Fat Girl (3 page)

Dee shakes her head stubbornly, sending the sable curls, which she used to wear longer, bouncing around her shoulders.

“Think about the reason you became a child advocate,” I push. I’m not above using knowledge of her childhood to my advantage. “You know what that lack of stability feels like, Dee. That’s why helping kids stay in good homes is what you do…is what you always wanted to do.

“For the past three years, Victor and his wife have been providing Dwayde with a secure, loving foster home. They were in the process of filing for adoption when his biological grandparents showed up, threatening to take him away from the only stability he’s ever known. Dwayde wants to stay with his foster parents. He’s scared, Dee. Victor and Isabelle’s lawyer is good, but she doesn’t have experience representing children. Dwayde needs his own attorney to look out for him. He needs you.”

Her expression remains impassive. My appeal seems to have no thawing effect on her whatsoever, as she crosses her arms and adds another layer of frost.

“If the situation is so dire, why isn’t Victor here?” she demands.

Good question. One I’ve debated how to answer from the moment I decided to go against my friend’s wishes. Victor didn’t mince words. Whenever Dee’s name came up, his reaction wasn’t just no but
hell, no
.

Until this moment, I honestly intended to take the high road, even after everything she’d done. And I believe I would have if she had demonstrated the smallest amount of give, if there were even the slightest hint of warmth in her Arctic expression. But there is none, and that rubs my old wounds raw.

“Do you really think Victor would come here asking for your help after what you did?” Once the dam I’ve been holding together with toothpicks bursts wide open, the past comes flooding out. “His parents took you in when you were fourteen and treated you like one of their own. And how did you repay them? By bailing.

“They were worried sick. Victor’s little sisters cried for weeks, asking every day when you were coming home. No one could do anything. You were eighteen, free to pack up and go as you pleased.”

For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the image of her engagement ring sitting inside that stark white envelope addressed to me. Or the note she wrote her foster parents in a hasty script, as though she couldn’t get away fast enough. A note that simply said, “Words cannot express my gratitude for all that you have done for me.” A note she had the fucking nerve to end with: “You will be forever in my heart.” As if she had one.

The memory boils my blood and reddens my haze. Controlling my temper isn’t my strong suit. “Why would Victor trust you to represent his foster son when you hurt the people he loved?”

“If I’m so god-awful,” she says, bristling, “then I fail to understand why you’ve come here.”

“Because whatever else you may be, I’ve done my homework and I know you’re considered the best.”

“Regardless, Victor’s foster son is not your legal responsibility.”

I swallow an angry breath. “This isn’t about legal responsibility. This is about loyalty, obligation, and love.” Three things she doesn’t have a clue about. “You’re not the only one with debts to pay, Dee.”

“And you’re not my conscience or my judge.”

I wouldn’t credit Dee with a conscience, but I hear in her clipped tone that I’m getting to her. So I rein in my temper for a twelve-year-old boy’s sake and admit, “The situation that Dwayde’s in is because of me.”

Finally, that produces a reaction. Not outright concern but at least curiosity. “How so?” she asks, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

“Two Saturdays ago, the media got wind that I was coaching rec basketball at a community center in North Chicago.” I pause, waiting to see if there are signs that she may be aware of the incident. Searching her eyes, I don’t see any. And that tells me that either Dee has one hell of a poker face or she doesn’t keep up with sports news.

Choosing to believe the latter, I continue. “When I walked out of the center with Dwayde and several of the boys after practice, there were camera crews and reporters everywhere…crowding the front steps and parking lot, shouting questions, snapping pictures.”

Her gaze flicks over me. “The price of fame.”

That pokes a sore spot, and I shove my fingers through my hair to keep from throttling her. I know what she’s thinking—that I sold out my dreams. Which is no less than what I think. But I’m not about to defend the choices I made or my reasons to Dee.

“The price of fame is mine to bear, not Dwayde’s,” I say, feeling a spear of guilt in my chest. “I asked the reporters to ease off and let the kids through. But one bastard out for blood wouldn’t cooperate.” That was when all hell broke loose. “The story went viral and appeared in all the major papers across the country. Dwayde’s grandparents from Kentucky—no one had even known existed—recognized him from the photo, and within forty-eight hours they were on a plane to Chicago, claiming Dwayde as theirs.”

“Biologically, he is.”

I look at her leaning against the doorframe, professional mask in place, arms still folded beneath her breasts, pushing the smooth, plump cleavage above her blouse, and say what we both know to be true: “Biology doesn’t mean shit.”

“It does in a court of law,” she argues.

“That’s why we need you to take the case.”

“There is no
we
,” she conveniently points out. “Victor doesn’t want my help, remember?”

I remember. But I’m not letting her off with that easy crutch. “I’ll deal with Victor.”

“Even if you manage to, as I’ve already indicated, I don’t have the time. So I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip.”

