The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (2 page)

T
HE
V
ERSE

A
DAM
F
ORD

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Adam Ford
7/4/03
Re: No fireworks

Memo: The Fourth of July – Nostalgia vs. Transitory

T
HE FIRST WEEK
of July was traditionally spent in our family’s rundown cabin on Lake Erie. It was only twenty minutes from our house, but we would pack up the Chevy wagon like we were leaving on a month-long adventure. Man, life was noticeably different then – innocent and unassuming. It was simplistic.

Time was measured by leisurely bike rides, fishing contests, laps in the lake, and moonlit campfires roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On lazy afternoons, the lake kids would stretch out on that old dock and stare up at the clouds for hours, not a care in the world. After dinner, my little brother and I would pile into the bottom bunk of our cabin and play competitive games of checkers and UNO. And even after Dad passed away in ’92, Mom was adamant about keeping that rustic cabin and taking us there every summer to enjoy our youth.

The lake was also a breeding ground for prepubescent summer romances, some drama-filled and others completely innocent. As for me, I remained quiet and ordinary until the summer I was fifteen and managed to steal a kiss from the hot lifeguard at the drive-in theater. This was huge – I was lake folklore for two years before my friend Tango actually dated and broke her heart. Classic Tango.

There are so many good memories and lasting friendships from those Buffalo summers, but my favorite part of our vacations was the annual fireworks show on the Fourth of July. We would line up our lawn chairs, lather ourselves in bug spray, and prepare to be amazed by the flickers of light erupting in the navy sky. The contrast of dark and light alone was fascinating, but mostly, I was intrigued by the dichotomy of fireworks – some would explode with reverence while others would fizzle into oblivion.

Like life.

As a twenty-five-year-old professional, single male, this day has evolved into a game of bragging discourse and drunken debauchery. The hotdogs have been replaced with organic bratwurst and portabella burgers. The plastic cups of Kool-Aid were switched with goblets of chilled wine. Those carefree bike rides around Lake Erie dissolved with the rest of my childhood memories as soon as I boarded a steamy NJ Path Train to Hoboken. And there will be no sweet, stolen kisses among the fireflies. I expect to get laid.

Luckily, my buddy Anthony lives in a communal-sex apartment complex with revolving doors and plenty of horny singles. It’s designed to resemble loft-living in Manhattan – but with more space and a smaller price tag. There’s even a rooftop courtyard with a small pool, four grills, a dozen lawn chairs, and a stupid fake palm tree.

I find Anthony sitting on an ice chest in the middle of some bikini-clad girls, doing his best to make them swoon. Women love Anthony’s roguish personality, well, until they meet me.

He sees me and waves me over. “Adam-fucking-Ford. I’ve sequestered all the beer and the most attractive ladies in New Jersey. Let’s have some fun!”

Anthony stands to open the cooler and tosses me a cold bottle while I visually lay claim on the strawberry-blonde. Her red bikini, belly button ring and tiny butterfly tattoo are all I need to classify her type . . . this will be easy.

S
HIT –
A
NNE
G
EDDES
posters.

If those naked babies disguised as vegetables are going to watch me have sex with Kate, then I will be forced to give her the PG-Adam.

We didn’t get a chance to talk much during the barbecue, but my keen perception is never wrong. And this is what I know: Kate is a teacher. Kate takes girls’ trips to Atlantic City where she goes crazy. Kate is Irish and has brothers that could likely kick my ass. Kate is all about pretending to be a good girl, a virgin with morals, but in reality, she’s the ultimate cock-tease. And Kate is sadly mistaken if she thinks her sweet persona will distract me from the truth.

Her apartment is clean and modern, but it has the slight smell of vanilla wafers and hypocrisy. No doubt her bedroom will be pink and frilly and likely contain stuffed animals from her childhood. I have two options: sex in front of those creepy baby posters, or sex in her bubblegum dungeon of plush.

I turn my back to the disturbing, pumpkin-head babies and kiss her. She’s a very dramatic, forceful kisser, but doesn’t contain an ounce of impulsive behavior. She moans my name as she pulls my t-shirt over my head and runs her red nails down my chest, stopping inside my shorts. This is a routine for her – I need to take control and get the fuck away from those creepy babies.

My jaw tightens as I give her a stern look. “Kate, as much as you want to be fucked up against a wall – your bedroom, now.” She bites her lip timidly, trying to manipulate my demands.

