight toward the exit.     Why did I feel relieved?     All of the guilt I’d felt about working such long, consistent hours during this last case had immediately been sated. It was like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.     Partners, George had suggested.  He’d wanted to be partners in our own law firm and marriage, he’d said, would be the finite contract.  A power couple taking New York City by storm.  I was a young fresh face at the age of 27, a graduate of Pennsylvania University with a law degree and a competitive bar exam score, I’d gained an internship at just the age of 22 in New York City and never looked back.  George was an older, successful lawyer with good standing, and I’d always looked up to him as a mentor but he’d approached me with other intentions.  Dating had been kind of hard considering our conflicting schedules and, despite both of our financial and social capabilities, we’d had very little time to actually discuss . . . us.  He’d had me sold for a time, on the idea of partners, and I’d even accepted the ring upon my finger, flashy and large, if not only because he’d made it such a broad, public gesture. After all, what magazine wouldn’t want a power couple as their headliner?  When I’d mentioned that I was uncomfortable with how quickly things were moving, he’d argued that this was the best time because our top competitor was taking a hit with the media currently and I’d had a hard time coming up with a solid rebuttal against that—emotions aside, everything George had to offer was a good investment.     Logically, I’d decided, this was a step in the right direction.     Now, looking back, that had been a pipe dream at best.     I’d been plenty wary of the partnership but marriage?     At least now he’d saved me the trouble of having to outright reject him.     When I stepped out of the building, waving to security on the way, I pulled out my phone and found myself dialing a familiar number, telling the only person I’d taken any time to confide in about the s**t storm I’d just stumbled out of.     “What the f**k?  Tell me you slapped him at least.”     I smiled at Phil’s outrage.     “I can send Theodore to visit.  You know he likes confrontation.”     “I’d defend him in court pro bono,” I offered, giving a soft laugh.     “That guys an asshole, Diana.  I never liked him from the beginning.”     Hailing a taxi, I sighed again, wondering why this wasn’t bothering me more.  “Two years,” I mumbled, frowning as I slid into the backseat of the car.  “What a waste.”     “The offer still stands,” Phil reminded me, voice soft, pleasant.     The offer.     Pursing my lips, I thought about what it would mean.     What I’d be signing up for.     Ah, what the hell?  Why not?  “Okay.”     There was a pause.  Then, “Okay?”  Then, away form the speaker, “She said okay!”     I gave a soft laugh, muttering, “Phillip, calm—”     “Diana?”  Deep, smooth—I tried not to shiver at the sound of his voice.  Phil’s lover, his one and only, the doting counterpart that had become something of a well-known heartthrob back home.  “I’ll set up a red-eye for you.  First class.”     “Theodore Blackwell, I’m perfectly capable of setting up my own—”     “I’ll send you the information.”     And then he hung up.     I stared at my phone for a long moment, pursing my lips.     Then the buzzing started.     “I’m sorry, love, you know how he is,” from Phil.     And a paid ticket to Pittsburgh from New York just three hours from now from an unsaved number.  Theodore Blackwell.     He’s serious.     He was dead serious.     There was a trill of excitement—and a slight feeling of indigestion.     I rubbed my stomach anxiously.     Another buzz.  “Pack light.  See you soon.”     Blackwell was never one to mince words.     “Where to?” the cab driver asked.     I exhaled slowly, nervously.  “The . . . airport, I guess.” . . .   The glass of champagne was chilled, stationed at my seat with a note:  “Buy whatever you want.”     I pursed my lips at that.     I could damn well buy whatever I want without a mans help.     “Uh, hi.”     Glancing up, I found myself looking at what could probably be a younger version of myself.  Wide-eyed, rimmed glasses perched on her nose—she gestured to the seat next to me and I crossed my legs, letting her through.  She stumbled a bit, clearly flustered, hugging her bag to her chest, looking me over with obvious envy.     “Are those red bottom heels?” she whispered, biting her lip.     I offered a sweet smile.     One of the few things I dabble in outside of law is fashion and a good set of heels has always made me feel just a bit more . . . powerful in a room full of ranting men.  Especially when an arguably conservative outfit could leave them stumbling to remember how to use words coherently.     “I mean, of course they are,” she rambled, flustered, tucking a light brown hair behind her ear.  A pretty thing, she had freckles sprinkled over her nose and full pink lips—the epitome of youth.  “It was a . . . silly question.”     “Where are you headed?” I wondered, trying to soften the conversation.     She was stiff, nervous, and I figured she wasn’t used to first class luxuries.  I was still dressed for work and found it ironic that I was kind of jealous of her choice of gym clothing for the flight.  If Mr. Blackwell wanted to help, he should’ve sent me fluffy slippers.     “Uh, Pittsburgh,” she mumbled.  Well, of course. I just quirked a brow and she seemed to realize her mistake, adding, “I mean, uh, I have an internship with a local hotel.  I . . . uh, jeez, going there seems so last minute and I honestly feel so under prepared but the owner already bought the ticket and—”     “Which hotel?” I wondered, pursing my lips.     This story sounded eerily familiar.     “Well, I guess it’s a few of them, actually.  They’re all under operation of the Blackwell—”     I sighed.     She seemed startled by my reaction.     “Theodore Blackwell has always had his way of doing things,” I offered, giving her a small smile.  “At least the man is harmless.”  Well, fairly harmless.     “You know Mr. Blackwell?” she asked, awed.     Taking a swig of champagne, I swirled it, trying not to feel too peeved.  No wonder he’d been able to book this flight so quickly.  He’d even nabbed the seat right next to his new intern.  When I glanced back at the girl, I found her staring at me and remembered that she’d asked a question.  “Yes,” I admitted, setting the champagne glass down.  “Just a bit.”