Mister Wrong: An Alphalicious Romance

Another day, another beautiful woman.
It was my job. I enjoyed it. And I was darn good at it.
I made my clients happy, then got the hell out.
That’s how it worked.
Until I wanted more.
I needed more.
And I always got what I wanted.

DOVE

I wanted to kill her. Except that she was a client. And I didn’t want to go to prison.
Little fool.
Who, at eighteen years old, wasn’t all that little. But she sure as hell was a fool, snapping her gum and rolling her eyes—right in my face. The ponytail positioned on top of her head and the gobs of black eyeliner trying to achieve the trendy ‘wings’ look didn’t help, either.
Yup, just another day at the office.
I was staring down—or maybe I was being stared down—by none other than the country’s (or was it the world’s?) most massive teen queen pop star. Five-foot-one and ninety-ish pounds of spray-on tan, bleached pink/blonde hair, fake blue contact lenses, and a shit ton of bad attitude. 
And I was rapidly on my way from being annoyed at her media whoring to flat-out hating her, if I were to be really honest about it. Too bad I hated her music, not that she’d ever give me a concert ticket or free MP3, anyway. 
But she was my client, I was her lawyer, and I had to eat all the shit she threw my way. She paid my law firm more money in a year than some people made in a lifetime.
“Shaley, you know these accusations are serious, right?” I asked, trying to catch her attention.
But she just looked out the windows of the twenty-fourth floor of the tallest building in Los Angeles, home to the boutique entertainment law firm, Roman, Bishop, Kramer. Also known as RBK, my place of employment, where I was a junior attorney on the fast track to great things. 
At least that’s what they dangled in front of me on a regular basis to get me to work harder, as if that were even possible. As it was, I worked from seven in the morning to ten at night six days a week. On the nights I was slacking, I’d leave work at, god forbid, nine. I knew by heart the menu of every take-out restaurant in a mile radius of both my office and my home. I cooked so seldom, there was dust on my stove, and I wasn’t sure whether the oven actually worked. I’d never opened it.
I forced a deep breath, usually a good move when I was about to lose it, when I realized I was gripping my pen so hard my fingers were turning white. For a brief moment, I fantasized about stabbing someone with it.
“Shaley? Shaley, are you okay?” I asked in my fake-patient voice. I’d learned a few tone-of-voice tricks, and many other difficult client techniques, from my mentor at the firm, Herschel Perkins. They’d served him well for thirty years and had made him millions, so who was I to buck the tried and true?
But on that particular day, Hershel’s golden trade secrets weren’t working all that well. So I turned to Shaley’s watchdog dad, who accompanied her everywhere.
“Mr. Landers? Shaley seems kind of preoccupied…”
Or, just fucking rude, not that I could say that. People like me, who are on track for great things, as the firm was so fond of saying, kept thoughts like that to ourselves. Where they could rot our insides.
Shaley’s dad leaned across our expensive conference room table, into which his pop star daughter was carving her initials with a pen she’d swiped from reception. Was furniture damage billable? I made a note to ask the office manager.
He turned from his daughter to me. “Miss Delaney—hey, can I call you Dove?” he asked.
No, I’d prefer if you treated me like a professional who went to law school and not your waitress at TGI Fridays…but my hands were tied. “Yes, of course.”
Shaley’s dad, Mr. Landers, wore on his fingers big gold rings that he liked to twirl, and a thick gold chain around his neck. He was a sweaty, overweight man, whom someone must have recently brought to a spa as evidenced by his perfectly waxed and trimmed eyebrows. Their shape was so unnatural, I could hardly look away.
He leaned onto the conference table, hands folded, which made the finger fat around his rings bulge. “Dove, my little Shaley here is under an enormous amount of pressure. She’s just back from tour, has a month to record a new album, and then has to hit the road again right away. That’s a lot for a eighteen-year-old.” He sat back, smiling and satisfied with his mansplaining, as if I didn’t know pretty much what she did every hour of every day.
For heaven’s sake, RBK was the entertainment law firm that represented every single thing she did. 
Her endorsement deal with Puma? I negotiated it.
Her TV ad for Pepsi? Did that one, too.
Hell, the executive producers of SNL and I were on a daily call basis for a while when she was trying to get the same date as the latest James Bond actor as guest host.
I practically knew when the kid went to the bathroom. Not that I wanted to—it was just part of my job, all the while hating her sticky-sweet, off-pitch, nonsensical music. That she wrote, herself. Words and music.
Supposedly.
And that’s how we got to the meeting we were having that day.
I took a deep breath and forced a smile, which I knew would make my tone of voice go where it needed to. Another Herschel trick. 
“I know, Mr. Landers.” I nodded in solidarity with his obvious awe of his child, whose success clearly paid for all his gold jewelry and spa eyebrows. “I don’t know how she does it. And I don’t know how you manage it all. You people are just amazing.”
Whew, that was some deep BS. Seriously award-winning BS.
But now they were listening. Both of them.
