the block
Brad De Luca sat across from Kent Broward and Hugo Clarke, the large conference room crowded with tension in the well-appointed room. It was how meetings between them always were, and why they restricted this pain to quarterly events.
They had discussed the financial statements, upcoming cases, and a litigation that had been filed against the firm. Now there was only one item left, and he glanced at his watch impatiently. It was already seven o’clock.
“Okay,” Clarke said, sliding a slim stack of folders before him. “Interns. We have twelve coming this semester.”
Both men turned to Brad expectantly, and he groaned, leaning back in his chair with a cocky smile. “I know. No fucking the interns.”
Kent Broward winced, the word unpleasant to his ears. “It’s not a joking matter. You opened our firm to serious liability when you did that—”
Brad interrupted, shooting him a look that silenced his next sentence, “We open ourselves up to liability every time we take on a case. Don’t preach to me about liability.”
The third man leaned forward. “Kent, Brad understands the situation. It’s not going to happen again.”
Brad gave the silver-haired man a steely look, his jaw tight, and reached across the table, flipping the top folder open and looking at the file. It was bullshit that they still went through this, at every quarterly meeting, at every opportunity that an intern was mentioned. It was three years ago, and the girl had all but spread her legs on his desk and forced his cock inside.
He stared at the first folder.
A slim Asian girl, the type who would shrink every time he raised his voice, stared out at him, paper-clipped to an impressive resume which indicated her complete lack of social life. He tossed it aside.
A black kid with glasses, who had an interest in criminology.
A redheaded girl with sunburnt skin and braces, ‘crocheting’ on her list of activities.
A blond kid, perfect features with a side of preppy, his personality visible through the cocky grin he flashed the photographer.
Another Asian, this one male, whose serious expression alone depressed the hell outta Brad.
He flipped through five more folders, his brain counting as he went. All intelligent. All impressive. All uninteresting. He reached the last one and looked up.
“Where are the rest?”
Clarke cleared his throat. “Kent and I already selected our candidates.”
“That’s bullshit. Let me see their files.” He held out a hand, a pointless exercise since neither man had a green folder in their slim stack.
“We don’t have the files here. We chose them yesterday. It’s done. Choose yours.” Kent shot him a bored look, one that barely masked disgust.
“We’ve never done it that way before,” Brad said evenly, looking at Clarke.
“It’s an intern, Brad. You’ve barely given two thoughts to any you’ve had in the past … with the one notable exception. Pick one and let’s move on. My wife’s got dinner waiting.”
He flipped back through the stack, going for the most interesting out of the bunch—the blond with the cocky smile—tossing the others back into the center of the table. They would be distributed among the junior partners, each bookworm going to a proper attorney who’d work their free bones to the quick.
“Fine. Anything else?” he asked brusquely.
“That’s all I have. Kent?”
The man shook his head in response. In unison, all of their chairs slid back.
the child
Two weeks later, he pushed open the door to his office and came face-to-face with a kid straight off the pages of J. Crew—short blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawbone that would be a breeze to crack. Brad stopped, glancing into the lobby and then back at the kid.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?”
His tone made the kid blink, and he fidgeted, moving a black folder from
Brad De Luca sat across from Kent Broward and Hugo Clarke, the large conference room crowded with tension in the well-appointed room. It was how meetings between them always were, and why they restricted this pain to quarterly events.
They had discussed the financial statements, upcoming cases, and a litigation that had been filed against the firm. Now there was only one item left, and he glanced at his watch impatiently. It was already seven o’clock.
“Okay,” Clarke said, sliding a slim stack of folders before him. “Interns. We have twelve coming this semester.”
Both men turned to Brad expectantly, and he groaned, leaning back in his chair with a cocky smile. “I know. No fucking the interns.”
Kent Broward winced, the word unpleasant to his ears. “It’s not a joking matter. You opened our firm to serious liability when you did that—”
Brad interrupted, shooting him a look that silenced his next sentence, “We open ourselves up to liability every time we take on a case. Don’t preach to me about liability.”
The third man leaned forward. “Kent, Brad understands the situation. It’s not going to happen again.”
Brad gave the silver-haired man a steely look, his jaw tight, and reached across the table, flipping the top folder open and looking at the file. It was bullshit that they still went through this, at every quarterly meeting, at every opportunity that an intern was mentioned. It was three years ago, and the girl had all but spread her legs on his desk and forced his cock inside.
He stared at the first folder.
A slim Asian girl, the type who would shrink every time he raised his voice, stared out at him, paper-clipped to an impressive resume which indicated her complete lack of social life. He tossed it aside.
A black kid with glasses, who had an interest in criminology.
A redheaded girl with sunburnt skin and braces, ‘crocheting’ on her list of activities.
A blond kid, perfect features with a side of preppy, his personality visible through the cocky grin he flashed the photographer.
Another Asian, this one male, whose serious expression alone depressed the hell outta Brad.
He flipped through five more folders, his brain counting as he went. All intelligent. All impressive. All uninteresting. He reached the last one and looked up.
“Where are the rest?”
Clarke cleared his throat. “Kent and I already selected our candidates.”
“That’s bullshit. Let me see their files.” He held out a hand, a pointless exercise since neither man had a green folder in their slim stack.
“We don’t have the files here. We chose them yesterday. It’s done. Choose yours.” Kent shot him a bored look, one that barely masked disgust.
“We’ve never done it that way before,” Brad said evenly, looking at Clarke.
“It’s an intern, Brad. You’ve barely given two thoughts to any you’ve had in the past … with the one notable exception. Pick one and let’s move on. My wife’s got dinner waiting.”
He flipped back through the stack, going for the most interesting out of the bunch—the blond with the cocky smile—tossing the others back into the center of the table. They would be distributed among the junior partners, each bookworm going to a proper attorney who’d work their free bones to the quick.
“Fine. Anything else?” he asked brusquely.
“That’s all I have. Kent?”
The man shook his head in response. In unison, all of their chairs slid back.
the child
Two weeks later, he pushed open the door to his office and came face-to-face with a kid straight off the pages of J. Crew—short blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawbone that would be a breeze to crack. Brad stopped, glancing into the lobby and then back at the kid.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?”
His tone made the kid blink, and he fidgeted, moving a black folder from
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