Chapter 6 Seneca
Chapter six
Seneca
The sign on her frosted glass door read “J. Smart, Attorney-at-Law,” but the A and T had peeled off, leaving her with nothing but a half-baked “orney” to sell to the desperate and damned.
I didn’t bother knocking. I just walked in, let the door slam behind me, and waited for her to look up from her desk.
She didn’t, at least not at first. She just shuffled a stack of manila folders, double-tapped her pen against the legal pad, and then reached for her coffee.
I counted three full seconds before she said anything.
“You’re early,” she said, voice crisp but a half-octave tighter than usual. “I was expecting you tomorrow.”
“Paid the fine,” I said, dropping the receipt on the desk. “Thought I’d skip the parade and come straight to the source.”
She scanned the paper, eyes flicking too fast, then set it aside like it was nothing. “Good. That’ll make things easier.”
I took the seat across from her, making it creak like a warning shot. “Saw you at the courthouse,” I said.
She didn’t answer, just turned to her monitor and clicked the mouse a few times.
The screen reflected in the gloss of her lipstick.
She had a tell—she always did this thing with her jaw when she was nervous, just the smallest grind of her molars, like she was chewing over the next move.
I’d seen it in court enough times to know when she was prepping for a hostile witness.
“Did you stop by Bellini’s office?” I asked, soft.
Jenna froze, just a flicker, hands going rigid around the ceramic mug. “She’s presiding on your case,” she said. “I had to drop off a motion. You know how this works.”
“Do I?” I said, letting it hang.
She sighed, a sound so thin it barely registered. “Seneca. Can we not—”
“No, let’s,” I said. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes on hers. “Let’s pretend for a second that I don’t know how this works. Let’s pretend I’m just another dumb musclehead who can’t read the room.”
She closed her eyes, just a second, then set the coffee down with a click. “You’re pissed because I went over your head. Fine. But that’s the job, Wallace. I fight for you, I negotiate, I keep you out of a cell. You want to bitch about my methods, do it when you’re not one week from another stint.”
I laughed, dry and mean. “That’s not what I’m bitching about.”
Jenna turned her chair, arms crossed. The sunlight caught in her hair, glinting off a thousand micro-splits, and for the first time, she looked older than she was, tired in a way that didn’t scrub off. “Then what, exactly, is the issue?”
I let the words build, slow and careful. “I saw you come out of her office. I saw the way you looked back at the door, like you left something behind.”
She tried to meet my stare, but her eyes slipped sideways. “You’re being paranoid.”
I stood, closed the gap between us, and planted both hands on her desk. The surface trembled, and a stack of files slumped sideways. “You’re fucking the judge who’s handling my case.”
The silence in the room went absolute. For a second, I could hear the payday loan clerk downstairs, yelling at a customer about overdraft fees.
Jenna’s face snapped back to mine, anger bleeding in behind the shock. “That’s completely inappropriate and untrue,” she said, voice shaking. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You kissed her,” I said, quiet. “Out front, in the open. Morning after you spent the night together.”
The color dropped from her face. She reached for her coffee again but knocked it into the files. Hot black streaked across yellow paper, and she swore under her breath. She snatched up a tissue, tried to dab the mess, and finally just balled the whole thing in her fist.
“Look at me,” I said.
She did. The mask was gone now, just raw panic and a little bit of fear. “What do you want?” she said. Not defiant, not even pleading—just tired, like she’d already lost and was hoping for a quick execution.
I didn’t have an answer. I’d come here to rage, to threaten, maybe to flip the table and storm out.
But seeing her like this, with hands stained and mouth half-open, I felt something catch in my chest. Not pity—never that—but a kind of recognition.
The same animal instinct that told you when another dog was cornered.
I sat again, softer this time, and let the moment stretch. “How long?”
She stared at the ruined paperwork. “A while. Off and on. It’s complicated.”
I almost laughed. “It always is.”
