Friction

  PRAISE FOR THE LEGAL AFFAIRS SERIES

  "I loved this hot little sexy story and can't wait for the next installment. Sawyer Bennett is awesome."

  --Monica Murphy, New York Times and USA Today

  bestselling author

  "Like an episode of L.A. Law with a side of orgasm and a glass of hilarity."

  --Lauren Blakely, New York Times and USA Today

  bestselling author

  "I always enjoy Bennett's writing, so I expected to enjoy this. What I truly adored about Objection is the fun and slightly snarky tone. Objection is very different from Bennett's previous books, and you can just tell that she had an absolute blast creating Mac and her crazy fun story."

  --Andrea, The Bookish Babe

  ALSO BY SAWYER BENNETT

  The Off Series Off Sides Off Limits Off the Record Off Course Off Chance Off Season Off Duty

  The Legal Affairs Series Legal Affairs Boxed Set Confessions of a Litigation God Clash

  Grind

  Yield

  The Last Call Series On the Rocks Make It a Double Sugar on the Edge With a Twist Shaken, Not Stirred Carolina Cold Fury Series Alex

  Garrett

  Zack

  Ryker

  Stand-Alone Titles If I Return Uncivilized

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright (c) 2015 Sawyer Bennett All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503947900

  ISBN-10: 1503947904

  To all my legal peeps. I miss you every day!

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Five Years Ago

  I can't control the way my legs are shaking, so I sit back in my chair and cross one leg over the other, hoping the weight and position will still the trembling.

  You've got the job, Leary. Nothing to be nervous about.

  Glancing out the lobby window to my left, the sun is breaking high over the downtown Raleigh cityscape with clear blue skies and fluffy white clouds. It's a bright, cheerful scene and yet I'm filled with oily dread.

  Today is my first day of work with the law firm of Knight & Payne, and I don't know why in the hell I thought that I'd be cut out for a job like this. I'm waiting in their massive lobby on the twenty-seventh floor of the Watts Building. The firm is so big it actually has two lobbies: one on this floor for the civil litigation department, and another on the twenty-eighth floor for the criminal department. Exposed black-iron beams above and rough-hewn wooden floors below lend the decor an intimidating air. The raw nature of the industrial design is tempered with sleek leather furnishings in shades of cream and taupe, which screams money and power--two words that would never be used to describe Leary Michaels.

  As one of only two incoming associate attorneys for the year, I'm still convinced they made a mistake in offering me so highly prized and coveted a position. I didn't think my interview six months ago was anything special, and while I graduated in the top ten percent of my law class at Stanford, firms like Knight & Payne usually only accept the top one percent.

  Still . . . I wanted this position badly. It was something I'd set my sights on early.

  Even though I went to law school on the West Coast, I always knew I'd come home to North Carolina to practice. More important, I wanted to be the type of lawyer who made a difference in an ordinary person's life, and in my mind, the best place to accomplish that was with Knight & Payne.

  The law firm is massive, employing sixty-three lawyers, twenty-nine paralegals, thirty-six secretaries, and two receptionists, one for each floor. It's an institution in North Carolina, sought after by every top-ranked law school graduate, because the pay is legendary, the benefits are beyond belief, and the work environment is cutting-edge. But that's not why I wanted to come here.

  I wanted to be a Knight & Payne attorney because the firm's entire practice was built upon helping individuals. You won't find any corporate lawyers here representing banks insistent on foreclosing on poor, unfortunate fools. You won't find a single insurance company represented in these halls. Big business is the devil within this institution.

  No, the founding attorney, Midge Payne, has it clearly written on her website for all to see that she represents only the downtrodden.

  Come, any poor soul needing help.

  That's her freakin' tagline.

  It's like an open-door policy for every miscreant and shiftless bum to seek help from the best attorneys in the state. We're talking the dregs of society . . . drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, homeless people, deviants, assholes, and various other scum. Some of these people are so vile most people would shun them. Many attorneys would refuse to help them, forgetting the fundamental concept that everyone deserves a fair shot at justice.

  Don't get me wrong--the firm represents ordinary citizens who need legal help, too, but the point is Midge Payne does not discriminate, other than she'll only represent people, not corporations. She isn't afraid to get her hands dirty, and that's what I wanted in my law practice. I want to help those folks who need help lifting themselves out of the filth and grime of unfairness.

  "Miss Michaels," I hear from my left.

  Turning my head, I see Danny Payne walking toward me. He conducted my interview all those months ago, and he still looks as sleazy as ever. Oh, he's dressed impeccably enough, in a custom-tailored suit that perfectly fits his five-foot, six-inch frame. I tower over him by four inches, thanks to having a tad more height and sensible three-inch pumps.

  Danny is dressed to the nines, but he looks like slime oozes out of his pores. It's the way his eyes appraise you . . . like he's trying to figure out how he can best use you or one-up you. It's a calculating look, which makes me shudder slightly, but it in no way turned me off from working here. I was coming for the reputation of the great Midge Payne, not her lackey cousin who manages the firm.

