The Bold and the Bullheaded by Willow Aster

Chapter Eight

Emma

I’ve died and gone to hell.

The banging from downstairs sounds like a freight train is coming through the floor of my apartment. I sit up and my head pounds out of my skull. I glance down to see that I’m wearing my bra and panties and nothing else. That’s a first. I’m never sloppy. I hate sloppy.

My mouth is so dry that I don’t even think an IV hookup could help hydrate me at the moment. I stumble into the bathroom and shove my mouth under the faucet and turn on the water, drinking like I’ve been trapped on a deserted island for weeks.

Water drips down my chin and I push up to look in the mirror.

I hear one of my favorite NYC Real Housewives, Dorinda Medley, in my head and she’s saying, “I’ll tell ya how I’m doing: Not well, bitch.”

I really have died and gone to hell.

Is that toothpaste in my hair?

Hey, it’s good to know that even drunk off my ass, I remember to brush and floss. I know this because there are flossers all over the floor, as I obviously struggled to get one out of the package.

A for effort.

A pounding on my door pulls me from my haze, and I grab my robe behind the bathroom door.

“Emma, open up.” It’s my father’s voice, and he doesn’t sound happy.

“Please stop banging,” I groan as I whip open the door.

“Jesus. You look like death.” He shoves a coffee at me and follows me inside. “I can’t believe I have to order that high-maintenance drink for you. Triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato. You’re welcome.”

I glance down at my phone because I need to get to work, but I’m actually okay on time.

“Thanks, Dad. I’m guessing you spoke to Dee Dee.” I drop to sit at my kitchen table and take a sip of coffee.

“Yep, she called this morning to make sure you were okay. Why didn’t you call me? I could have been there for you. I figured you went out since you didn’t come by last night.” He unscrews his small bottle of orange juice. Dad doesn’t believe in coffeehouse drinks. He likes his coffee from a coffee pot in his own kitchen. Though he’s never tasted this magic liquid in a cup.

I set the cup down and think about his words. I did go out.

Noooooooo.

No. No. No.

Spence walked me home. Spence sat with me at the bar. Shit. I told him things that he will throw in my face in the future.

“Damn you, dirty martinis,” I hiss and move to my feet, pacing in front of my dad in circles.

“You’ve never been much of a drinker. Did something happen with your mom last night? Did she say something to upset you?”

I come to a stop. I can’t explain to him that I broke down in front of enemy number one. I’m just going to avoid Spence Taylor for a while so he can’t gloat.

“Just her mere presence can hurt sometimes, if I’m being honest. It makes me think about the past more than I want to,” I say before dropping in the chair again.

“Be careful with her, Em. Even if she’s claiming to be sober, you need to watch your back. She usually has a motive. And if she doesn’t, then she can prove herself to you over time. Take it slow.”

I nod. My mom has done a lot of damage to both of us over the years, so I understand why he’s apprehensive.

“We’re going to get together, just the two of us later in the week, so I’ll have more time to talk to her.”

“All right. Just be careful, okay?” He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I needed it today. I better get ready for work.” I push to my feet.

“Start by getting that toothpaste out of your hair.” He laughs as he walks to the door. “Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you, too.”

Mya calls when I’m out of the shower and I put her on speakerphone as I answer.

“How are you doing today?” she asks.

“I should be asking you that question. I’ve never seen you look so green.” I dot more concealer around my eyes than I usually use, hoping that helps the puffy, dark circles eye situation.

She groans. “I was fine one minute and miserable the next. I’m working from home today—my stomach is still not happy with me. I’m worried about you though. What happened with your mom?”

I do my eyeliner with precision, a little heavier than normal. I still look exhausted. My head is like a bulldozer wreaking havoc through my brain. I take a second to down a few pain relievers and swig the coffee. “It was interesting. Long story short, she wants to try to have a relationship, but there was a lot of woo-woo mixed in there.”

“Oh. Woo-woo as in healing vibes, or woo-woo as in living in an alternate reality?”

Mya and I have discussed the pros and cons of woo-woo many times and we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re all for a higher level of consciousness but also want our feet on the ground. It works for us anyway.

To each his own tolerance of the woo-woo.

