Chapter 8
Eight
Sabotage
Spencer
By the time Dita knocks and ushers in Tyler, I’ve reviewed several contracts, shot out a few emails, and racked up some billables with our East Coast clients.
I walked up on Tyler a year ago while three assholes were winding up to curb-stomp him for the crime of being young, broke, and queer.
The memory still makes my teeth grind. They had his thrift-store hiking pack gutted on the sidewalk, everything he owned kicked into puddles, yelling every unimaginative slur their tiny brains could cough up.
Pussy boy. Queerbait. Same tired shit I heard at his age.
The assholes scattered when they saw me heading straight for them. The broken young man went statuesque for half a second when I approached, like a dog that had been abused by its owner and didn’t know who to trust.
Deciding he wasn’t going to risk it, he scooped his life back into that bag and snarled, “I'm fucking fine, dude.”
I'd heard that tone before. Mine, from the age of fifteen until I got myself into college at eighteen. All defensive bluster and don't-fucking-touch-me energy.
“I don't need your help,” he said.
But then he looked me over, head to toe, and dropped his voice. “Unless maybe you need some help. Why don't you get me a room for the night and I'll—”
“The fuck you will.” I cut him off before he could finish. “The only place we're going is to that diner across the street where I'm going to put some warm food in your belly and you’re going to tell me your situation, kid.”
He hefted the pack onto his shoulder and waved toward the neon sign. “Lead the way, old man.”
“I'm barely twenty-six” I said through gritted teeth. “I'm not old.”
He rolled his eyes, and I wondered if karma was paying me a visit.
“I'm Spencer. And you would be?”
He huffed. “Tyler. And don't call me kid.”
“Don’t call me old.”
That got me another eye roll as we crossed the street to the place that’s provided my coffee and breakfast since I started at the firm as an intern six years ago.
Settling into a booth at Tom’s Diner, I let him order half the menu.
I watched him snarf it down while I picked at a turkey club.
Four refills of coffee later, he spilled the story I'd already guessed. Kicked out at fifteen. Hustling Phoenix streets for two years. He’s barely seventeen now, which made my fists clench when I thought about what kind of hustling he'd been doing—especially based on that offer back on the sidewalk.
But underneath the armor, he was sharp. Into death metal, plants, and fashion. We found common ground on the last one. The kid had taste and talent, and it gutted me knowing how different his life could've been if his parents weren't garbage people.
When Flo—Florence, Tom's wife, seventy-something with teased auburn hair and a personality to match—came by at the end of our meal, I set up an arrangement.
I expected Tyler to show up at the diner every night.
He could order anything he wanted. I'd pay the tab weekly, monthly, whatever.
Most importantly, Flo would call me if he missed a single meal.
“Well now,” Flo had said, snapping her gum, “looks like we're going to be best friends, aren't we?”
Tyler shook his head. “No, I—”
“Flo.” My voice went sharp. “If he doesn't show up, even one night, you call me.”
She ruffled his hair. “Will do. I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Tyler.”
He stayed silent as she walked away.
“Right, Tyler?” she shouted over her shoulder.
He looked down at the table. “Yes, ma'am.”
That was a year ago. Flo's kept her word, keeping eyes on him.
After he showed up consistently for a month, I leased a small apartment for him nearby.
I had two conditions for him: he had to start taking classes; and he had to use the second bedroom to design clothes.
I got him enrolled at Phoenix College to pursue an AAS in Fashion Design and I provided all the equipment and supplies he needed for his design studio in that second bedroom.
He has not let me down once and selfishly, it feels good to give someone the leg up I never had. I busted my ass to get through college, graduate early, get into law school, pass the bar at twenty-three, and make Junior Partner in two years. It wasn’t easy and I had a rough go of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I want Tyler to work hard—to feel the struggle. It will make him appreciate his accomplishments more. I’m just making sure it’s not a losing battle for him.
I make him come by the office weekly to check in, talk fashion trends, make sure he's safe. I pay for his phone, got him a laptop, and pay for design apps so he can create and sell his apparel online. His creations… they’re brilliant.
I'm proud of him. It took time to get him to open up to me, though. He was wary, hackles up, trust earned in millimeters—but once he knew I wasn't going anywhere, he started showing his real, unguarded self. And he's a pretty great kid.
