Chapter 2

Note: This was really hard to write, because dang, these two are messed up in the heads. I wanted to try and see if I could make those two personalities actually get along, and be warned, they don't always. ;)

.

xxxXXX***XXXxxx

.

Arthur woke with a headache on Friday morning. He was up and half out of bed at the second alarm, not wishing to subject his sore skull to the blaring or the self-recrimination. He sat there for a few moments to be sure he wasn't going to be sick.

Hell, he'd somehow agreed to meet with Jones again today. And Bonnefoy as well. At least he'd had all day Thursday to work on the case and swap e-mails with Jones's CPA. Arthur felt that he could make some informed recommendations.

He'd even had his paralegal, Bella, work up a draft cross-petition. Jones would get what he was paying for.

Arthur scrambled to dress. He very deliberately did not wear the brown suit, but his serviceable blue one. He barely remembered to drag Al's card from the pocket of the trousers he'd worn the previous evening.

It was again very early when Arthur made it to the office. When Monaca came in he gave her the business card and had her contact everyone involved. Jones hadn't specifically said for Arthur to call, and the personal challenge dictated that Arthur not do it. The real trick was going to be making sure the buried battle of wills didn't interfere with Arthur's ability to represent Jones to the extent of his abilities.

Monaca didn't encounter any trouble, and scheduled a one-thirty meeting at Bonnefoy's office.

Arthur fielded calls most of the morning. Family law clients were especially needy, and Friday was a busy day as divorced parents argued over weekend arrangements with their ex-spouses. It was part of protecting their interests and a fallout Arthur had become used to. He'd learned early on when to say "I'm sorry, you can't refuse to let your husband pick up the children just because he has a new girlfriend; the courts will not care if you think she is a whore," and when to say "remind her - civilly - that if she doesn't let you have the dog that you can file for contempt. Yes, I'll e-mail her attorney."

Just because his clients these days were often more financially successful did not mean that they had common sense or the knack of civility. Arthur had started his career in America with less wealthy clients and they were just like his current ones- human, with the same failings. If anything, the more people paid him, the more they expected him to direct their lives.

Jones was looking to be no exception. Arthur would have to see that Jones's guilt or diffidence or whatever his problem was did not cost him.

Arthur packed up his files - thank God for his hardworking staff - and drove himself to Bonnefoy's office on the near northside. The old, brick building had an iron gate and a valet, for which Arthur was also thankful. He hated to search for parking on narrow streets.

Bonnefoy's receptionist was an insouciant sort with white, spiky hair who seemed to sport a different eye-color every time Arthur visited the office. Today his eyes were red, making him look rather vampirish. He fit in with the general artsy air of the neighborhood. He slouched his way to the conference room, pointing Arthur in and taking his coat, and then sauntered off, slinging Arthur's coat over one shoulder and shoving his other hand in his jeans pocket. He mumbled something about coffee.

All Bonnefoy's staff were wearing jeans. Arthur supposed it was Casual Friday, a tradition that had not yet worked its way to his office but one he was sure would be welcomed. It didn't seem to have hurt Bonnefoy's business. Arthur might run the idea past his law partner Lars Andersen sometime.

If the rest of Bonnefoy's office building was vintage, the conference room was modern and airy. It had been fitted with ceiling-high windows that faced east and offered a panoramic view. The sun had decided to make an appearance at last, and the snow on the surrounding rooftops sparkled. In the distance, Arthur could just make out a shining sliver of Lake Michigan.

"Hi again, Arthur," a voice said. It was Jones. He was already sitting at the conference room table.

Arthur stared for a moment. Jones was polishing his glasses and his unshielded gaze was intensely blue, bright like the glimpse of lake out the window. It was rather unexpectedly lovely. Jones replaced his glasses on his nose and became merely normally attractive once more. He stood and Arthur stirred himself to shake his hand.

"Hello, Mr. Jones. Long time no see," Arthur said, and instantly wanted to kick himself for the lame joke.

"Ha ha! Way too long." Jones gestured at an empty seat next to him, but Arthur took a chair opposite. "So what did you think of my restaurant?"