“You know, I’m not sure yet.” I blend in a few places and then grab the lipstick. “If she stays through the week, I’m supposed to see her again. But I know better than to count on that happening.”

“Oh Emma,” she says.

“I’m being careful, I promise. Don’t worry about me.” I press my lips together. Bold red. I feel better already.

“You know I can’t not worry about you after a Veronica visit. Don’t hesitate to come over or call or demand an emergency wine session, if you need to talk it out. I’m so annoyed that I won’t see you at work. You should come over.”

“I love you, girl. I’m fine.” It’s my standard line, even with Mya, and I usually mean it. If I say it enough times, it becomes true.

That’s the way that works, right?

“Do you need anything?” I ask her. My eyes grow huge. “Wait, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Uh, that would be a hell-to the F-no.”

Ever since she’s been hanging out with the Taylors, she’s adopted some interesting alternate cussing options. The Taylor siblings cuss like sailors, but their mother doesn’t tolerate it for a second. Mya is trying to wean herself from cussing so she doesn’t let loose by accident when she’s around Melanie, their mom.

“That didn’t even make sense, but I know what you meant,” I say, laughing as I turn off my bathroom light and step into my heels. “And you know you are so in with Melanie, you could tell her she’s the fuckety fucking fuck of a woman and she’d probably squeeze your cheeks and say, ‘You are the best thing that has happened to my boy.’ Tell me I’m wrong.”

Mya laughs and then groans. “It’s too soon to laugh.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I grab my laptop and suit jacket and a bottle of water. I wish I had time for a huge greasy breakfast to cure this hangover, but I can deal with a little pain. It will distract me from overthinking that little visit last night … both with my mom and the blue-eyed ass who wasn’t such a jerk for once.

As I walk down the stairs and then out the main entrance, Stinky Pete and Little Joe are walking in.

“Queenie, missed you last night.” Stinky Pete puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. I melt as always. “And you missed out, let me tell you. Little Joe got his hands on some Atomic Warheads and we had to see who could last the longest without spitting it out.”

“Oh, that’s convenient.” I’m already laughing. These guys have been medicine for my patched-up heart for as long as I can remember. “You should be ashamed, battling it out while the champion is gone. Who won?” Little Joe and I have done many sour candy showdowns and I always win.

“Your dad,” Little Joe says sheepishly. He looks dejected while I cackle. “I was all excited to show you the Spray Warheads. Next time, I’m taking you down.” He tries to knuckle my scalp while I hightail it out of his way. He is not messing up this updo I’ve got going on.

“I’ll never give up my Sour Champ title,” I yell as I wave to the rest of the guys through the window and hustle out of there.

I barely think of my mom and Spence on the way to work. Nope. I’m fine.

When I get to work, Merv the Perv, AKA, Arwin, is standing outside my office.

“Ohhh, rough night?” he asks as he takes me in, and I have a strong desire to throttle the old geezer. He’s got bags under his eyes, a massive unibrow, and a wandering eye. This jackass is in no position to judge me.

“Nope. All good. Just a late night with my boyfriend.” It’s good to know that even hungover, I’ve still got my edge.

“Lucky man.” He licks his lips, and my stomach wrenches with a mixture of vodka and disgust. “So, Jack asked me to see if you needed any help with the case. You know, he’d like me to be a bit of a mentor on this trial.”

I want to wipe the smirk off of his face. I’m guessing Arwin approached Jack with the idea, because Jack has already offered me his help if I need it.

I nod. “Okay. I’ve got a few things I was going to work through today. Do you have a minute right now to discuss them?”

“I’m free tonight.” He wriggles his brows. “Dinner on me?”

I wish I could projectile vomit on command. Now that would be a talent. My lips turn up in the corners at the thought of covering Arwin’s too-tight dress shirt and bushy unibrow in yesterday’s grilled cheese and martinis.

“I have plans. But I have a few minutes right now.” Firm and to the point. That’s the only way to handle a narcissist with an inflated ego.

“I like a girl who plays hardball.” He drops to sit, and it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes dramatically. His attempts at sexual banter are lame at best. Hell, Spence Taylor has more wit in his pinky finger than this assface.

