36. Federal Crime
36
Federal Crime
Sophie
January slips through my fingers; I barely register it passing, too consumed by work.
If heartbreak is a wound, then ambition is the cauterising iron.
The more I throw myself into my studies, the less I have to think about what’s missing.
And then there’s Max.
The plan doesn’t come to me all at once.
It builds, layer by layer, until one day I step back and realise I’ve got all the pieces I need for the deadly weapon I’m going to fire into his chest.
It starts with the email from Professor Callahan, offering me the chance to deliver a presentation in front of the entire 2L class at the end of term.
A prestigious slot, usually given to students who are particularly distinguishing themselves.
Well, that’s precisely what I’ve done with my Harvard Law Review article, which means the stage is mine if I want it.
Oh, and I want it.
I email Professor Callahan back without hesitation, thanking him for the opportunity he’s given me and assuring him I intend to make the most of it.
Now for my presentation.
My article does much to speak for itself.
The use of NDAs as legal gags in sexual harassment cases: it’s a solid topic, controversial enough to spark debate, meticulously researched, and, sadly, all too pertinent to me and all the other women on my course who are going to be entering workplaces full of wealthy, influential, powerful men.
But theory and old case files aren’t enough.
My article has teeth—time to take a chunk out of someone.
I select my case studies with ruthless meticulousness.
The right combination of precedents, scandal, and impact.
Enough to ensure that when I take my shot, the bullet hits.
Men like this are sloppy.
Their power and sense of invincibility make them complacent.
They make mistakes. They cut corners.
They say things they shouldn’t.
So I get to work. And I work meticulously.
I spend hours polishing my arguments, double-checking my data, honing my rhetoric.
Every counterpoint is anticipated and destroyed before it even has the chance to form.
I practise alone in the apartment, reciting my points to the empty living room.
Elle and Sol come back from a night out one time to find me standing in the kitchen at two in the morning, laptop open, muttering to myself between sips of cold coffee.
“Jesus Christ, Sophie,” Elle groans.
“Honey, you need to go to bed.”
“I will,” I tell her, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes.
“Just one last thing.”
“You said that before we left,” Elle says, kicking off her heels with a yawn.
“ Five hours ago. ”
Sol sighs, taking my mug and replacing it with a glass of water.
“Drink,” she says. “Before you start speaking in tongues and fucking levitating.”
To appease Solana and Elle, and partly as an apology for messing up my date with Andrew, and also maybe because I’ve been working non-stop since I got back from the holiday, I agree to go out for Valentine’s Day.
We do shots before getting ready and dress absolutely ridiculous: Sol in a tight black vinyl skirt and corset top, Elle in a blood-red lace bodycon with a completely open back, and me in a tiny black slip dress with lace panelling on the sides.
It’s closer to lingerie than a dress, but I look good in it—or at least the sambuca tells me I do.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and throw on a black oversized blazer and shiny black heels to hopefully make the outfit feel a little more respectable.
Not that respectability is an issue.
The moment we arrive at the club on the Boston waterfront, I realise that overdressing isn’t even possible.
Everything here is over-the-top, neon-drenched, excessive, music pulsing through my skin.
The flashing lights, blue-pink-purple, refract from the mirrored ceiling, and the crowd is one dancing blur as we make our way through.
Maybe it’s the shots, maybe it’s the weight of an entire year spent working myself half to death—but I finally let go.
I let the bass swallow me, let the neon lights paint me every colour, let the champagne fizz through my veins.
I tip my head back, arms falling around Elle’s shoulders, and we dance like idiots, like nothing matters, and maybe that’s the problem, my problem all along, that I care too much when in reality, nothing actually matters.
When we’ re both breathless and exhausted from dancing, Elle loops an arm around my waist, laughing into my ear as she pulls me towards our table in the VIP section where some of Sol’s friends wait with Dom Pérignon in ice.
It’s an interesting crowd: trust fund kids and international students throwing down Amexes like they’re playing cards.
Sol leans into her boyfriend, draped on him like a queen on a throne, while a server in a skimpy black dress refills our glasses.
I tip mine back, downing my champagne, and then I lean suddenly forward into Elle in a perfect imitation of Sol and her boyfriend.
“Jesus, you’re drunk,” Elle says, steadying me.
“Just giving Sol a test of her own—” I raise my hand.
“No, a state of her own med—shit. A taste—”
“Is she having a stroke?” Solana’s boyfriend says, curling his arm around her waist.
“She just needs some fresh air.” Elle laughs, shaking her head, and grabs my arm.
“Come on, I need a smoke anyway.”