No woman will
ever
sexually control me.

She turns in the direction of her bedroom and I follow closely behind her, unhooking her top and tossing it on the floor. I fondle her tits, small, but a nice change from Fiona’s water balloons. She stops, falls back into my chest and moans.

“Oh Adam,” Kate whimpers.

Really? That didn’t take much. I remove my hand and push her forward with my legs. She opens the door and hits the light switch . . . shit, it’s worse than I imagined. There’s so much hot pink and zebra print that Safari Barbie must’ve puked in her room after a rough trip through the Serengeti.

Kate quickly moves toward the bed to hide her worn, stuffed monkey under the surplus of pink pillows. She then crawls with her ass in the air to the center of the bed, “mmm-ing” with each stride. Where do women learn this shit?

She turns her head seductively to summon me. “Take me,” Kate purrs.

I narrow my eyes and say, “Be quiet.”

She pouts and crosses her arms as I walk to her bookcase. Below the rows of trashy romance novels is a crappy stereo. I thumb through her collection of perfectly stacked CDs . . . Bon Jovi, Celine Dion, Dave Matthews Band, and Green Day. Highly predictable and completely lame.

I shut off the light and listen to her rustle in the bed – moving to a ready position. The bedside table is my next stop. I yank the dangling chain to the feathered lamp, wobbling and illuminating the room in more pink. I pick up a framed photo of Kate and her red-headed family on a cruise – yep, three rugby-type brothers that appear very protective.

“You don’t talk much,” Kate says sweetly.

“Take it all off,” I command. I know this is what she wants – no need in acknowledging her with foreplay.

I return the photo to the nightstand as she tosses her red bikini bottom at my head. Let’s see what Kate likes . . . I pull out the top drawer of the table and find the XXX items I knew she would have: ribbons of condoms, handcuffs, lube, three vibrators and a large, black velvet bag.

“Adam, please get out of there. That’s private.” She begs with a smile.

“Private?” I smirk. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. I rip off one of the condoms, place it next to her family photo, and shut off the lamp.

I remove my swim trunks and stroke my cock in preparation for the condom. Kate moves toward the headboard so I grab her ankle and stretch her leg to my mouth, licking then biting her calf. She squeals and shudders, but her body language is very relaxed and accommodating. Why do girls assume we want them to be comfortable with sex; like they’re
the
cool girl
that will do anything in the bedroom?

I want a girl with an erratic heartbeat. I want a girl to feel anxious and alive. I want a girl to surprise
me
.

Kate robotically opens her legs as I lick her inner thigh. I force two fingers inside her, slowly pull them out, and then slide them in her mouth. After I position the condom, I spread her legs further apart, pin her down by her wrists, and enter her with one hard thrust. Moving to my knees, I pull Kate toward me, my arms tight around her waist, bouncing her on my cock.

“Oh god, oh shit! Yes, yes! Harder!” Kate mechanically groans like a low-budget porno, but underneath her high-pitched pleasure, I can hear the faint sound of fireworks.

I pull out and flip her face down in her satin pillows, hoping to muffle some of her background noise. Fortunately for me, she really enjoys submission and she’s really close to orgasm. I pull her arms behind her back and tighten my grasp around her wrists. She’s making a vibrato noise that could herd a pack of goats, so I continue to pump her until she eventually spasms. Loudly. I concentrate on finishing – which is pretty easy with her being so wet and comfortable – and silent.

I move to her side, kiss her back and rub her cute little ass. She continues to moan and flinch with her face buried in the pillows. I slap her ass and turn her over to reveal her post-coital glow and perky tits.

“Wow, I like the way you fuck!” Kate closes her eyes – elated, tired and satisfied.

I carefully roll out of the bed, but clumsily trip on a box of photos. I take another look at her CDs, illuminated by the glow of her computer screen, and then toss my condom in her zebra-print trashcan.

No passion. No intrigue. And no fucking fireworks.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Adam Ford
7/7/03
Re: Hookers and drugs

M
ONDAY MORNINGS FOLLOWING
a holiday weekend are manageable when being met with Diane’s smiling face.  “How was your weekend, Adam?”

My secretary Diane is the sweetest lady I’ve ever met. It’s customary for a firm to have several associates share the secretarial and paralegal staff, and since I’m a measly associate, I share Diane with two other attorneys – but I know I’m her favorite. In the six months I’ve been at Jenkins, Shaw and Davis, I’ve made two real friends: my secretary and my paralegal, both crucial in succeeding in a large firm.