  Danny Payne is a conundrum, and not much is known about him publicly. He graduated from some law school I'd never heard of out in Idaho, and rumor has it he didn't really pass the bar exam. The dirtiest of rumors say that his degree is forged, but I don't buy it for a second. I doubt that Midge would let that occur in her firm. What I do know is that Danny doesn't actually practice law but rather runs the firm for Midge. He handles all the glorious duties of the day-to-day operations: human resources, marketing, growth and development, yada, yada, yada. Sounds boring to me, actually. I went to law school so I could change the world, not sit behind some desk and figure out payroll.

  Standin
g from my chair, I wipe my moist palms on my skirt and hold out my hand. "Mr. Payne, it's a pleasure to see you again."

  He gives me a look that could be a leer, or maybe it's just a conspiratorial gesture of welcome, but he shakes my hand enthusiastically. "Come . . . Midge wants to talk to you."

  My breath hitches in my throat, and my nervousness ramps up tenfold. "Ms. Payne wants to see me?"

  "It's Midge," he says with a smarmy grin. "We're all on a first-name basis here. So it's Danny . . . not Mr. Payne."

  "Um . . . okay. So, Midge wants to see me?"

  This is unheard of. No one--and I mean no one--gets to see Midge Payne. She's like the great and powerful Oz, hidden in a bejeweled tower, protected by the fiercest of dragons. It's rumored that she comes in to work at 4:00 a.m. and doesn't leave until after 9:00 p.m. She supposedly has a private elevator that takes her to the parking garage, and you get admittance to her office only by papal decree or something.

  If Danny Payne is a conundrum, Midge Payne is an absolute enigma, perhaps slightly less mysterious and elusive than Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. While she was a powerhouse in the courtroom in her day, she hasn't seen the inside of a courthouse in more than two decades, preferring to work behind the scenes. She still handles cases and does consultations with other law firms, but she does it all from behind her desk and is considered a virtual recluse. There isn't even a picture of her on the firm's website, although I have seen an old photograph. When I was researching this firm before sending my resume, I went to the library and looked at old newspaper articles. Midge was a pioneering civil rights attorney in the late seventies, early eighties, championing women's and gay rights in rural, southern North Carolina, where said groups were considered third-class citizens. In one photo she was walking out of the court of appeals building after having argued a discrimination case. She was beautiful, with her shoulder-length pale-blonde hair, her face regal and determined. Looking at her, I saw greatness.

  She's what I aspire to be, and I hope I don't let her down.

  Danny turns to walk through monstrous double doors. I know from my prior interview that this hallway leads from the lobby into the main work area of the twenty-seventh floor. "Yes. She's looking forward to meeting you . . . to talk to you about your role in our firm."

  My head is spinning. I'm getting ready to meet Midge Payne, my legal hero, and suddenly I feel like ten times the fool for even applying to a firm like this. The cheap black suit I bought at Walmart--because that's all I can afford with the law school debt I accumulated--is made of polyester and swishes against my taupe nylon stockings, which suddenly look too dark against my pale skin.

  She's going to see me for the fraud that I am.

  Danny leads me through the Pit, an open work area that takes up the entire interior of the twenty-seventh floor, so called because that's where a lot of the "dark and dirty work" takes place. Most of the attorneys and staff work here, with no walls or offices to separate them. Client meetings are held in conference rooms bordering the exterior of the work area along with the partner offices. All of the exterior rooms are walled with glass, so every office is open to the eye, which makes the work area seem immense. There's no privacy to the outward gaze, however, I happen to know the exterior offices and conference room have double-paned glass, and if you want a measure of concealment, you simply push a button on your desk and a thick, dark-gray smoke filters in between the dual panes, coating the glass walls and giving the people within absolute confidentiality. When you're done, you simply push the button again, and a vacuum sucks the smoke out, leaving clear glass once again.

  I want one of those offices one day.

  As we walk across the Pit, I get several smiles and nods from my new colleagues. Everyone is dressed differently. Some wear high-

  powered suits, while others wear jeans and T-shirts. It's one of the perks of working here--absolute autonomy in how you dress . . . how you look. I don't bat an eye at one woman with pale white hair streaked with blue and her face covered in piercings, who sits at her desk smacking on bubble gum. She's wearing a low-cut, shredded T-shirt and black leather pants with knee-high boots. She's talking to a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, who I assume is an attorney, but you never know. Hell, for all I know, she's the attorney and he's the secretary, which is what makes this firm so unique. Maybe my cheap suit won't be so out of place, since we're allowed to wear whatever we want unless we're going to court or meeting with a client who might have tender sensibilities. Regardless, Danny leaves it up to everyone's smarts and discretion, and he told me during my interview he's had to reprimand someone only once for what they chose to wear. It was apparently a guy who showed up to work one morning after a hard night of partying and still had vomit on his Motley Crue T-shirt. Danny told me it wasn't the Motley Crue T-shirt he had a problem with.