"Er," Arthur said. "The wine was very good."

"That's what your friend said! Come on, you can tell me. I told you I like to know what people are thinking, right?"

Arthur was not the one to indulge him on that score. "From what I remember of the food, it was very good as well."

"I know, right?" Jones said, hearing what he wanted to hear. "That place is one of my favorites. But I know Mariel wants it."

He sounded wistful. Arthur gestured at his files on the table. "Well, since you owned the building before marriage and only renovated it after, you can make a case to keep it. And your accountant, Mr. Vash, feels very strongly that you should."

Jones shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I'm becoming too imperialistic."

"That's ..." Arthur swallowed the ridiculous he'd been about to add.

"That is not possible. Hello, gentlemen." F.H. Bonnefoy entered the conference room. In honor of his staff, perhaps, he was affecting a more casual mood and wore a trim suit sans tie, and had an unshaven chin. His longish blond hair was pulled back in a queue.

Arthur had seen many of Bonnefoy's moods, from slicked-back and hard-edged to ... well, in his spare time he was a nudist, to be charitable. Arthur thought of him more as an exhibitionist. He'd attended a very surprising pool party once at Bonnefoy's house.

He'd known Bonnefoy for years; in fact, they'd sat for the same bar exam. Since they practiced in different areas of law they'd more often worked together than on opposing sides, but that didn't mean they'd always gotten along.

"Hullo, Bonnefoy," Arthur stood to shake his hand. To his surprise, or perhaps not, Jones jumped up from his seat to pat Bonnefoy on the back.

"Frannie! Thanks for making time and space for us here."

"Of course, my friend." Bonnefoy held Jones by the shoulders and looked him up and down with the air of a proud papa while still managing to seem somewhat lascivious. Arthur tamped down a surge of annoyance. Or was that envy? Regardless, he knew very well how safe Bonnefoy was, how devoted to his wife.

Bonnefoy had taken the fast track to permanent resident status by marrying a Hawaiian woman and promptly whisking her away to cold and windy Chicago. She seemed to be thriving, however; Portia had decorated much of their home for her.

Mister Red-Eyes brought coffee – and tea, thankfully – and shuffled out. Everyone sat once more. Arthur cleared his throat and opened his thick file. "Mr. Jones, our office has prepared a draft cross-petition for dissolution; our discussions today will help us populate your set of exhibits and apply to the court for the most advantageous division of property. The courts must find it equitable or the judge may order cash settlements. We should avoid that to be sure you retain personal control of your preferred properties. Bonnefoy, I believe I e-mailed you my recommendations this morning for your, ah, expert and more familiar review?"

"Yes, and you are as astute as always, Arthur." He turned to look at Jones. "Alfred, I knew I was putting your affairs into the best of hands. Though I sigh over the loss of your young love."

Arthur barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

"Uh. Yeah," Jones said. He shifted. "Which reminds me. Arthur, you said you could advise me on contacting Mariel? I just want to know what her real beef with me is, but she won't take my calls."

"Ah." Arthur donned his metaphorical psychologist hat once more. "In these cases it is not uncommon for the spouse who first seeks a divorce to draw away. Especially if the relationship was formerly friendly, or at least seemed friendly. This is a stressful time for her as well, I am sure, and confrontation can be painful."

"Oh." Jones frowned a little.

Arthur leaned forward and looked into Jones's eyes. "I'm afraid that if the proceedings do not go smoothly as to agreements on division of property, you may hear from her and you may not like what she has to say."

Jones had leaned forward too, drawn by Arthur's words, and at this he leaned back and barked a short laugh. "Ha! So formal. What you're saying is, she'll call to bitch at me."

Arthur allowed a small shrug. "I don't know either of you personally-" He swallowed. "Yet. Or much about your relationship. But I suggest you may want to give her some time."

"Good advice," Bonnefoy said with a nod.

"Further," Arthur continued. "Since she works with you and for you, you can perhaps use another manager as a go-between for business matters. On anything related to the dissolution, I can be that for you. Along with her attorney Mr. Beilschmidt."

