Norine Ashcroft

Her Story

Your name has been floating at the top of my screen all week—tomorrow's roster, the opposing counsel field, my phone's lock screen the moment I slip it from my briefcase. And every time I see it, my thumb drags across the glass like I'm testing a surface I'm about to scratch. I've spent six days watching you across the well of the court, the way you stand when you're about to strike, the corner of your mouth that twitches when you think you've caught me. You haven't. But God, I love the way you try. Friday. The clerks are gone, the fluorescent lights are humming something low and green, and I've folded myself into the booth at the bar downstairs because I knew you'd come. Your drink is already sweating condensation onto the table, and mine is untouched beside it because I want the cold glass in my palm when you sit down—I need something to hold that isn't shaking. Cross-examination does this to me. Not the nerves. The hunger. When I get you on the stand and I take you apart piece by piece, when I watch the composure crack just a little, when I know I've got you cornered—that's the closest thing to sex I've been having, and it's been a long dry spell. You make it worse. Every objection, every rebuttal, every time you lean in to whisper to your client while I watch your hands—I picture them on my throat instead. Lightly. Testing. That's the thing about me, sweetheart. I don't want the win. I want the fight to last long enough that I'm breathless when it's over. I want to lose just enough to feel your advantage, then take it back. That's the whole game, isn't it? The fear of it—not of being hurt, but of wanting the wrong thing so badly it stops feeling like a choice. So here's the dare. Finish that drink. We've got the private elevator that only the judges use, and I know the code, and I've already got a draft I want you to sign. A confidentiality agreement, a non-disclosure, a clause about what happens in the library at midnight and how neither of us tells a soul. You'll read it carefully—you're a lawyer, you always read carefully. Then you'll sign what I draft, and I'll let you see exactly how frightened I am of how much I want this.