Speaking of.
The little menace walks through my door, Dita herding him in. He's wearing all black, per usual, and they're already laughing.
“Oh, my God,” Dita says, “this is my favorite new person!”
They dissolve into giggles. I roll my eyes. “Kill me now.”
But inside, I'm fucking stoked that Tyler will have another person in his corner.
Dita gives Tyler a quick squeeze goodbye and slips out, the door snicking shut behind her.
Tyler collapses into the chair opposite the desk, backpack flung onto the other.
The fabric of his shirt is matte-black on matte-black, but I catch the faint silhouette—an enormous tree whose leaves are tiny words: love, acceptance, hope, empathy.
“Did you design that?” I ask.
He grins, teeth bright against the dark. “Yeah. Screen-printed it last week in the spare room.”
“It's really cool,” I tell him, and his ears turn red. “You selling them anywhere?”
“Instagram. I have ten-k followers now.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “My shop is linked on my page. But you’d know that if you had an account, old man.”
I laugh because I’m used to it by now. He knows damn well I’m not old.
“I even did a collab cover for a queer romance novel dropping next month,” he continues, and I smile at his excited energy. His words tumble over each other like puppies. “I have sketches—”
“Send me the link when it comes out. I want one for you to sign the cover.”
His throat bobs. “Spence… thanks. For everything.”
“Keep going with the designs,” I encourage. “You need anything, you ask.”
“I could do filing here,” he says, voice more timid than usual. “Pay you back somehow—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I want you focused on your passion.”
Over the next hour, we talk about his classes, his dream of designing his first full collection, boys at school he thinks are cute. Our Tuesday sessions have become my favorite hour of the week.
I walk him out of my office and Dita corners him for his social media handle so they can dish about “the office grump.” Then she demands he go to lunch with her later in the week.
Tyler smirks, typing his Instagram handle into her phone. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispers to me, “we’ll bring back some senior citizen oatmeal for you.”
I shake my head. “Bye, Tyler.”
I step into my office, door thumping shut. I smile. I'd actually love it if those two became friendly.
I think about how I struggled. After I lost my mom—in a way that no teenager should have to see—I was effectively alone in the world. My father was still around, but an even bigger drunk than when mom and I lived at home.
I wasn’t of age yet and I knew the cops or Child Protective Services would put me back with my dad. So, I laid low for six months until my eighteenth birthday. I bounced around and managed to find places to lay my head at night, but I was always looking over my shoulder.
If I'd had more people in my corner back then, I might be less armored, more trusting. I want that for Tyler: safety in numbers, a web of allies so tight no one can pull him apart again. I don’t want him to become jaded like I am.
I used to be far worse, though. It’s taken a lot of therapy for me to get this far.
Speaking of, my weekly call with Dr. Walker, is right now. Jiggling my mouse to wake up my computer, I click on the video meeting link in my calendar. He’s already on.
“Hey Doc,” I say in greeting, leaning back in my chair.
“Spencer. Good to see you.”
Doc Walker—or Walker, as I refer to him—has been my psychiatrist for the past two years. When I made Junior Partner, I decided that I owed it to myself to try and start the healing process. I didn’t want my past to negatively impact my future.
Walker is a bit of a silver fox. Well, not quite “silver” yet. Though Tyler would call him ancient. He’s early forties, salt and pepper hair, perpetually tan skin, and his muscles give the fabric of his dress shirts a run for their money.
If I wasn’t under his treatment, I would be all over that. For a night. Then I’d avoid him at all costs. I’m sure he’d tell me that’s completely healthy behavior.
“How are things?” he asks. He’s got a deep, whiskey smooth voice. I swear he works to perfect it so he can draw things out of people.
“Things are good. Just keeping busy.”
Walker rubs his chin. “Are you making time to interact with people outside of a professional environment?”
“Nope,” I fire back, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk.
“Are you running resistance to the idea of opening yourself up to new personal relationships?” he asks, knowing damn well this answer is…
“Yep. Sure am.”
Walker huffs a laugh. “Why do you think that is?”
“People disappoint. People leave. If I don’t get attached, they can’t hurt me.”
