live?!”
Reading the nervous crackle of my voice, Quinton releases a little chuckle and shakes his
head. “To testify at your preliminary hearing, help persuade the judge that he shouldn’t bother
holding the matter over for trial.”
“And if that happens, I’m free to go?”
“That’s right. If not, we go to trial and fight it out in front of a jury.”
I have to force myself to say, “And ... if I’m found guilty?”
“Addie, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are lots of options at every stage; appeals,
mistrials, let’s just take it one step at a time.”
And of course I know he’s right; there’s only so much we can do, might as well just stay
calm and handle things as they happen. The only real alternative is to throw myself off a
building, but I’m not at that point.
Not yet .
And with my bank accounts frozen and no job (not even a recommendation), paying my rent
is going to be out of the question. However, since Quinton has moved out of the apartment he
was sharing with Emily, I move him in with me and he takes over the rent.
Even though he’s paying all o
f the rent, Quinton takes the couch and allows me to sleep in
the bedroom. And even though I don’t feel very good about it, I accept. Since I may be
spending the next three or four decades on a hard cot, we both feel a comfortable bed isn’t a
luxury to forego.
Quinton makes me feel good, brings me some measure of security, however fleeting and
tenuous it might be. He is my attorney and friend, after all; the only one of either that I’ve got in
Los Angeles, maybe even the whole world. But at least I’m not alone, which is a terribly
familiar feeling that only now do I realize I’ve been running from all this time; barely able to
escape it and still struggling to do so.
But those aren’t the only feelings I’m struggling with. I’m still seething with anger toward
Randolph. Still? I’m only getting angrier! Not only did he take advantage of me, lie to me,
seduce me with ill intent (one step away from rape, if you ask me); but he set me up to be a front
for his filthy drug scheme and it worked. He’d have me rot in jail (one step away from murder,
no matter who you ask). And that all hurts, it would hurt anyone. But he lied to me, he tricked
me and I fell for it! I feel so useless and stupid and ashamed, no amount of Quinton’s
reassurance seems capable of dulling my gnawing self-loathing.
And things get even more complicated when I think of Quinton. I really like Quinton, and I
always did find him to be an exceptional person. But my feelings are getting stronger fast, and I
just don’t know how to deal with them. On the one hand, I’m nervous that these feelings of mine
are inspired by his care for me, his willingness to help me. I never felt that before, except with
Randolph. But Randolph was lying. And not only am I not sure if I can let myself trust again,
I’m not sure that it’s such a healthy thing that I do. I mean, I trust Quinton with my life; he’s my
lawyer and I’m facing a veritable lifetime behind bars. But I don’t think I should trust him with
my heart. I can hardly believe I’m even considering it.
Is this really what turns you on? I have to ask myself, actually more of a challenge. You
need some father figure to swoop in and save the day for you, make everything all right because
you can’t do it for yourself? How can you be so weak and culpable?
It’s not so strange that I should want to be protected and nurtured, I silently respond. Who
wouldn’t?
But you need it, I counter, admit it; you can’t take care of yourself. You’re willing to give
your heart and your body to whomever will bend down and pick you up out of the gutter!
I won’t admit that, because it’s not true.
Oh yeah? the other me says. Prove it. Treat Quinton the way you’d treat a true professional
relationship, and you’ll prove me wrong. Fall into bed with him, and -
You don’t have to worry about that, my stronger
Reading the nervous crackle of my voice, Quinton releases a little chuckle and shakes his
head. “To testify at your preliminary hearing, help persuade the judge that he shouldn’t bother
holding the matter over for trial.”
“And if that happens, I’m free to go?”
“That’s right. If not, we go to trial and fight it out in front of a jury.”
I have to force myself to say, “And ... if I’m found guilty?”
“Addie, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are lots of options at every stage; appeals,
mistrials, let’s just take it one step at a time.”
And of course I know he’s right; there’s only so much we can do, might as well just stay
calm and handle things as they happen. The only real alternative is to throw myself off a
building, but I’m not at that point.
Not yet .
And with my bank accounts frozen and no job (not even a recommendation), paying my rent
is going to be out of the question. However, since Quinton has moved out of the apartment he
was sharing with Emily, I move him in with me and he takes over the rent.
Even though he’s paying all o
f the rent, Quinton takes the couch and allows me to sleep in
the bedroom. And even though I don’t feel very good about it, I accept. Since I may be
spending the next three or four decades on a hard cot, we both feel a comfortable bed isn’t a
luxury to forego.
Quinton makes me feel good, brings me some measure of security, however fleeting and
tenuous it might be. He is my attorney and friend, after all; the only one of either that I’ve got in
Los Angeles, maybe even the whole world. But at least I’m not alone, which is a terribly
familiar feeling that only now do I realize I’ve been running from all this time; barely able to
escape it and still struggling to do so.
But those aren’t the only feelings I’m struggling with. I’m still seething with anger toward
Randolph. Still? I’m only getting angrier! Not only did he take advantage of me, lie to me,
seduce me with ill intent (one step away from rape, if you ask me); but he set me up to be a front
for his filthy drug scheme and it worked. He’d have me rot in jail (one step away from murder,
no matter who you ask). And that all hurts, it would hurt anyone. But he lied to me, he tricked
me and I fell for it! I feel so useless and stupid and ashamed, no amount of Quinton’s
reassurance seems capable of dulling my gnawing self-loathing.
And things get even more complicated when I think of Quinton. I really like Quinton, and I
always did find him to be an exceptional person. But my feelings are getting stronger fast, and I
just don’t know how to deal with them. On the one hand, I’m nervous that these feelings of mine
are inspired by his care for me, his willingness to help me. I never felt that before, except with
Randolph. But Randolph was lying. And not only am I not sure if I can let myself trust again,
I’m not sure that it’s such a healthy thing that I do. I mean, I trust Quinton with my life; he’s my
lawyer and I’m facing a veritable lifetime behind bars. But I don’t think I should trust him with
my heart. I can hardly believe I’m even considering it.
Is this really what turns you on? I have to ask myself, actually more of a challenge. You
need some father figure to swoop in and save the day for you, make everything all right because
you can’t do it for yourself? How can you be so weak and culpable?
It’s not so strange that I should want to be protected and nurtured, I silently respond. Who
wouldn’t?
But you need it, I counter, admit it; you can’t take care of yourself. You’re willing to give
your heart and your body to whomever will bend down and pick you up out of the gutter!
I won’t admit that, because it’s not true.
Oh yeah? the other me says. Prove it. Treat Quinton the way you’d treat a true professional
relationship, and you’ll prove me wrong. Fall into bed with him, and -
You don’t have to worry about that, my stronger
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