Power of Attorney (15 page)

“You might not be a real girl, but you got beaten up by one, Loser!”

Breathlessly I looked down into the pit. Jacob and Adam were just staring silently. Finally Jacob spoke.

“You beat up a guy, baby. With Yoga.”

“Did you just call my sister ‘baby’?”

L
ater that night, Jacob and I sat together on my couch, the same couch where I had fantasized about him so many times, so let’s just say that despite earlier events, I was still up for some excitement.

“Now, I believe that at one point tonight, you mentioned wanting to date?’

“What I said about ‘just fucking,’ that was a very poor choice of words. I could tell I upset you but I didn’t really know what to say. You took me by surprise; that’s all. I’m sorry though. The more I thought about it ...”

“I know we don’t know each other very long, or very well yet, but I just feel like we have natural rapport and a lot of chemistry, physically but also personality-wise.”

“I agree. But I’m not in the greatest position to be somebody’s romantic partner.”

“I think every couple is different. I wanted to get out of KL because I thought that I was missing something.  When I had free time though, I found that there was nothing much that I actually did with it. What I really wanted was challenging legal work that had meaning for me, not a bunch of hobbies or vacation packages, although those are nice too. I’ve discovered lately that I really don’t mind putting in a lot of hours when I enjoy the work.”

“Well, that’s good, because I work a lot of hours. But I’ve also discovered that I like taking breaks with you.” He smiled. “Don’t you think it might be hard though, not having much time to spend together?”

“I think that we would look forward to the times we were together more. And it’s not really such a bad thing to long for someone a little.” I reached up and traced his bottom lip with my fingertip.

“Longing can be good,” he said with a smile. “But what about the fact that we’re over thirty and I’m not looking to make serious long-term plans, at least at this point.”

“I’m being completely honest when I say that I really don’t care. I’m living life day-to-day and enjoying it. I have a fulfilling career. I have friends and I have a supportive family. All that I want is to develop an intimate connection that’s deeper than just great sex.”

“I think we already have the beginning of one, and I’m glad that you’re optimistic about the quality of the sex,” he teased.

“Hmm. Maybe I should ask for some supporting evidence.”

“I would be happy to prove my case,” he replied and leaned in to kiss me.

I believe that I may have mentioned this already, but Jacob is, without a doubt, the best kisser I have ever met. A little later, we discovered we had something else in common. We were both big fans of Down Dog pose. Thank you Barry, for making me work for it. That muscle control certainly came in handy. It turned out that my optimism had been well founded, the sex was more than great; it was sublime. Whatever it was, pheromones or just plain old attraction, the connection between just felt incredibly intense and when I came, I passed right by the clouds, went through the stratosphere and achieved orbit.  Every time.

Later as I lay in bed, I went over all of it in my head, I had finally met a guy with whom I had amazing sexual chemistry, similar humor and intelligence and a lifestyle that actually fit with mine much better than I could have imagined. Who knew that Trog and the Silver Cougars would have helped me find
that?

The End

N
.M. Silber is an admitted Nerd Girl, proud Jewish mother, practicing attorney, and
USA Today
Bestselling author.  Her
Lawyers in Love
series has been called “fast-paced, unbelievably witty, smart and hilarious,” and her endearing cast of lusty litigators is beloved by readers around the globe. She was voted an Amazon Readers’ Choice Best New Author of 2013 and has been a #1 Bestselling author in Romantic Comedy and in Humorous Erotic Fiction there, as well as a Top 100 Bestselling author at Barnes & Noble. She has stated that her goal is to write books that make people laugh, blush and genuinely feel good.

P
ublic defenders don’t jump out of cakes. It’s a simple fact, but one that Sarah Eisenberg’s best friend, Chelsea, refuses to accept. A gangster’s birthday party leads to an encounter with the only prosecutor in Philly who is the best friend of Sarah’s courtroom nemesis
and
the son of her idol. Why did he have to be so sexy too?