The cold air is a harsh if welcome slap to the face, shocking after the heat and movement of the club, the darkness soothing after the assault of flashing lights.
Elle pulls out a slim joint from a vintage cigarette case in gold and burgundy leather.
She flicks her lighter, the brief flare of orange reflecting in the glossy windows of a black SUV idling by the kerb.
Leaning back against the cool wall, I watch as she takes a long drag, exhaling slowly.
The street is alive with people, laughter, shouting, fragments of music spilling from bar doors, and above all, the distant splash and wind of the waterfront .
“Here,” Elle says, holding out the joint between two fingers.
I take it on impulse, bringing it to my lips.
I inhale with confidence—and immediately regret it.
Smoke burns my throat; I choke violently, doubling over, coughing so hard my ribs ache.
Elle laughs, smacking my back as I wheeze, eyes streaming.
“Oh my god,” she gasps.
“Was that your first time? Ew, that’s so tragic. Don’t Europeans smoke like crazy?”
“I’m British,” I croak.
“You’re telling me you never smoked once at your fancy private school?”
“I happened to be a prefect,” I try to say with as much dignity as I can while I’m wiping tears from my eyes.
“I’m sure I can figure it out,” I add, but Elle shakes her head, laughing, and plucks the joint from my hand before I can try again.
“Not for you, honey.”
I lean back against the cold stone railing, gulping in fresh air, waiting for my chest to stop burning.
My head feels pleasantly light, my skin buzzing with the warmth of alcohol and the afterburn of smoke.
“I feel good,” I tell Elle softly.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Two guys who had been smoking nearby make their way back inside, glancing at us on their way.
Elle nudges me with her hip.
“You should bring one of them home. They’ve been checking you out all night.”
I know exactly who she’s talking about.
Two of Sol’s boyfriend’s friends, the rich boys with the black cards and expensive watches.
One of them has brown skin and gelled curls, the other is fair, both are tall and good-looking enough to be modelling overpriced cologne on some New York billboard .
I shake my head, laughter bubbling up before I can stop it.
“I don’t want them.”
Elle lifts an eyebrow.
“No?”
The answer is already there, sparkling beneath my skin, effervescent and alive.
It’s not a secret, not a burden—it’s a truth that feels so good to say, finally, out loud.
I tip my head back against the railing, breath misting in the night air, wind gliding over my skin like cold satin, and then I look Elle right in the eyes, and I speak bright and clear.
“I want Evan.”
Silence falls.
Elle stares at me for a long moment, taking a long, pensive drag of her joint.
And then she releases it in one long ribbon and laughs softly, affectionately.
“Then just get back with him already.”
It sounds like an amazing idea, actually.
Elle’s so smart. I love her so much.
I wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her all along her face, giggling against her ear that I love her and that she’s totally, totally right, feeling giddy and drunk and so, so excited.
Elle pulls away from me with a snort of laughter.
She throws away her joint and stomps on it before grabbing my phone out of my tiny bag, looping the gold chain dangling from it around her wrist.
“Here,” she says with a wicked smile, grabbing my hand and dragging me towards the ironwork railing overlooking the black, gleaming water.
“Let’s send him something fun.”
I lean back against the railing, tilting my body and lifting one leg just to give him a glimpse of my hip and thigh through the sheer lace panel, and I smirk right into the camera, head tilted, lips parted—just like I’d look at him if he were here right now, if he was the one lounging in a VIP booth and I was straddling his lap.
Elle snaps the picture, then hands me the phone.
Emboldened and elated, I type out a text, backspace, rewrite, backspace, rewrite, fingers and brain refusing to cooperate or at least coordinate.
Elle’s chin is on my shoulder, her blonde hair half-obscuring me, laughing so hard she’s barely breathing as I mutter, “Why is texting so hard?”
“Because you’re drunk, baby.”
When I finally manage to type a message that’s totally free of mistakes, I turn the screen to Elle.
“Well? What do you think?”
She nods, delighted, and before I can stop her, she reaches over my shoulder and presses Send.
For a second, we both hold our breaths, waiting for the text to pop into a bubble that means it’s out there.
The bubble pops, and I almost drop my phone.
We both scream, half-shock, half-laughter, collapse against each other, and scramble back towards the club like we’ve committed a federal crime.
“You’re a fucking menace,” I squeal into Elle’s hair, gripping her arm as she drags me inside, cackling.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Oh, please,” she replies.
“I just did what you were too chicken-shit to do.”
I want to be mad.
I really do.
But beneath the sheer shock and terror of what we’ve just done, there’s something else, an incandescent elation bubbling up in my chest, blowing my ribcage wide open with light and space and shining, golden hope .