So I jumped all over their attention. “Given all your hard work and commitments, that makes it even worse that you’re being sued for copyright infringement by The Freaks. I mean, we all know there’s bad blood between you, Shaley, and their lead singer. But c’mon, how can those people go after your livelihood?” 
Said bad blood was related to a leaked sex video the lead singer had released when Shaley dumped his ass. It was all over People magazine, and the injunctions had taken our firm weeks to file and a lot of legal wrangling on my part. But in the end, RBK had earned a million dollars. 
And me? Well, I got sick from lack of sleep.
And now The Freaks were hitting back. If this was a boxing match, we were heading into the middle rounds of what could prove to be a bloody shitshow of a slug fest.
Shaley had stopped carving on our ten-thousand-dollar conference table and was finally looking at me. She even nodded slightly. 
“So, to protect you—” I looked at her and then her father, who pretty much viewed his only child as a walking, talking cash machine “—I need to know everything that happened. I’m going to hire a third-party expert to assess how close your riff is to The Freaks’. And if it really is that close, then we’ll explain how you came up with the music, and how it’s pure coincidence that your riffs are similar.”
She finally spoke. “I hate those fuckers, and I want you to take them down,” she growled. She looked to her dad for support, who nodded like a bobble head instead of suggesting his teenage daughter not use the word fuck. 
Deep breath. Smile. Channel Herschel. He never lost his shit.
“Let’s take care of this first, okay, before we take them down.” I couldn't believe I even repeated those words. I was embarrassed for myself. 
“Now Shaley, just for my own notes, how did you come up with the riff? In case we end up in court, you’ll have to explain where it came from to prove you didn’t copy it.”
Her face went blank. As I suspected it might.
She fucking copied their song. I knew it.
But I was not the judge here. No, I was just the unfortunate attorney helping a dishonest and spoiled eighteen-year-old cover her ass when the thing she needed most was actually getting it kicked. You could do that if you had enough money. 
And fame. Fame helped, too.
Her gaze returned to the window, just like it always did when she wanted to be a little shit. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Her dad leaned toward her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Shaley, honey? Dove is right. We really need to know how you came up with the riff. You know, to prove you thought it up yourself.”
She turned to face us both, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. “I dreamt it,” she said defiantly, looking from one of us to the other to see if we were buying her bullshit.
I know I wasn’t.
Dad, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to proclaim her answer divine intervention. Emboldened, she doubled down. “Yeah. It came to me in a dream. Like all my songs do.”
In spite of the fact that my bullshit meter was buzzing off the charts, I smiled brilliantly at her award-winning lie.
And how did I know she was lying? I’m not sure I could put it into words. It was just a spidey sense lawyers got after dealing with dozens of clients, about half of whom lied their asses off on a regular basis.
And I got to represent these lovely people. 
I scribbled in my notebook and slammed it shut. “Okay. Great meeting,” I said, to pull things to a close. Shaley looked thrilled. Shit, if I were an eighteen-year-old, I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a law office, either.
But her dad had other plans.
He stood, leaning against the window that gave us a clear shot of the Hollywood Hills when the L.A. smog wasn’t too thick. His round gut hung unappealingly over his blue jeans’ waistband, where he wore a giant belt buckle with his daughter’s face on it.
Eww. Serious eww.
“Yes, Mr. Landers?” I stood, too, hoping they’d follow me toward the door.
He walked around the table and draped around me as if we were buds. “I was thinking, Dove, that we might get together sometime. You could come down to the marina and we could taste some bubbly on my boat. Maybe take it out for a little spin?” He beamed like he was making me the offer of a lifetime.
“Um…well, Mr. Landers—”
“Wait right there!” he said, reaching into his pocket. “First off, call me Sly, and second, here’s my business card.” 
I took it graciously because, of course. “Thanks, um, Sly. But I’m working super-long hours now, and have very little time for socializing—”
“Stop,” he bellowed, holding his hands up. “My email’s on there. I’ll expect to hear from you.” He reached for Shaley’s hand.
This kid performed her own music (supposedly) in the world’s largest concert halls, earned obscene amounts of money, made sex tapes with her male teenybopper counterpart, and yet—still held her daddy’s hand.
God save me.
I looked at the card her dad had thrust into my hand. His email was readyfreddy@gmail.com. No shit.
I knew that email address. I hustled back to my office after escorting them out and woke up my PC to log into Match.com, where I’d had the world’s shortest experiment with online dating. I scrolled through my not-yet-closed account, and navigated to the folder labeled ‘dick pics.’
And there was readyfreddy@gmail.com, in my dick pic folder. Yup, Shaley Landers’ dad sent dick pics to women on online dating sites. I clicked open on the attachment and was greeted by a two-inch non-erect penis with a hand nearly strangling it to make it look a little bigger, surrounded by a gigantic bush of never-been-trimmed pubic hair.
That’s when I closed my Match account for good. 
Most important thing I’d do all day.
* * *
“Heya, kiddo.” 
Herschel, sticking his head in my office, loved to call me kiddo. I smiled back, wishing I could think of some kind way to ask him to stop doing that without coming across as a jerk. But I couldn’t. He called everyone who wasn’t a named partner in the firm kiddo. 