When Matt Brenner sees a beautiful woman, dressed like Marilyn Monroe, trying to flee a raid, he’s amused. When she turns out to be a delightful flirt, he’s aroused. When he discovers that she’s the tough female lawyer, battling on the other side of the courtroom from him, he’s intrigued.

Join Sarah and Matt, along with their friends, two thugs, a Cher impersonator, a German Beer Garden Girl and a five foot-tall hotdog, in another hot and hilarious tale by N.M. Silber,
Crime & Cake
!

“J
ust give up. You are never going to convince me that jumping out of a cake dressed like Marilyn Monroe is an act of feminist solidarity,” I said, grabbing handfuls of warm, fresh smelling, clothes out of the dryer at the Laundromat down the street from my apartment. The heat had steamed up the windows so much, I couldn’t see if it was still snowing outside.  I had a feeling it was, though. The two blocks home would probably feel like running the Iditarod. I sighed.

My neighbor, Chelsea, gave me an exasperated look, and she could
do
exasperated. She was a graduate-level theater arts student, and she could convincingly mimic most emotions. Unfortunately for her, though, I was a public defender, and I was used to seeing people put on a show. At age twenty-six, and only one year out of law school, I was already a cynic.

I suspected that the emotion she was really experiencing at the moment was closer to desperation, but even that, wasn’t enough to make me want to do
this
for her.  Female trial lawyers, who wanted to be treated with respect by male colleagues, had to be tough. They didn’t jump out of a cake and sing “Happy Birthday” in breathy, baby-like voices, while batting their fake eyelashes. Sorry, Chelsea.

“I’m telling you, Sarah, you’re looking at it all wrong. Nobody would think you were less intimidating in a courtroom just because you jumped out of cake. Being sexy is powerful. And we women have just as much right to own our sexuality as men do.”

“Look, Gloria Steinem, I totally agree with that, and being the owner of
my
own sexuality, I choose not to twirl titty tassels for a group of dirty old men.” I used a pair of socks to illustrate my point.

“Cut that out!” she demanded, trying not laugh. “You know there are no titty tassels involved. Rent A Star is a class act. We’re celebrity impersonators not strippers.”

“I get that women can be empowered
and
sexy, but why couldn’t you have been impersonating Hedy Lamarr? Did you know that she was also a mathematician? She invented a device that jammed the radio frequency directing enemy torpedoes. It’s true! Look it up. ”

“Because even though she was a celebrated actress, not many people request Hedy Lamarr jump out of their cake.” She took a deep breath and gave me what I could almost swear was an earnest look. “Okay, I’ll cut out all the feminist rhetoric.  I really need help, Sarah! I don’t know how I double booked tonight, but if I skip either party, I’ll get fired and I need this job. None of my other part-time jobs pay as much as the cake gigs.”

“Why do you have so many jobs, Chelsea? Your parents are both doctors. They’ve offered to pay your tuition. You don’t
have
to jump out of cakes, or dress up like a German Beer Garden Girl, or five-foot-tall hotdog, or sling lattes at the Bean, or any of the billion other jobs that you have.”

“Because I want to be independent, and all of these jobs, arguably, are improving my acting skills. I practice my German accent at the microbrewery, and I play different celebrities at the cake gigs. I meet all kinds of people at the Bean. They’re like character studies. Okay, maybe handing out flyers for Weiner World isn’t so useful ...”

“What if someone recognized me?” I asked, getting back to the topic at hand. “I would be so embarrassed.”  I looked around, hoping nobody who worked in the criminal bar was overhearing this conversation. Here in Philadelphia, the Defender Association and the District Attorney’s Office were both so large, that I didn’t even know what every one of my fellow lawyers looked like.

“You would be in costume. You have dark brown hair and you dress conservatively for court.  I would put you in a blonde wig, and I have a tight red sequined gown and stilettos.” She tilted her head to the side and gave me an appraising look. “I could also do a dramatic make-up, porcelain skin, smoky eyes, and blood red lips.” She looked far too excited about this for my comfort.