Diane recently became a grandmother, so I surprised her with a digital frame for her desk. I go out of my way to comment on new pictures of her grandson and always give her the utmost respect in the office. Fiona, my paralegal, is also assigned to three attorneys. She appears to be a ditzy blonde, but she’s remarkably intelligent and very good at her job – I give her the utmost respect in bed.

I pick up the frame on her desk and scroll through the pictures. “Good morning, Diane. I had a great weekend. How was your Fourth on Long Island?”

Thrilled that I always remember every insignificant thing she mentions, she beams proudly. “Oh, wonderful! We went to Jones Beach to watch the fireworks with the kids and then spent the rest of the weekend tending to our vegetable garden. Adam, do you like tomatoes? You probably eat chips and drink beer – you need some Vitamin C!” Diane hands me a stack of files and follows me to my office.

We spend every weekday morning discussing my client appointments and arguing over my eating habits. I jokingly complain about my caseload and she tells me stories about her family – it’s strangely my favorite part of the day.

I situate myself at my desk and switch on my computer. “Diane, I would love to try your vegetables. But have you thought about bringing them to a farming co-op?” I glance over my emails as Diane waters my plants in the window.

“Great idea, Adam. Ready?” she asks. Diane places the water pitcher in my bookcase and then sits across from me with the agenda in her lap.

“Shoot,” I say.

“July seventh at ten a.m., new client – Raymond Parker. You have a lunch appointment with existing client Drake and a preliminary hearing with client Delgado at three p.m.” Diane rustles uncomfortably in her chair.

Concerned, I ask, “Diane, what’s wrong?”

“Adam, you’re the most respectful young man I have ever worked for. You are gracious and encouraging and I know you will do big things!” Diane’s eyes water – crap. I don’t like anyone to feel pain, especially women.

“Diane, are you leaving or am I?” I smile, trying to comfort her.

“Oh Adam, see, even your sarcasm is charming.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue and exhales. “I’m retiring in two weeks. I’ve worked here for thirty years and I want to be home with my grandson. My daughter is returning to work next month and I need to help her with Jack.”

I nod in agreement. “Diane, you’re an incredible secretary, but that’s your job, not who you are. You’re a kind friend, a wonderful mother and you will be the
best
grandmother. Congratulations on your new adventure.”

I stand up to walk around to her side of the desk and give her a warm embrace. “Can you promise me one thing?”

“Of course, Adam.”

“Can your replacement be incredibly gorgeous?”

Diane nudges me in the ribs and giggles. She takes my agenda back to her desk, smiling and laughing. After she closes my door, I sit back at my desk, roll up my sleeves and immerse myself in work.

M
OST OF MY
clients’ cases revolve around money: fraud, theft, or misallocation. I worked for the District Attorney’s office for six months prosecuting such criminals, but now I get the pleasure of defending their heinous and greedy crimes.

Every defense attorney at some point suffers from judicial guilt and I’m no different. This is the very reason why I created
Adam Ford’s School of Acting
. Basically, I tell my clients to shut up and let me do all the talking. Then I work my ass off to get the case in front of a jury. The next step is the easiest, legal poker – calling bluffs and creating misperception. Perception is never truth.

I can rest easy at night with my role in the judicial system because of one discernible fact – the assholes got caught in the first place. I’m always courteous to clients during trial, but at the end, when they’re humbly shaking my hand in gratitude, I give them a necessitating stare of
do not fuck this
up
. Most of the time, the clients are scared so shitless that they never commit another wrongdoing again. I can think of some Hollywood actors that would benefit from my acting techniques.

My new client, Franco Delgado, is a total sleaze. He’s a real estate tycoon from Miami that recently started a property management company in Manhattan. Not only is he accused of pilfering funds from his business, but he used this money to pay for a string of escorts and presumably, cocaine. Men like this never understand the importance of self-control, thinking everything is theirs for the taking, and men like this are my least favorite.

Yesterday’s preliminary hearing went according to plan and the Delgado case will be going to trial. I have two days to go through all the discovery files and prepare for the jury selection. This is the first time I actually feel nervous about strategizing for an obviously guilty man. Shit, I need to focus and relax.