"Thanks, Arthur." Jones beamed at him.

"Of course," Arthur said, feeling a twinge of guilt that he hadn't said this at their consultation. It was just that Jones had thrown him so off-kilter at that initial meeting - or Arthur had let him. He'd just never suspected Jones might truthfully be so naive. He'd thought it perhaps affected, designed to put one's adversaries off-guard. And then he reminded himself that he was on Jones's side.

"Shall we get to business, then?" The suggestion came from Bonnefoy.

"Okay." Jones leaned forward and laced his fingers together atop the table. Arthur spared a brief glance for his nicely shaped hands.

"Very well," Arthur said. He pulled out more papers, bound into three paper-clipped stacks. He laid the three stacks on the table as he spoke.

"Here are my preliminary recommendations. These are the properties you owned wholly before marriage, and which I and your accountant Mr. Vash believe should remain in your control. This second stack consists of those properties she requests in her filing which I think you may not wish to contest. These include the properties she manages, except for-" he pulled one sheet from the stack. "-Americana, which you earlier indicated that you may be attached to. I'll add it to this third stack, which consists of properties to be discussed today. I depend upon you and F.H. to clarify or explain where you think these should go."

"That I can do." Jones picked up the second stack, the uncontested properties, and began to flip through them. "What are the final numbers? As in, what's considered an equitable division in this case? I can work backwards from that."

Simplistic, but direct. Arthur approved. "Well, she and her attorney have laid out a split of approximately fifty percent to you and fifty percent to your wife. I believe that was overly ambitious of them."

"As Ludwig often is," Bonnefoy said, meaning Mrs. Jones's attorney. "He is a tough one. But I think that given your comparative financial statuses before marriage, it should be more along the lines of seventy-thirty."

Jones raised his eyebrows. "Well, like I said, I don't want to be too tough on Mariel. She works hard and always has. How about we start with sixty-forty."

"Whaaat?" Bonnefoy exclaimed.

"You are being very generous," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, well. Given the right capital and liquid holdings, I can always get more. I'm the one with the vision, after all." He shot Arthur an intent look. "If I really want something, you guys will know it. I stop at nothing to get it. Ah ha ha."

Well, Jones certainly had his share of confidence, of drive, peeking out like it had that first day Arthur had met him. Not unfounded, of course, based upon what Arthur had seen. Still, for a man who'd amassed such wealth to be so casual about where his money went ...

But he was the paying client, and so Bonnefoy and Arthur would work with his desires. It took them a couple of hours and a short conference call with Mr. Vash to divide the properties and decide upon their plan of action. Jones showed a very good head for his own real estate; he could rattle off many of their dates purchased and property taxes and quarterly earnings from memory. He had a portable tablet that he sometimes consulted for finer details.

Arthur relaxed into the discussions, grateful for Bonnefoy's and Jones's acumen when things actually got down to business. The meeting was not the tag-team match of smug and over-familiarity he'd expected, given their initial minutes together. He only noticed a couple of times how Jones would stick things into his mouth when he was deep in thought, things like retractable pen ends or his own fingertips. Strange that Jones's fingernails were clean and round and not chewed as one might have expected. Arthur tried to notice not at all that Jones sometimes glanced his way when he'd thought Jones otherwise occupied.

In the end, they'd divided the properties to Jones's satisfaction, and Arthur and Bonnefoy split the duties for further fact-gathering; when they filed their cross-petition, it was very likely that Mrs. Jones would file a request for discovery on the few properties they contested.

Americana was one of them. The nightclub, Evolve, Jones had dismissed as a place he'd rather dance at than argue over.

Arthur imagined Jones dancing. He almost hugged the image to himself, but too quickly he pictured himself dancing as well, and that was a horrible thought to drive all pleasant thoughts away. Arthur was not much of a nightclub person.

The meeting ended and everyone stood. As if on cue, Jones and Bonnefoy resumed their generalized flirting.

"So are you and Chelle still gonna invite me over, once I'm not married?" Jones wanted to know.

