Chapter Seventeen
Griffin
“This way,” Sierra says as she takes me through a turnstile and to the left.
I expect her to take me to a meeting room, a large space that exudes wealth and power and is filled with outrageously expensive furniture that would make anybody feel unworthy of parking their ass on it unless their ass is appropriately covered in expensive bespoke clothes. Original art by masters whose works are generally seen in the Louvre. Air luxuriously perfumed with flowers so finicky and difficult to grow that only those who can afford a dedicated team of gardeners can enjoy them.
On the other hand, she thinks a giant purple cock is suitable for her lobby, so for all I know, she could be guiding me to a kink dungeon proudly festooned with huge pink butt plugs.
Nothing this woman does is going to shock me.
She leads me into a long hall. Once we finally reach the door at the end, she pushes it open and we spill out into a lush garden. My step falters for half a second.
The garden doesn’t have any orgy topiaries. It’s actually a normal garden with some shrubs, trees, roses and daisies. Nothing weird. Nothing outrageous. Nothing that smells like semen or flavored lube.
A few benches sit under the trees. The benches aren’t shaped like genitalia or outfitted with restraint cuffs, either. They’re ordinary, like the type you’d find in any public park.
It’s too normal.
Still, I conceal my unease. Hiding how I feel is what I do best, having been surrounded by drama kings and queens who love to feed off my reaction. I’m not giving Sierra anything to turn this into a spectacle. After having observed my parents for decades, I know how easy it is to turn a private moment into a scene.
“Would you like to sit down?” She gestures at one of the benches under a giant gingko tree with green fan-shaped leaves.
“No, thank you.” I’m not in the mood to sit down for a chat. Damn it, I shouldn’t be here. Period!
She shrugs and takes a seat, lifts her feet off the ground, then lets out a soft sigh of relief that her stilettos aren’t bearing her weight. “Can I be frank?”
Shit.When a woman says, “Can I be frank?” nothing good follows. It’s equivalent to a starting pistol going off at a race. No-holds-barred drama is going to pour out of her mouth. Tears will ensue if words alone aren’t sufficient to elicit a proper response. If Sierra’s an expert, she’ll have a handkerchief or Kleenex. Or perhaps she expects me to hand her one. Mom used to, until she realized I’d never carry a hanky or Kleenex for her to sob into.
“Sure.” I brace myself. Wollstonecraft owes me more than keeping me tenured for putting up with this.
“If you haven’t already gathered, I didn’t want any case study,” she says. “I didn’t even know you were coming until Linda showed up this morning.”
No semi-trembling words. No tears. She’s entirely too calm. My mouth dries. What the hell is in her Act Two?
“As you saw, there’s an issue between me and Todd.” Sierra’s mouth twists into a self-deprecating line. “He’s my ex-husband.”
I give myself a moment to process, studying her for a sign that she’s fucking with me to get a reaction. But no. She’s dead serious.
“You married him?” Why? She could do nine million times better than that…that unfortunate accident of procreation. Then I realize something else. “He was a member of the Fullilove family?” The all-important family that even pompous Charles Phillips is obsequious to.
She nods, rocking her body back and forth a little on the bench.
Damn.That explains so much about his attitude over the last two years. The heights of obnoxiousness he imposed upon everyone, including the head of his own department. He knew his marriage to a Fullilove would keep him safe from the administration’s wrath.
People don’t change, so he had to have been insufferable at home, too. I caught that comment about iambic pentameter. The asshole must’ve talked to her like she was an idiot student in his class.
Drama queen or not, I feel sympathy for Sierra despite my best efforts not to. Nobody deserves the punishment that is Todd Beaker. But I don’t say it—that might encourage an overwrought sob-fest about her awful ex-husband.
Not that Todd Beaker isn’t worthy of one. I’m just not interested in somebody’s past marital dramas. Not even a little.
“Linda wants us to reconcile,” Sierra says.
“Isn’t it a little late if the divorce is final?” The question slips out before I can catch myself. This is all because Sierra’s acting like a normal human being at the moment.
“She doesn’t want to accept that. This case is one of her attempts to force us to spend time together.” Sierra shrugs and smiles. “Probably not going to happen.”
Good for you,I think with reluctant admiration. When relationships go sour, the best ending is a clean and swift one. No room for going back. No false expectations or hopes.