Lawsuits and Loathing
Chapter 1: Shortcomings in All Things Grand
Change can be a funny thing.
At times it seems like there's so much changing in your life, nothing to anchor yourself to, just a whirlwind of life and you flying, spiraling, capitulating to gravity yanking you away from solid ground. One second you're grounded in a tiny mountain town, hating every second of it, and the next you're graduating top of your class from law school and picking up everything to move again, flying through the air on a powerful gust of change to the west coast. You carefully organize every item of your life and pray nothing important gets caught up in the life tornado ripping through town this year, clutching the box labeled "childhood" dearly as you take your first step into your first apartment in L.A. that you aren't sharing with anyone, finally alone.
And the first thing you do? Shove that box into the back of your closet so you can go back to not changing again for several years.
Change certainly is a funny thing.
I open my eyes to see the dim stucco ceiling of my apartment, the orange glow of the street lamp outside casting faint shadows as dawn begins to overpower its sallow light. My alarm clock flashes 5:56AM at me in violent blue bursts – I still have four minutes. Four minutes before I have to get up and be Kyle Broflovski, assistant district attorney of Los Angeles County, pride of my parents, the one who made it out of South Park, the kid who escaped.
God, I hate Mondays.
Blowing out a slow breath, I rake a hand through my tousled curls. Lately I've been keeping my hair short, or at least more 'styled' than it's ever been in my life. It's apparently all the rage having the sides a bit shorter and then the slightly longer, purposefully 'accidental' bed-head on top.
I'm not sure I'll ever understand fads, but that's what I have Justin for.
Shit! Justin!
I leap out of bed and practically into my closet, desperately pulling on one of my preplanned and hung outfits. It's the gray and pale pink pin stripe suit that I'm pretty sure my boss hates, but it's going to have to do today, fashion be damned.
A quick once-over in my bathroom mirror shows my usual tired face. I'm pretty sure that the bags under my eyes are stained into my skin. Without any time to shave, I look a bit ridiculous. I mean, you'd think a little stubble would make me look better, right? Wrong. I just look like a hobo.
Well, Justin seems to like it just fine, I think with a derisive snort.
The thought of him spurs me, as I grab my shoes, tie and suitcase all in one hand and take the stairs two at a time down to the ground floor. I can't believe I almost forgot. Guilt nudges my insides as I speed down the back streets and alleyways, weaving in an out of the backsides of stores and apartments.
When I finally reach Justin's place, it's 6:35AM – damn morning traffic. I pull up to the curb of his place – it's in this totally hipster part of town, littered with cafes that have all these artsy pots with succulents in them, so pretentious – and don't even bother to put my car in park.
"You're late," is the first thing he singsongs in his valley girl voice at me as he plops down into my Prius.
Justin is one of those exact hipster douchebags who normally would drive me nuts, with his perfect blonde highlighted hair and his tight jeans and braided leather necklace. His blue eyes light up despite my lateness as he leans forward, his nimble hand resting teasingly on my thigh.
Without hesitation, Justin captures my lips in a breath-stealing kiss, as if intent of inhaling the very air from my lungs, his hands roaming down my neck, and farther down my chest. He definitely drives me nuts, just in a different way.
"Sorry," I reply, breaking our little session short. His eyes tell me that we'll be finishing it anyway later tonight. "I forgot about your car being in the shop."
He pats my knee gently and winks at me, "Don't worry about it babe. I'm just glad you showed up at all."
We pull away from the curb in a comfortable silence and return to the sluggish flow of traffic, his hand tucked securely in mine.
So yeah, I'm gay. Not really surprising I guess, when I think about my life in the long run. I pretty much worked out my sexuality when I was like fourteen, largely and secretly thanks to Stan and his rapid growth spurt, i.e. his six-pack that haunted my dreams all through high school. What surprised me the most though was how I became a serial dater when I moved out to LA. Literally every night it was a new guy, some burly and some dainty – honestly, I think I was initially overwhelmed by the freedom to finally be me, away from my parents' constant questions about a potential wife and kids.
And with Justin, well he's not the brightest guy, that's certainly true.
I eye my boyfriend out of the corner of my eye, admiring his chiseled jaw, slight frame and defined clavicle peeking out from his muscle tee – he's certainly cute.
It's also easier having a boyfriend who never questions the infamous Kyle Broflovski Dating Manual. Essentially, it's just a smattering of tips and rules I've accumulated after, ahem, gaining some much needed experience. Like, no sharing apartment keys for example. Ever. That's been a particularly hard one for Justin, since I know he's moving toward us living together. And not like I'm entirely against being with him, but just, you know, strictly on my own terms at the pace that I dictate.
One of my personal favorites: we have to have three consecutive days somewhere in the week of no interaction. Which means that I get three whole days, 72 hours or more, back to back just for me. And which also means that the most time I can ever spend with any of significant other is four consecutive days. I know, it seems like a lot of weird, twisted mathematics I'm applying to romance, but it's the ultimate solution to the typical love problem. Time, and the rationing of it – it's honestly as simple as that.
Of course, Justin hates my favorite rule the most. But it keeps my apartment clean and my life balanced.
We pull up to Justin's work, a little bouge-y boutique where every piece of clothing makes no sense (like a leopard print fur vest with fringe at the bottom?) and costs a small fortune. Frankly, it looks like an insanely upscale secondhand shop. Of course, Justin says that even if I'm gay, I have the fashion sense of a hetero. I think he meant it as an insult.