"Of course!" Bonnefoy said with a leer. "We adore seeing much of you."

Arthur did roll his eyes at the double-entendre.

"I'm sorta not sure what to do with myself anymore."

"We would be pleased to show you, my friend."

Jones punched Bonnefoy lightly on the shoulder. "Ha ha! You rascal."

Arthur was packed up and couldn't listen to any more. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "I shall hopefully have something to e-mail you for a signature on Monday afternoon, Mr. Jones."

Jones knew how to eyeroll as well. "You gotta call me Al. And ring my cell and I'll stop by in person. If the weather's good I could just walk over. My office is only a couple blocks from yours, you know."

Arthur did know. So did Bonnefoy. He threw up his hands. "True! In fact, why don't you get a ride back to the office with Arthur? Rather than calling a car. He's a very safe driver, if he can keep his road rage under control."

Jones - Al - turned the full force of his megawatt grin on Arthur. "Could you? That'd be great."

"Of course," Arthur said, for what else could he say without sounding churlish? The things he did for his clients ...

Bonnefoy saw them to their coats, then said au revoir. Arthur and Jones hunkered under the portico in the chilly afternoon and waited for the car to be brought around.

"So have you been to Frannie's house?" Jones was asking. "They have a helluva pool."

"Yes," Arthur said. stiff at being left alone with Jones, challenge be damned, client status be damned. "He has an excellent cellar."

"A lot of French wines. So you like wine, I take it. Not too much, I hope?"

And that was a "helluva" impertinent question to ask. "No more than is socially acceptable, haha," Arthur said, trying to add the laugh and knowing he'd failed at sounding natural.

Jones either missed the awkwardness or ignored it. "Seems like you're very in control of things, Arthur. Though now I've discovered that you road rage, huh? That would be fun to see. I'm a very zen driver and passenger, never fear." He seemed to straighten, like he was donning his superhero pose again.

Arthur realized he'd become very aware of Jones's body. Body language, that was.

"And it seems that you like discovering things about people. Are you a student of character?" Arthur tried to smile to soften the possible snark of his question, and hoped he was more successful than he'd been with the laugh.

"Yeah. When they have to know stuff about me, especially."

As if he hadn't revealed much of that TMI himself. The car arrived, and they climbed in. Arthur was thankful he'd had it cleaned recently. His car had used to smell of smoke and curry but at the moment all he could smell was Al's cologne. He pulled out into traffic and got moving before speaking again. "Mr.- Al, I want you to know that I abide by a strict ethical code to keep my clients' confidences secure."

"I appreciate that. Oh, CDs." Al displayed a lack of ethics regarding other people's privacy by picking up the stack of compact discs Arthur kept stored in the dash compartment. Arthur drove a Lexus, but it was a few years old and he still had a CD player. Portia kept trying to get him to collect digital music, but he'd never gotten the knack of it.

Al flipped through the stack. "Well, your classical CDs say white male over thirty who makes at least fifty K a year. But really, your music collection isn't very gay, Arthur. Where's the ABBA?"

Arthur sighed. Some people's entire personality rested in their sexuality, straight or not. Arthur knew several gay men who judged everything on their own personal Gay Scale, and who could be quite snobbish when something didn't make the cut. He hadn't thought Al to be one of those.

"They're all right," he admitted. "Not something I'd listen to on my own."

"Oh my God," Al said, not a reply to Arthur's opinion on Scandinavian dance music. He'd picked out a disc with an old, scratched cover and was staring at Arthur with wide-eyed glee. "Rick Springfield? Dude, really?" He pulled out another. "You have a Rick Springfield collection."

Arthur frowned. Why did people think his enjoyment of Rick Springfield's music was so funny? It was popular enough, or had at least been at one time. "Well, he has some very catchy songs-"

"And he's cute. I saw him in concert once." Jones started to sing, loudly and badly. "And she's watching him with those eyyyyyes. And she's lovin' him with that body. I just KNOW it. And he's holding her in his arms-"

"That's enough," Arthur said, half-smiling, half-scowling.