  Only the vomit.

  We reach the southwest portion of the Pit, and Danny takes me to the corner office. With its dark-paneled mahogany walls and thick wooden door, this is the only office that varies from the open transparency of the Pit.

  Midge Payne's office.

  A middle-aged woman sits out front at a small desk with a tiny laptop on it. She has a wireless earpiece and is flawlessly attractive and elegantly dressed.

  "She's expecting you," the woman says to Danny and gives me a warm smile. "Welcome, Leary."

  "Thank you," I tell her with a backward glance, because Danny is leading me into the inner sanctum of Midge's kingdom. He steps inside her door, ushers me past him, then turns to leave. When the door shuts behind me, I turn to face my hero.

  Words can't describe my first look at Midge, and I only hope she can't hear the frantic beating of my heart. I'm shocked to see she doesn't look that much different from that old picture I'd seen circa 1985, twenty-five years ago. The woman has to be in her early sixties, yet could easily pass for early forties. She has the same pale-blonde hair that is now styled in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, and her skin is creamy, nearly flawless except for tiny lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Blue eyes stare at me in cool appraisal as she sits behind her desk, elbows resting on the arms of her chair and her hands steepled in front of her chin.

  "Sit down, Leary," she says, her voice oddly warm in contrast to the aloofness of her body language, because she doesn't rise to greet me or offer me a hand to shake.

  When I take one of the chairs opposite her desk, I look up at her with a nervous smile.

  "Welcome," she says softly. "I've been looking forward to meeting you ever since your impressive interview."

  Impressive interview? She wasn't even there.

  "Thank you," I say, lamely squeaking out my words.

  She chuckles and puts her hands down on the armrests, leaning back farther in her chair and kicking her feet up on her desk. She's casually dressed in a low-cut, purple cotton T-shirt and dark denim jeans. Her feet are encased in olive-green patent-leather pumps with a square toe that have to be at least five inches tall and make my feet hurt looking at them.

  I take a quick peek around her office, surprised by how barren it is. No degrees on the walls, no photographs on her desk. Her bookshelves are stacked with law books and periodicals. Her desk is crammed with documents, manila files, and three-ring binders. She has three computer screens sitting on one corner of her desk and a large-screen TV mounted to the wall that is tuned to CNN with the volume muted. Soft tones of music play in the background, and when I listen closely, I'm surprised to hear Missy Elliott's "Pass That Dutch."

  This woman is strange and utterly fascinating.

  "I watched your interview on video," she says with amusement. "Overall, you weren't anything special . . . not compared to the other applicants."

  My jaw drops and my face flushes red. What could I possibly say to that? She doesn't expect me to respond, so she continues. "However, you answered one question better than any of the other twenty-three applicants, and for that reason you got the job."

&nbs
p; I wait for her to tell me what amazing piece of wisdom popped out of my mouth, but she doesn't enlighten me, and unfortunately, I'm so nervous I don't have the guts to question her.

  "I expect great things from you," Midge says firmly.

  Swallowing hard, I say, "I'll work very hard, Ms. Payne."

  Her eyebrows furrow inward, and I can see she's displeased. "I'm sure Danny told you we go by first names here."

  I nod. "I'm sorry. Just nervous."

  Her gaze warms up a bit, and she swings her legs off the desk, surging out of her chair. She's tall . . . really tall, maybe five ten, five eleven, in those heels. Her presence is magnetic, and my eyes are pinned to her.

  "I understand," she says as she walks around her desk to sit in the chair beside me. She stares at me thoughtfully, and I'm entranced. She reaches toward me, and I'm powerless to even flinch away from her.

  Deft fingers go to the back of my head, where she pulls at the one pin holding up the severe bun in which I'd wrapped my long hair. When her hand clears, my hair falls down to the middle of my back in a cascade of chocolate. She takes one of my locks and rubs it between her fingers, staring at it thoughtfully. "You need to change, though."

  I jerk minutely and she drops my hair, bringing her gaze to my confused eyes. "I don't understand."

  "You will," she says confidently. "I have great plans for you. Your interview intrigued me, and I know you will be one of my top stars. But this meek trailer-trash image you're carting around has got to go."

  Her words hypnotize me so much I'm not offended by her statement. Besides, it's true. I was raised in a trailer park, and my clothes are cheap, as are my perfume and discount-store makeup.

  "You're a brilliant woman. Your law school grades and interview prove that. But you have other qualities that you need to play up."

  "Other qualities?" I ask, dumbfounded. Because, past my intellect and work ethic, what more could she want?

  Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on her knees and clasps her hands together. I couldn't look away if I wanted to.

  "I'm talking about using all of your skills. You are a woman in a man's profession. You're on the bottom of the ladder, and it will be ten times harder for you to climb just one rung while a man skips up ten. Now . . . you're smart, but no smarter than any other man I've employed here. So you need more. You need to work your other talents."