I shake my head. “I wasn’t exactly boyfriend material in high school. And the girls I hung around with weren’t interested in that kind of thing.”

“That’s kind of cute, Jake,” she teases. “It’s almost like you’re a virgin.”

I frown. “Except, not at all.”

“I’ve got a date on Friday,” Brent tells us. “With Lucy Patterson from Emblem and Glock.”

Emblem & Glock is another DC firm with whom we regularly compete for clients.

“Sleeping with the enemy, huh?” Stanton asks him.

Brent shrugs. “She’s smart, gorgeous, and doesn’t think I’m a prick when I complain about a newbie prosecutor who refuses to make a deal. Plus, the professional competition thing is kind of hot.” He looks my way. “I could see if she has a friend. We could double.”

I do the calculations in my head. “That means the earliest I’ll be getting any is Sunday. And that’s only if I blow my whole weekend on a woman I haven’t even laid eyes on yet.”

That doesn’t work for me.

“You have an alternative?” Brent asks.

As a matter of fact, I do.

• • •

Some guys have a problem hooking up with a woman they work with. They’re afraid it could turn awkward. Complicated. But not me. And especially not in this case. I figure already knowing each other’s names, having seen each other come and go for the last seven years, shaves at least one date from the three-date rule. Gotta love the efficiency.

Camille Longhorn works in the billing department of my firm. Single, five ten, about a hundred and twenty pounds, long legs, fantastic rack, dirty-blond hair, and a face that resembles a young Elle Macpherson. When I asked her out to dinner four hours ago, I was desperately hoping her hair wasn’t the only thing dirty about her.

But that was then.

Now? Not so much.

Because after listening to her drone on about things I could never care about; after hearing the high-pitched snorting laugh that makes me flinch involuntarily every fucking time she does it; after watching her compulsively twirl her hair and scratch her head, to the point where I feel like I’m crawling with an infestation of angry invisible spiders—I’m just not interested anymore.

At all.

It’s like that fat-suit Gwyneth Paltrow movie a few years back. Now she’s hot . . . now she’s not.

“And then I said, that’s above my pay grade!”

Squeak-snort.

Squeak-snort.

Squeak-snort.

Oh god. Please, stop talking.

I try to block it out. To focus on the important things—like the round fullness of her tits straining against her beige sweater. I imagine how they would feel cupped in my hand, between my lips, under my tongue with her thighs around my waist and—

And there’s spinach in her teeth. Or arugula, maybe.

My dick hangs his head. And yet I somehow manage to keep my face impassively polite as I point at her mouth and say, “You have a . . . something . . .”

“Oh! Thanks.”

She lifts a knife and picks her teeth in the reflection.

I never realized that the downside of getting to know a woman before I screw her is the possibility that I might not want to screw her after I know her. That a personality could have such a devastating effect on desirability. It’s depressing. My whole worldview is blown to bits.

When the check comes Camille starts to take her wallet out of her purse, but I wave her off. I toss a couple fifties on the table and together we stand, put on our coats, and head out onto the sidewalk. We walked here after work, so the good news is, I don’t have to drive her home.

“Thank you for dinner, Jake.” She smiles up at me. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

I open my mouth to tell her no thanks. Honesty has always been my policy. I don’t have the time or will for sugarcoating. But I stop myself—because this is dating. Spin, half-truths, white lies, keeping options open and bases covered are what you do when you’re dating. And maybe she’s having an off day. Maybe the next time I see her she won’t be annoying and I’ll actually want to fuck her brains out. It could happen. And I’d hate to shoot myself in the cock if that is even the slightest possibility.

So I go with the old standby. “I’ll call you.”

Camille reaches up on tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “Good night, Jake.”

“Bye, Camille.”

And I walk back to my empty apartment alone. Reminding myself that it could actually be worse. I could be alone with syphilis.

• • •

The next day goes by in a bit of a blur. I spend it reviewing discovery—mostly medical reports—for an upcoming domestic violence case. Senator William Holten is a career politician with his hands in all kinds of cookie jars. That makes him a formidable enemy—and an even more powerful ally. He’s charged with several counts of aggravated assault against his wife of thirty years. My boss, Jonas Adams, is Holten’s good friend—he asked me personally to take the case. That’s a really big fucking deal. This one case could make my whole career at this firm.

Which is why I took it—even though Holten has flat, emotionless eyes that I find unsettling. Even though reading the files, seeing the photographs and details of his wife’s injuries going back years, makes me uneasy. Makes my stomach twist with the familiarity of it all.

By five o’clock, I could use some air. I walk out onto the sidewalk and down the block, stretching my legs. It’s cooler out today, the sky a dirty gray, with a breeze that blows back the jacket of my navy suit. Still, the cold wind feels good after being inside all day. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, feeling the icy oxygen expand my lungs . . . and then I collide with something waist-high and warm.