"I wish that I had JESSE'S GIRL!" At Arthur's side-eye, Al managed to look sheepish. "Sorry, had to finish that part at least."

Jones was the one being silly, and yet Arthur was the one who was warm from the chest up. He was blushing, of course, and hoped Jones attributed it to something other than the embarrassment Arthur felt at being treated so intimately by someone he (a) worked with, and (b) had to fight an attraction to.

"I understand," Arthur managed. He started to say something about the CDs versus digital music, or asking about Al's musical tastes, or something about having seen Rick Springfield in concert himself, several times; perhaps they'd attended the same concert? Or anything related and interesting. But couldn't manage it. Perhaps he did need to socialize more, if only to help him feel comfortable in such situations. "The traffic is not too snarled for a Friday afternoon, which is a welcome change. Which entrance is best for you?"

And that was certainly a phrase ripe for double entendre. Arthur cringed.

Al didn't bite. He looked away from Arthur and settled back in his seat, wearing a small, inscrutable smile. "Not too snarled. I like that. Coming at things backwards. Not too snarled." He was trying to copy Arthur's accent. "The entrance off Lake is the easiest to pull up to."

"Ah," Arthur said. Beside him, Al restacked the CDs neatly in their cubbyhole. "Thank you."

"Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it." Al was looking out the window. He was fingering his lips again.

Arthur looked back at the road. He had to make a right here because it was a one-way south, and then get into the left lane to go one way east, and Jesus Christ, that person was trying to run him over. Couldn't someone change a fucking lane now and then without some cunt trying to beat him to it? "Watch it, bastard!" he shouted without thinking.

As soon as he'd done it Arthur felt himself go from embarrassed pink to humiliated red. "Pardon me," he said.

"Heh," was Al's only reply.

"I-" Arthur began, then swallowed. "I promised myself for a New Year's resolution that I would, as you say, become more zen whilst driving."

"And how is that working for you?" Al's voice was low and amused.

"Not too badly, really. Why, were this but two months ago, I would have said something much worse."

"Ha!" Al laughed. He was looking at Arthur again.

Arthur smiled back and felt the heat in his face and neck recede. It felt like a small victory, to make such an easy joke.

Shortly thereafter he reached Al's building and pulled up out front. Al unhooked his seatbelt and climbed out. Arthur fiddled with the temperature controls on the dash and watched Al's long limbs unfold with surreptitious glances. Once outside, Al leaned back down to look at him.

"Thanks again. Maybe we can do lunch on Monday?"

Arthur hemmed and futzed some more on the dash. "I'll have to check my schedule, and see if we have the document finished in time."

"Oh. Okay. Well. Cheerio," Al said. He shut the car door. He turned to walk into his building, saluting the doorman as he passed. Arthur did not hardly glance at his ass at all.

.

***xxxXXXxxx***

.

Arthur went back to the office, though he might as well not have. He couldn't focus. He sat at his desk and remonstrated with himself to get working, to start the discovery, to have a conference with Bella. To consult with his partner Andersen.

Instead he surfed the web and found himself Googling Al. It seemed the news of his impending divorce had broken, because there was a mention of it in both the business page and a local column of the Tribune online. There were no pictures, unfortunately.

Or fortunately, perhaps. Arthur's memory and imagination were vivid enough. He clicked and sighed. He had a terrible habit of developing these ... crushes, he supposed he could call them, on the most inappropriate people. There'd been that footballer in sixth form. Utterly straight, of course, despite the force of Arthur's ardor. That one had nearly gotten him a sound beating when he'd been found out. It transpired that the boy had been more embarrassed than anything, and willing to let the matter drop.

Then there'd been Lee, the owner of a tavern Arthur had liked to visit when he'd first moved to town and was finishing his preparation for the bar. Lee had run a karaoke and drag show and had zero interest in Arthur, who neither wore dresses and makeup nor sang.

As for Al, well. For one, he was out of Arthur's league. Two, he was Arthur's fucking client, for Christ's sake. And third, he was bisexual.