“Oh God.” I grimaced up at the ceiling, starting to feel panicky. Why did I have a feeling that I wasn’t getting out of this?

“Okay, I have no choice. I’m sorry, but you drove me to this,” she said sternly, placing her hands on her hips and looking me straight in the eye. “Two words. Bug Boy.”

“Oh come on,” I said with a defensive laugh. She wasn’t going to play
that
card. She really must be desperate. “That was months ago!”

“Sarah, I rescued you from a guy with an insect collection. He talked to me about it all night. I totally took one for the team.” Okay, she had me. I sighed again and rolled my eyes, pulling the drawstring of my laundry bag tight and hefting it over my shoulder.

“Fine. But we are officially even. I never want to hear mention of Bug Boy again.” With that, I headed for the door and the blizzard outside.

***

I
stared in the full-length mirror in Chelsea’s bedroom later that evening, feeling a little stunned by the image staring back at me. Sarah Eisenberg, Esquire, with her sensible knee-length suit skirts, and sturdy pumps, had completely vanished. In her place, stood a sex goddess from another era. Chelsea had been right, nobody who knew me in my day-to-day life would recognize me like this.

The tight gown hugged my curves and shimmered in the lights. It had a deep décolletage that nicely framed my 36 C’s, and a slit up the side that offered a teasing glimpse of one stocking-clad leg, complete with garter.  The red satin heels I wore had ankle straps, and so that gam looked sexy from top to bottom, if I may say so myself.

Even more shocking, though, was what was above the shoulders. With the fake eyelashes, the blonde wig, and the heavy make-up, I really could pass for Marilyn Monroe, or at least a good Marilyn Monroe impersonator.

Even though it was a very “obvious” look, I had to admit, I felt drop-dead sexy, and yes, weirdly powerful. “Powerful” was usually something I felt in a courtroom when I knew my case cold, not something I thought I would feel dressed like a vamp. But then, I had never really dressed like a vamp before.

I turned and looked over my shoulder at the shape of my bottom through the shimmery fabric. Even though I felt sexy, I still felt a little embarrassed too. This dress was so tight, that I might as well have been naked.

“You look amazing!” Chelsea gushed, looking like she was about to get all misty-eyed. She clasped her hands together in front of her mouth and looked truly overwhelmed. I had a feeling she wasn’t acting. “You’re stunning.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” I still wasn’t quite sure about this. At least there were no tassels.  I just had to pop up and sing
Happy Birthday
. That was it, and then I was done. I didn’t have to sit on the old guy’s lap, or run my fingers through his comb-over, or kiss him or anything. In fact, the rules were that we weren’t allowed to touch the clients, and vice versa, thank God.  Wait a minute. “We?” Oh man! “This isn’t
your
wacky job Sarah,” I reminded myself irritably.

“Okay, sing it through once. Pretend you’re at summer camp.”

“Yeah, singing
Happy Birthday
to a strange old guy is
just
like singing
Blowin’ in the Wind
at Camp Ramah in the Poconos,” I replied dryly and cleared my throat. At least I could carry a tune. My voice was decent, if nothing to write home about. I sang one chorus of the song and looked at Chelsea. She didn’t look very thrilled. “What? That was on key,” I said defensively.

“I wasn’t serious about summer camp.”

“What does
that
mean? What was wrong with that?”

“You sounded ... wholesome, more like Marie Osmond than Marilyn Monroe. Don’t you remember how Marilyn sang
Happy Birthday
to JFK?”

She took a deep breath and suddenly, she looked different, the way she stood, the way she smiled, it was like she was channeling the former bombshell. Chelsea really was good. Then she began signing in a breathy voice that
sounded
like sex. I had to admit it was mesmerizing. She let the last note float out and linger like a caress, and when she was done, she flashed me a bright smile and she was herself again. Wow. I almost applauded.