She turns around to go into her office, but her blatant indifference snaps the fraying tethers on my control. Riled, I follow and grab her arm, spinning her back around to face me.

“Get your hand off me,” she warns. Hot pelts of breath hit my jaw, and golden flames jump wildly in her eyes.

It’s sick. It’s perverse. But her flash-fire temper affects me like a lit match to gasoline. Sparks erupt, charging the air with electric currents of passion. Lost in the heated moment, I tighten my grasp and step her into the brick wall—dipping low and aligning our chests, stomachs, thighs, and everything in between. For a moment she struggles, trying to twist out of my hold. But I don’t let go. Instead I tug her closer, aching to take Dee, right then and there. To feel those long legs wrapped around my waist as I drive hard into her snug, slick heat. To hear those breathy moans catch in her throat.

Craving her. Still. Blind lust urges me forward, but flashes from the past yank me back. My mind’s playing out the grief on the faces of the people I care about when they realized Dee was gone and never coming back…the dark hole I’d fallen into…the vast emptiness.

Fuck!
I release my grip and take a giant step backward. The distance should provide space. Air. Relief.

It doesn’t.

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about taking the case,” I say, my
voice serrated with the conflict roiling inside me. “Twenty-four hours to think about a boy who needs your help. Twenty-four hours to think about the family you deserted. Think about that,” I dare her. “Then try telling yourself you’re too busy to give a damn.”

The whisper of hurt that crosses her face doesn’t satisfy me. Not by a long shot. It almost does me in.

But deploying the last vestiges of my self-control, I rip my gaze away from hers, battling rage, desire, and too many unnamed emotions, and make myself go while I still can.

OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD!
KNEES ON THE verge of buckling, I wobble over to my chair, sink into it, and bury my face in my shaky hands.

It was the suddenness.

One moment I was playing things cool, and the next I was on fire. One moment seeking escape, and the next surrounded by the blistering heat pumping off his large, hard body. In those split seconds, where anger and arousal converged, I pathetically showed as much willpower as a moth drawn to a flame.

But while I was turned on and burning up, he smacked me down cold. And proved two agonizing facts. One, that he can still make me want him. And two, that he still doesn’t want me.

His rejection cuts deep.

And I hate him for it, and myself, too.

Teetering on a perilous edge, I fish my phone out of my purse and after several fumbled attempts manage to text Jordyn and Lexie:

I could really use some girlfriend support.

No questions asked. We arrange to meet at Jordyn’s. In a whirl of frantic activity, I log off my computer, toss the offending cash—which I have every intention of returning—into my top drawer, and lock the office.

Once inside my car, I take deep, meditative breaths and slowly release them.
In, hold, out.
I continue until my reeling emotions quiet enough to keep me from backsliding into old habits.

Minutes later, my Acura coupe is crawling through the downtown congestion typical of Chicago at five thirty on a Wednesday evening. This is one of the reasons I moved out of the city two years ago. The other reason just stormed out of my office.

My nerves eventually even out along with the traffic as I reach the I-88 West. Lexie, Jordyn, and I live in Brockville, within a six-block radius of each other and of the fitness center where we met eighteen months ago in Pilates class. I’ve been a loner since childhood. But neither woman allowed me to wallow in solitude, maybe sensing someone who needed friendship or saving. I’m glad they didn’t give up on me during those times I tried to pull back within myself.

Exiting at Duff Gate, I roll past the rich architecture that peppers the tree-lined streets. To the south, I have a clear view of the sun dipping low in an indigo sky and the mist dancing on the deep blue lake. The pretty little town hasn’t lost any of its tranquil charm during the time I’ve lived here.

Only thirty miles from Chicago, it feels like another world.

Initially, when I fled Springvale, I welcomed the anonymity of the big city. It was a chance, I thought—hoped—to bury my past and start anew. I threw myself into college with single-minded determination, earning an undergraduate degree in child and family studies. Next, I took on law school, graduating third in my class. Then I launched my career, becoming the youngest woman ever to be up for junior partner at the prestigious family law firm Stern, Harris, and Associates.

But no matter how much success, respectability, and money I earned, on the inside, where it counted, I was still the unwanted, unlovable fat girl. With my past constantly chasing me, far too many nights I ate myself into an emotional coma, only to wake up hung over, bloated, and despising that weakness inside me. On those mornings after, with my head in the toilet, I’d promise myself that I had slipped for the last time.

Sometimes days, even weeks, would go by, and I’d be convinced that I had my problem beat. Then bam! Something would trigger me. It didn’t have to be major, just enough to push me off center, and the vicious cycle would start all over again.

It wasn’t until I found myself in the hospital, hooked up to machines and an IV drip, that I was forced out of denial and got myself help. I was admittedly distrustful at first. Court-ordered therapy had never worked for my mother. And I’d sampled the whole tell-me-why-you-hate-yourself thing once before, in my midtwenties, dreading every wretched second that I spent exploring my inner demons.