“Diane, can you please have Ms. Dawson meet me in the conference room at three?” I release the intercom button and wait for Diane’s reply.

“Sure, Adam. Would you like the Delgado files moved to the conference room?”

“Yes. Also, my standard survival kit.” Diane chuckles at my request. I’m really going to miss her.

“Gotcha. Post-it notes, six highlighters, paperclips, your iPod and Mountain Dew.”

I finish an email to my brother David, make a few phone calls and then google Franco Delgado.

A
LITTLE AFTER
three, I head to the conference rooms with my laptop and glasses. Glasses are a recent addition to my workday – a solution for the migraines I used to get. But I can rock the specs, and it’s better than constantly thinking I have a brain tumor.

Fiona is busy hanging photos and documents on a white board, so I close the door to Conference Room Four and curse the three boxes of discovery. “Ah shit – paper trails,” I mumble. “Hey, Fiona. Your ass looks nice in that skirt.” I sit down at the long table, attach my iPod to my laptop and select the
Discovery Playlist
.

Fiona spins around to face me and flirtatiously smiles. “My ass always looks nice. Adam, you have me until seven.”

“What happens at seven?” I ask, putting on my glasses.

“I’m meeting my girlfriends at a new restaurant in SoHo. Asian Fusion. We’ve had reservations for weeks.” Fiona’s smile is very straight, never turning up at the corners, but I’ve learned to decipher her levels of enthusiasm.

“Then let’s get started. I printed out everything I could find on Google about Delgado, and the guy’s a real dick.”

“I figured. You’re unbelievably sexy in those glasses – a nerdy girl’s fantasy. Are we using the checklist?”

“Checklist. Fantasy? Tell me more.” I lean back in my chair to watch her move around the conference room.

Fiona’s a cute girl accessorized by physical enhancements. She’s told me on many occasions that she was a geeky tomboy in high school, so after college she opted to improve her outward appearance. She’s smart and funny, but there’s no doubt men can’t get past her Baywatch boobs and blond hair. But I can – and her consistent, non-attached personality is exactly why we have great sex.

Our casual relationship is built on trust and sexual need. Technically, we’re fuck buddies, and although I know she’s used this term on several occasions, I’m very respectful of our arrangement. I took her out for pizza a few months ago to thank her for her hard work on a particular case, but my innocent gesture quickly turned into weekly sleepovers at my place.

The firm has a strict no dating policy, but we don’t
date
and our private time has remained completely undetected. We even developed a code phrase for our meetings, something specific, but nothing that would seem out of place in public conversation . . .
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
Fiona’s my fuck-a-friend.

I approach the whiteboard to examine the photos of Delgado’s black Ferrari. “Can you believe this guy? Why in the hell would you destroy a Ferrari on the FDR Drive?”

“Because he can. Are you jealous, Adam?” Fiona laughs as she moves next to me. Even with her heels she’s like ten inches shorter than I.

“Why would I be jealous? It’s pretentious and unnecessary.” I stare at the license plate, thinking how awesome it would be to have a car like that. Actually no, I’d rather have a McLaren, extremely fast yet graceful with the charm of a British spy. Cruising along the LIE to the Hamptons . . .

Huh. Delgado’s license plate is distracting me from my sports car daydream – holy
shit
, I know why. “Fiona, get me the search warrant for the Ferrari.”

She scurries to the table and fishes through the first stack of papers. “Here.” Fiona shoves it at my chest and bites the corner of her lip.

I place the warrant next to the enlarged photo of Delgado’s license plate and wait for her response. Her eyes move from the photo to the sheet of paper and back to the photo. “Jesus, Adam. The warrant has the wrong plate number. Do you have photographic memory or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Weird.” Fiona shakes her head in disbelief as she writes the plate number on the whiteboard. “Well, I’d hate to be the poor asshole who filed the paperwork.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. Okay, we need to move quickly. Call Bryant at the DA’s office and alert him of our finding – the drug charges will most definitely be thrown out before we start trial.”

I sit down at the table and thumb through my iTunes playlist, stopping at the Beastie Boys. Even though this warrant fuckup is great news, there’s still the undeniable fact that Delgado’s case is impossible to win.

“This is good, Adam. That only leaves the hookers and the missing money.” Fiona grabs her bag and heads out the glass door to her desk.

I raise the volume on my iPod and look over the files of the accused escorts. Hookers and drugs . . . the legal career of my dreams.