"Well, here we are," I unlock the car for him to leave, but Justin just keeps beaming up at me.
"Really, thank you so much," Justin gushes. "I know we've only been seeing each other for a little while, and I know how you are about this kinda stuff, but thanks Kyle. It means a lot to me."
He leans in and presses a firm kiss on my lips, silencing whatever reply I might have given. Probably something along the lines of a muttered 'whatever'. With that, Justin hops out of the car and bounces off to his little shop, shooting these little glances back at me the whole way until he disappears inside the shop. Supposedly, he's one of the managers, but it's hard to imagine anyone taking orders from a human ball of sunshine.
Looking at the time shakes me out of my little reverie. Now I'm going to be late.
"You're late."
Trent Gabel, my boss and District Attorney, catches me on my way in the office, arching a disapproving grayed brow at me. He's this classic silver fox, way too good looking for being almost sixty years old but impatient enough to fit his age. He eyes my pink and gray pin stripe suit with even more disapproval, grunting softly to himself.
"Sorry, traffic."
I learned long ago that Mr. Gabel does not appreciate long-winded answers and hates tardiness. I bee-line form my desk, my boss still following me, and open my briefcase, pulling out the various case files I had put the finishing touches on last night. Mr. Gabel might hate my suits and sometimes it feels, even hate me, but I do damn good work as a lawyer.
"I was thinking we could go over the Benedict case –,"
"Not yet," Gabel cuts me short, leaning his hip on my wooden desk. "We'll get to it, but we have something bigger on our hands today."
He pauses for effect before saying, "Julio Salazar is getting charged."
I stop riffling through papers, "You mean the big heroine dealer? That's…surprising."
"It's fucking great news is what it is, Broflovski, and you're going to help me nail this guy to the wall." Gabel looks down at me with fire in his dark eyes. "Thing is, his lawyers just got here. They're East coast big shots."
He continues, "If you'd been here on time, I could have briefed you more before we have to go make nice."
Gabel always has to get a shot in, sometimes several, at me. It's sort of our thing, but today in particular it just grates on my nerves. I've finished sorting the rest of the files in my briefcase and grabbed the rest that seem prudent from my desk's filing cabinet, and even have an empty one, just for Salazar himself.
Today's gonna be a long day.
I follow my boss down the halls of the office and sure enough, there's a group of five men, all dressed to the nines and chatting quietly amongst each other. Three are older men, Gabel's age I would hazard a guess or younger, and one other is much older – possible eighty? God he looks more ancient the closer we're getting. He's likely the original firm owner, and maybe those are his sons? It's hard to tell.
And then the last guy.
He's not facing me, so I can't gauge too much, but from his shorter chestnut hair, I would have to guess that he's around the same age as me. Which never bodes well – I was a rare case of talent, and this fifth guy probably is too. Everyone needs a young and brilliant rookie.
But damn he has broad shoulders – they fill his dark blue suit perfectly. I mean, the guy is definitely cut, and that perfectly tailored suit does nothing to hide it and leaves everything to the imagination. Even his ass looks great in his slacks. And what's more surprising, he's taller than me and I stand at a good six feet, so he's what? Like six-four? Damn.
I pick at the little details as Gabel and I keep getting closer to the group down the hallway.
He's got a nice Rolex on his wrist, peeking out from where his hands rest in his pockets so he definitely makes money, so maybe he's been with this firm since graduating law? That'd be impressive. So he's probably late twenties, smart, tall, likely good-looking – at least from the back – and seems very at ease with some powerful men. And, I hear as I get closer, he has a very nice, deep laugh.
God, he's totally my type.
Part of my job, and why I'm so good at it, is the ability to read people. And this last guy? Man, I have him pegged and I haven't even seen his face.
"Gentlemen," Gabel uses his 'big man on campus' voice, smiling tightly. I haven't ever had the heart to tell him it always makes him look and sound constipated, but maybe that's what he's going for. The boss and the eldest man shake hands, exchanging empty pleasantries, but I'm glued to the young and brilliant rookie.
As he turns to face us, I feel my breath catch in my throat.
"Eric T. Cartman," he says with a smirk, extending his hand toward my boss.
Cartman. My brain is in overdrive and I'm pretty sure I momentarily forgot how to breathe – what the hell is he doing here?!
And he's thin, and he's smiling, and in a suit, and looking everywhere but me, and everything in the background is falling away. The earth is shifting under my feet and I feel like I could detach from the ground and start flying away into the atmosphere at any second.
And then I'm getting yanked back down to earth as Trent Gabel claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. Earth to Kyle.
"This is my ADA, Kyle Broflovksi."
Calm, cool, collected, composed, I mentally chant.
"Nice to meet you," I smile and stretch my hand out politely.
Eric Cartman's hand closes around mine firmly, like a noose, and finally, he's looking right at me, or more like right into me, mischief dancing in his brown eyes. And I can see it, the Nazi who I'd grown up with, who I haven't seen in over nine years, buried faintly in the shape of his face.
"We've already met," Cartman looks over at Mr. Gabel, releasing me from his paralyzing eye contact momentarily. And then it's back on me again, his hand tightening around mine, as he says, "Actually, we go way back."
And all I can think is God, I hate Mondays.