And he didn’t mind that I called him by an abbreviated version of his first name back. So there was that.
“Hey, Hersch. Come on in,” I said, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk, as if he needed an invite into my office. The man was the firm’s managing partner. He could sit wherever he damn well pleased.
“How’d it go with our little pop star?” he asked, grinning.
I sighed. “Fine, I guess. I mean, I am sure she copied the other band’s riff. I just know it. So I’m going to be busting my hump trying to do every trick, spin, backflip, and maneuver I can think of to keep us from losing this. The worst of it is, I don’t think Shaley—or her father—have any remorse whatsoever about the whole thing, so the idea of getting them to just settle it? Not gonna happen. And the likelihood of it happening again? Very high.”
Herschel shook his head. “Well, just wait until someone copies her music. They’ll be up in arms so fast it won’t even be funny. I’ve seen it a dozen times. People ‘borrow’ from others, and it’s all fine and good until it happens to them. Just hang in there, and remember how valuable a client they are to the firm.” 
And there it was. The bottom line. 
Standing in the doorway, he paused. “I meant to ask you. Heard anything about your twin sister?”
Right. My client meeting had taken Delilah, my twin, off my mind for a few blessed moments. But now that she was back to being front and center in my thoughts, the acid in my stomach churned. 
I rubbed my neck, where muscles were beginning to knot, and shook my head. “No. I think she got kicked out of the rehab halfway house she was staying in.”
“I’ll keep her in my thoughts.” 
Damn him. He was so kind and compassionate, a lump began to grow in my throat. 
What I didn’t tell him was that I was pretty sure she was sleeping on the streets again, and that just last week, on the night of my thirtieth birthday—no, make that on the night of our thirtieth birthdays—I’d left work and spent hours driving around the streets, looking for her. I’d only called it quits when the sun started coming up and I had to get home to get ready for work.
My cell phone buzzed with a text, dragging me out of my reverie.
drinks? tonight?
Cosima. My BFF since kindergarten, and the one person who could shine a light on any shitty day.
yeah. I’ll cut out early.
you better!
* * *
In the end, I shouldn’t have cut out early. God knew I had a ton of work to do, not least of which was a refresher on any past entertainment cases where folks had ‘borrowed’ others’ work. But I was desperate for a break. Besides, that’s what paralegals were for, and the firm had some good ones. So, when I hoped no one was looking, I got up from my desk as if I were heading to the ladies’ room, and ran for the elevator. I wasn’t sure why I felt so compelled to sneak. I mean, I’d be coming back to the office to do more work afterward, anyway.
I dashed into our favorite ‘quick drink’ bar and spotted my beautiful friend as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. 
“Dove!” Cosima said, leaving a big red lipstick mark on my cheek. “You look awesome, rocking that girlie look.” She flipped her expensively highlighted blonde hair back over her shoulder. In her slim pencil skirt and sky-high pumps, she was the epitome of professional-girl chic, so a compliment from her was worth its weight in gold.
I looked down ay my full skirt, smoothing it out. My style was entirely different, but I hoped just as cool. “Oh my god, so good to see you,” I said, as we settled onto barstools at the joint a few blocks from my office. There were closer bars, but I couldn’t risk running into someone from work.
I ordered a glass of zinfandel, and Cosima ordered some floofy drink I couldn’t even pronounce. Because she was the hip and arty one, she always knew the latest cool cocktails. Actually, she knew the latest cool everything. It’d been this way since we were kids, and she was helping me with my clothes while I helped her memorize the presidents for history class.
“Do you really have to go back to work after this?” she asked, taking a sip of her bright green concoction.
I nodded. “Yeah. I do. Got some stuff to review.”
“Oh my god, that law firm treats you like a damn slave. I hope they’re paying you a fuckload of money.” She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the bar to make her point. I looked down at my own sad and neglected nails that hadn’t been properly groomed in a year. Or longer. 
“Well, the idea is that the fuckload of money, as you call it, will come my way in time. Supposedly.” I felt an immediate buzz from the wine and realized I’d not eaten since the morning. After all, when you work fourteen to sixteen hours a day behind a desk, the only way to keep any sort of figure was to not eat much. If at all.
“Oh shit, don’t look now…” she said.
Which means, as everyone knows, that you should look.
Cripes. I shouldn’t have looked. It was Rick. Also known as Rick the Dick. With our hoochie-mama receptionist.
Yeah, I’d made the dumb-ass rookie associate mistake of sleeping with someone at the office who, after our second booty call, started avoiding me in the office. Come to find out, he was through with me and on to the receptionist. The receptionist.
“Ugh. Look at her. She must suck cock like a Hoover. And those tits. How does she not tip over?” Cosima said, turning up her nose, her lips green from her drink. And somehow she still looked amazing.
I could always count on her to take my side.
“You know what you need to do, honey?” she said, setting down her now- empty glass. “Go get yourself one of those killer massages. You know, at the Avalon.”
Now that was an idea. A very smart move. A person could only take so much incoming bullshit at once, and I deserved a little break. Or a big one as the case might be. And Avalon was just the ticket.