She pulled her hair back, twisted it into a knot, and stabbed it in place with a pencil. “We were never supposed to cross wires here, Wallace. I wanted to keep it clean. You have to believe that.”
“Do I?”
She met my eyes, and this time she didn’t look away. “Yes. Because if you’re not safe with me, you’re not safe at all.”
I watched her, waiting for the bluff. But there was none. Just two people, equally fucked, equally out of moves.
“So what now?” I said.
Jenna leaned forward, voice down to a hush. “Now, you keep your mouth shut, finish your thirty days, and let me work. You don’t make this messier than it already is. Can you do that?”
I thought about it. About Bellini, about the last time I’d trusted anyone in a suit, about the way Jenna’s hand trembled just above the desk, like she was itching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can do that.”
She exhaled, relief and misery tangled together. “Good. Then go. I have a hearing in twenty minutes, and you’re making the place smell like a biker bar.”
I smiled, just a flicker. “You always did like it rough.”
She looked away, but I saw the smile start before she killed it.
I left her there, surrounded by chaos, coffee bleeding into the carpet, hands shaking as she rebuilt her mask.
Outside, the sun had dropped lower, turning the windows of the payday loan into molten gold.
I lit a cigarette, inhaled deep, and watched the smoke curl up past the office sign, stripping off letters one by one until nothing was left.
I didn’t make it ten yards from the office before I realized I was still shaking. Not from adrenaline, not even from the confrontation—something colder, deeper, like a buzz saw under the skin. I stubbed the cigarette, spun on my heel, and went back up the stairs.
Jenna didn’t look up when I opened the door.
She was on her knees, soaking up spilled coffee with a wad of napkins, muttering curses at the stains that wouldn’t lift.
The blinds were closed now, but orange daylight burned around the edges, throwing the room into a weird dusk.
She looked small, not in a helpless way, but like she’d shrunk everything down to the one problem she could actually fix.
“You should go,” she said, not looking up.
“Not done,” I said.
She stood, hands slick with coffee and a cheap paper towel, and turned to face me. “What more do you want, Wallace? I gave you the truth.”
I stepped closer, let the air get electric. “You gave me enough to keep me off your back. Not the whole story.”
Jenna slammed the trash into the bin, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “It’s none of your fucking business who I sleep with. My personal life doesn’t bleed into my work.”
I smiled, slow and mean. “It already bled. Just took you a while to notice.”
She bristled, chin up. “You think you’re the only one getting fucked here? The DA’s got half the city watching that courthouse. If I screw up, they’ll crucify me. If Bellini screws up, they’ll hang her in the plaza. You think you’re the only target in town? Grow the fuck up.”
I moved to her desk, planted my palms on the edge, and leaned in. “You’re supposed to be fighting for me. Not sleeping with the enemy.”
She lashed out, slapped the desktop so hard the glass water pitcher jumped. “You think this is about you? It’s about survival. You have no idea what it costs just to keep you breathing.”
We were close now, almost touching, her jaw set and her eyes bright with something that looked a lot like tears. The kind of anger that lived in the marrow, not the surface. Her voice dropped so low it was almost a whisper. “You don’t understand anything.”
I wanted to break her. I wanted her to hurt, just enough to know she wasn’t the only one bleeding. I reached for her wrist, catching it just as she tried to step back. She twisted, but I held tight.
“I understand plenty,” I said, voice flat.
She yanked against me, but I didn’t let go.
Instead, I pulled her in, fast and hard, and our mouths collided.
There was no prelude, no softening, just the brutal honesty of teeth and tongue and pent-up disaster.
She bit my lip, and I tasted iron. I shoved her back against the desk, sent a stack of court briefs skittering to the floor, and pressed her down until her ass hit the edge and the heel of her hand braced against my chest.
She gripped my shirt, fisted it up to my collar, and tried to pull me off her. I pushed back, harder, until her head tipped and her breath went shaky against my neck. We fought like that, a wrestling match disguised as foreplay, both of us trying to prove a point and neither giving an inch.
“You’re a fucking animal,” she hissed, voice gone hoarse.