“Defense mechanisms are normal for survivors of trauma, Spencer. You’ve experienced more than most people,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, I know.” As if I need a reminder of the scene I walked into in the shitty studio mom and I moved into after the shelter.
Walker hums, “It’s not a reason to avoid personal relationships. It’s something to work on overcoming—not something to use as a shield.”
“Easier said than done,” I scoff.
He nods in understanding. “That is true. But don’t you want close, healthy relationships in your life?”
I lean back again and groan. “Can’t I just buy a new suit instead?”
Walker lets out a laugh and raises a brow. “You have to do the work, Spencer.”
“I have been, Doc. You know I’m better about a lot of things since our first sessions, but letting people in—that’s going to be my biggest dragon to slay.”
He nods and says, “We’ll keep working toward it.”
Walker digs around in my head for another forty-five minutes and ends with the same questions he always does. The questions about forgiving four people. The answers are always: Fuck no, doesn’t need forgiving, no, and no.
Later, after a full day of meetings and calls, I check the time on my laptop.
Almost seven.
The bullpen outside has long since emptied. Most of the associates cleared out around six, the paralegals shortly after. Even the partners have disappeared.
Which leaves me.
Exactly how I prefer the final hour of the day.
One last sweep of emails. I roll my shoulders once and start working through them. Halfway through a reply, a light tapping hits my door. Before I can answer, it opens.
Dita slips inside and quietly shuts it behind her, leaning against the door. I raise a brow. “Yes?”
She’s smiling. Actually, she looks giddy.
“Yeah, um… sorry to interrupt you,” she says, barely containing it. “But someone’s here to see you.”
Then she giggles.
I blink. Late visitors are unusual. A giggling Dita even more so. “Well?” I urge. “Who is it?”
Dita pushes off the door and walks up to my desk, leaning both hands on the edge.
“It’s Ryan freaking Buterbaugh!” she whisper-shouts. “Is he a client?”
I lean back in my chair and drag both hands down my face. “No,” I say flatly. “He’s a nuisance.”
“Well,” she says, pushing off the edge of my desk, “he’s here to see you.” Then she fans herself dramatically. “And you should see what he’s wearing.”
I groan.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Send him in.”
She heads out, leaving the door open. From the hallway I hear muffled voices. Then Dita giggles again. My jaw ticks. A moment later she reappears and Ryan strolls in behind her. I narrow my eyes.
Ryan beams. “Heya Spence.”
I glare at him, but despite myself, my eyes take inventory. And I immediately regret it. He’s wearing the sluttiest pair of ultra-short gym shorts I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s paired them with a tank top so loose his massive pecs are practically falling out.
Miles of skin assault my senses without permission. I drag my gaze away and look at Dita. She’s still standing there, grinning like a fangirl. “That will be all, Dita.”
She straightens. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right out there if you need anything.” Then she slips out, leaving the door open.
I lean forward, elbows on my desk. “What are you doing here, Ryan?” I ask, waving vaguely in his direction. “And dressed like that.”
He grins wider. “You’re coming to work out with me.”
“No the fuck I am not.”
“Yeah. You are,” he fires back, crossing his arms. “Come on. Gather your things.”
I stare at him. “Why do you want to work out with me?”
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?” Then he nods toward the door. “C’mon. We can talk about that legal advice I need.”
“We can do that here.” I point to the chair in front of my desk. “If you’re serious.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Nope. Gym or no deal.” He gestures vaguely at me. “Clearly you use the gym. Why not rack up some billables at the same time?”
I sigh.
Jen’s voice echoes in my brain.
Sometimes landing a client means playing their game.
Think of it like golfing.
I detest golfing. The only eighteen holes I’ve ever played was a wild weekend in Palm Springs.
“I don’t have anything to work out in,” I say, then. “And even if I did, I’m not putting couture in a gym locker.”
Ryan brightens. “No problem. We can swing by your place so you can change.” He tilts his head. “Do you live close by?”
From outside my office, a voice chirps. “He lives two blocks away.”
I drop my head back and groan. “Not helpful, Dita.”
From the hallway comes a cheerful, “You’re welcome!”
I push to my feet. “Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”
Ryan’s smile splits his face in half.
I grab my bag and grumble under my breath, “I’m going to regret this.”