Binding Arbitration by Elizabeth Marx Page A

cry, you’d understand why God made it so beautiful, because the cacophony was less than pleasing.
    Aidan had greeted the woman with a friendly hug, and then eyed Fletch before turning back to me. “You two are already acquainted?” His cheek twitched, along the crest of the bone.
    Fletch looked at me, then back at Aidan. “When we met, she called me a narrow-browed, dim-witted, cave-dwelling asshole.”
    I cleared my throat. “I said ass-wipe, not ass-hole.”
    Fletch ignored my half hearted attempt at smoothing things over. “Elizabeth, this is my wife, Tricia Stone-Fletcher.”
    We shook hands, and she beamed a smile before taking me in more seriously, tapping her lip with a polished fingernail.
    “What are you newlyweds doing out and about?” Aidan asked.
    “Celebrating.” Trisha whooped, as she produced a white plastic pregnancy test. Aidan leaned away, suppressing his knee jerk reaction.
    I, too, blanched before whispering my congratulations.
    Aidan slapped Fletch on the back. “Fast work, old man.”
    The waiter arrived with our first course. “I’ll let you enjoy your dinner.” Fletch guided Aidan back into his seat by pressuring his shoulder. As I resumed mine, I overheard him say, “I received a very distressing call from your fiancée’s lawyer.”
    Judging from Aidan’s volume, he wasn’t interested in keeping their conversation private. “I tried to reach you by phone, text, and e-mail today.”
    “I was busy commemorating.”
    “The white stick says mission accomplished.” Aidan laughed.
    Fletch’s wife tugged at his sleeve, and he turned on her.
    “Tricia, you’re going to wrinkle my best suit.”
    She looked at me apologetically—“Men”—before turning back to her husband. “Remember. No business tonight, no crack-berry, no baseball players, just baby talk.” Her manicured hands were resting on her hips.
    Fletch scoffed in response, before he turned on me. “One last thing, she’s more skillful in her use of obscenities than I am.” Fletch had the audacity to wink at me as he walked away.
    Aidan smirked into his salad. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
    One of the perks of being a lawyer is the perfected direct stare. If you don’t have it down by the end of the first year of law school, you’re destined to be a tax attorney. I directed mine on Aidan. “I met Fletch when I was representing Johnny Buck, who hooked up with that NBA rookie, Albertson, for some ‘Bloomingdale Bidness’.”
    Aidan raised a brow in question.
    “They were selling ‘exclusive’ merchandise out of the trunk of Albertson’s Mercedes for drug money. He’s as hard-headed and as pimply as the basketball he dribbled into the courtroom.”
    “John Buck, the real estate investor’s son?”
    “Generations of Bucks have skillfully bent and stretched the length of the law in Chi Town.”
    “And you’re their lawyer.”
    “Fletcher was Albertson’s attorney.” I answered. “After a confrontation in the ladies lounge, where Fletch cursed me out, I lambasted him with a few choice words of my own.”
    Aidan chuckled under his breath. “That’s it?”
    “No, he said, ‘any woman with a mouth like mine he wanted in his bed.’ And I told him where to shove it.”
    “Are you involved with anyone on a personal level, or do you consort solely with your clients?”
    “That’s none of your business.”
    “Everything you’ve done is my business. You have my son, and I want to know about your lives.”
    “My private life has nothing to do with this transaction.”
    “This is much more than a business transaction.” He took a fork full of lettuce. “How old was Cass when he walked?”
    “Ten months. Why?”
    “Tell me all about him.” Aidan smiled. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m sorry, and I intend to set this straight.”
    “Aidan, this is a lot more complicated than saying a few I’m sorrys. I have to think about Cass’ feelings and his future. He has no idea who you