“Yeah,” I growled, pinning her wrist to the desk. “You like that about me.”
She tried to laugh, but it broke into a gasp as I hooked my free hand under her skirt and yanked it up. She wore nothing underneath—always the pragmatist. I slid my fingers between her legs, found her already slick, and let that be the answer to whatever accusation she wanted to throw next.
She slapped at my hand, but it was a play, not a real defense.
I shoved her higher up the desk, scattering law books and a stapler that hit the floor with a metallic scream.
She wrapped one leg around my waist, digging her heel into my side.
Her other foot kicked at the air, dislodging another avalanche of paperwork.
I unzipped, let the jeans drop just enough, and pressed the blunt of my cock against her. She was hot, wetter than she should have been, and when I slid in, she moaned so low it barely cleared her lips.
“Harder,” she whispered, clawing at my back through the fabric.
I obliged. I fucked her like an argument, each thrust a syllable, a punctuation mark, a refusal to yield.
The desk rocked under us, groaning against the wall.
At some point, she bit my shoulder, and I bit her back, leaving matching bruises in places we could both see later.
Her hair came loose, spilled in a dark fan over the contracts and summonses.
I reached up, caught her face in my hand, and forced her to look at me as I drove into her.
She bared her teeth, eyes wild, and for a second, it felt like we were about to tear each other apart.
I felt her tense, the whole length of her body straining against mine, and then she came, hard, her cunt pulsing around me in rapid, panicked contractions.
I slowed, not out of mercy but because I wanted to watch her break. She clenched her jaw, eyes wet, and rode out the shudders until her limbs went slack. I let go of her face, but not her wrist.
She tried to say something, but I cut her off with another kiss, this one slow and deep. When she tried to push me off, I held her down, grinding slow circles until I came too, the release bright and absolute and just this side of pain.
We stayed like that for a long moment, bodies tangled and breath heaving. The only sound was the distant drone of traffic and the whisper of her pulse against my fingers.
I pulled out, wiped the sweat from my brow, and zipped up. She sat on the desk, skirt bunched around her waist, legs shaking, hair wild. I watched her fix herself, methodical and angry, like she was daring me to say a word about it.
“Happy?” she spat, voice raw.
“No,” I said. “But it’s a start.”
She laughed, a single, bitter bark. “You’re an asshole.”
I shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”
She tugged her skirt down. She didn’t bother with the mess on the desk, just sat there, breathing hard, eyes locked on the wall.
I picked up my cut from the chair, slid it on, and watched her watch me.
“Don’t ever lie to me again,” I said.
She gave a small, sharp nod. “Don’t give me a reason to.”
I nodded back, the understanding silent but absolute.
When I left the office this time, I didn’t look back.
The hallway was dead quiet, except for the hum of the elevator and the distant clack of an office drone two floors below.
I took the stairs, letting the heat off the walls seep into my bones, then killed the rest of my cigarette out front.
The street was almost empty. I watched a cop car cruise by slow, then vanish into the blur of downtown like it was running from something instead of chasing it.
I didn’t want to go home, not yet. Home was four walls and a mattress and the echo of everything I tried not to remember.
Instead, I drifted. I walked until the city gave way to scrub brush, until the grid of streets frayed into coyote tracks and rusted fences.
I found a half-collapsed picnic shelter at the edge of a dry canal and sat there, elbows on knees, just watching the dust.
The fight in the office felt raw in my mouth, the taste of Jenna still stuck to my teeth.
It wasn’t even about sex, not really. It was about something uglier—the need to win, to reclaim something that had been stolen, to eradicate the infection before it turned gangrenous.
But all it left was more hollow. The things you broke to survive had a way of never going back together.
I sat there until the sun started to knife sideways through the clouds, until the shadows were blue and the traffic picked up again.
The thought of going back to the clubhouse didn’t appeal; I wasn’t in the mood for posturing or beer or the kind of loyalty that came with strings.
I got up, stretched, and decided on my next move.