Spence.

My stomach flutters at the thought of him, and I push it away. I don’t do butterflies, or romance, or anything in the feelings department.

I open the file beside my keyboard and hand him the transcripts. “What do you think my best angle is here?”

He reads for a few moments, flipping to the second page as his gaze narrows. Arwin’s strength: he’s never lost a case to date. That’s an impressive track record for a man who has been at it for two decades and has the attention span of a small flea. His weakness: everything else.

He’s a cheating dirtbag and he makes no attempt to hide it. In fact, he brags about the way he sneaks around behind his wife’s back. He’s donning a purple tie today with oversized white polka dots, a too-tight navy suit, and black shoes, drawing attention to his disastrous fashion choices. He’s going for young and trendy, but he’s missing the mark as badly as a TV evangelist during a fall from grace.

Most importantly, he’s a shitty father, and I can’t get behind that. As a child who’s suffered from the choices of one selfish parent, I find his behavior appalling. And he thinks it’s all okay because he’s successful and rich but emotionally bankrupt.

I think I like hangover Emma. She doesn’t mince words. Well, maybe that’s not so unusual.

“I think you hit him in the nuts. Hit him where it hurts,” he says. How prolific. The man tries to include nuts or balls or tits or cock in everything he says and he thinks he’s sly because he uses it in a way that makes it impossible for HR to write him up for it.

He’ll plead ignorance, which sums this man up in a nutshell.

Look at that. He’s rubbing off on me.

And this is how he wins cases? His advice is weak at best.

“Thank you for your words of wisdom.”

I don’t feel I need his help on this domestic battery case, but I do want to exhaust every effort to do what’s best for my client. If that means listening to Arwin’s nonsense in hopes of one gem coming through, I suppose I’ll try.

“We can go deeper when we have more time. Check your calendar. You’ll get a lot more out of me if I’m sitting down with a cock,” he pauses because he thinks I’m slow, “tail.”

“So original. Thanks for your help,” I say, as my phone vibrates on my desk. My heart races when I see it’s my mother.

Maybe she really is going to try this time.

So great to see you last night, Em. Bob can’t stop raving about you. Girls’ night on Thursday. Just you and me?

I stare at the message, and I can’t help but smile. What is it about this woman that makes me want to believe her? Her track record is shit, but I can’t seem to stop hoping this time will be different. Because what’s the point of life if you can’t redeem yourself, right? I believe in second chances. Hell, my profession centers around people being held accountable, serving their time, and then going back out into the world as reformed citizens.

So cheers to one hundred and thirty chances. You’ve got this, Mom.

Sure. That sounds nice. Where would you like to meet?

I watch the three little dots move across the screen and chew on my thumbnail. Why am I nervous? I’m not even fazed when it’s a stranger off a dating app asking to meet. Speaking of which, I’ve been in a dry spell for the past few months. I need to get back out there.

How about Tommy’s Steakhouse? I haven’t been there in a decade. 7 PM on Thursday? My treat, sweetheart.

Okay. Sounds good.

I let out a breath that I didn’t even know I was holding and get back to work. Mya has sent multiple texts begging me to come over tonight to play board games with her and Jesse, but I know there’s a good chance that his brothers could show up.

She’s feeling much better, and I have a hard time turning down a night of board games with my bestie, but I am not giving Spence the opportunity to throw my drunken emotional breakdown in my face, so I decline. I want to hang out with Dad tonight anyway. He and his friends always pull me out of my funk.

I tell Mya I’ll see her tomorrow night for our usual Real Housewives date night, but this week we will be watching with Yaya and her gusband, AKA her lifelong best friend-slash gay stand-in husband, Bernard. He calls himself Yaya’s gay husband outright, but Yaya thinks that sounds both politically incorrect and/or could ward off potential suitors for either/both of them. She tolerates gusband.

They can verbally spar like no one’s business. The man is a combo of Bernie Sanders and Andy Cohen. He looks like an elderly politician, an open-minded cool one of course, but he can talk smack and gossip with the best of them. He’s in my top five favorite people on the planet, and I’ve been dying for Mya to meet him.

My week is turning around.