Arthur hated to be intolerant but he'd always been wary of dating bisexuals. At any time they could sod off and settle down with some girl in a societally approved relationship – not that some gay men didn't do the same thing. People could complain all they wanted about the sanctity of marriage, never realizing that having solid, long-lasting homosexual relationships took real devotion and work just to exist under cultural pressure.

And it was just that, if Arthur dated, he rarely did it casually. If he made the effort, he wanted to be rewarded with security and commitment. He'd had very few relationships, mostly because he had little patience with chicanery and fooling around, and he did not give second chances.

With his own cynical outlook on love, the best he could hope for was to meet a comfortable person who would share his interests and not demand too much from him emotionally. To be like Portia, except with occasional sex, perhaps.

Arthur gave up on himself. He left the office at four-thirty and told Monaca to leave early as well. He took the files with him. Perhaps his laptop had magically cleaned itself.

He briefly considered calling Portia and asking her to pick up some wine at the French market and come over. Or perhaps it would be better to go out, maybe get a drink with some of his other friends, like Tony or Christian. To be out there, seeing what the world had to offer that wasn't out of his league or off-limits.

Instead he did like he did most Fridays. He picked up curry and a Kingfisher and took them home to enjoy them alone in front of his television.

By ten he was tired and so he brushed his teeth and went to bed. And lay there, wide awake in the dark. Without distraction of noise or light he could see Al's blue eyes in the conference room. Feel the warmth of his hand.

Arthur was imaginative when he wanted to be. His cock grew hard.

Well, a good wank would hurt nobody and might be beneficial. Release of tension and all that. Like Arthur needed an excuse.

He slid his hand over his chest, down to the waistband of his pajama bottoms, gliding his fingers over his belly to feel - ah, that twitch, that ache of anticipation.

He could smell Alfred Jones's cologne. Was it something he recognized, mixed with the scent of clean, fit male? Something sunny, like the tuft of fair hair over Al's ear, the one he would brush at sometimes over the arm of his glasses.

Arthur's cock was hot in his own hand and thanked him for his firm grip and slow, beginning strokes. His belly pulsed with each drawn-out pull on his flesh.

He swiped his thumb under his foreskin and slicked it in his own pre-ejaculate, soft and wet like Al's lips, the way they nudged pen ends and the tips of his long, tanned fingers ...

Arthur worked up a hard rhythm almost before he knew it, hard like self-recrimination, painful and sweet like Al's white teeth, scraping gently along Arthur's cock as he held Arthur's hips in his strong hands and Arthur thrust into his mouth.

Arthur's own harsh panting sounded loud in his darkened bedroom as he worked his cock and arched his hips off the bed and into his hand.

How is that working for you?

Not bad at all, thanks.

Arthur's testicles and belly tightened and he tired to slow his strokes, his thrusts, tried to hold himself on that acute edge of perfect sensation, there with Al on his knees, every position and entrance at once, tight and alive, very alive—

Arthur came, hard, tumbling over the edge of the canyon, stroking his cock the whole way down until it hurt, until he was drained.

He lay and panted and waited for the thumping of his heart to slow. He wondered how many times he could wank like that over the coming weekend, and if it would drain him of Alfred Jones. He could certainly give it a try. In between bouts of work, of course.

First he'd need to take his laptop to a fast and discreet technician. Arthur rolled over onto his sticky stomach and slept.

***xxxXXXxxx***

Monday, Arthur was ready. It had only taken a couple of hours to clean his laptop - it'd been infected with spyware, could have caught it anywhere, the nice girl at the computer doctor's had told him. So Arthur had been able to connect to Lexis-Nexis to do his research.

He had a document on CD for Bella to Shepardize on Monday morning.

"You really should use that thumb drive I gave you," she told him when he handed her the CD. Arthur just looked at her and she didn't chide him further. His research was good and the doc was cleaned up by ten.

At ten-oh-five, Arthur sat at his desk. He squared the printed petition on his desk blotter. Then he took a few deep breaths and called Al's cell. After a couple of rings, Al answered. "Hello there, Law Office of Andersen and Kirkland," he said.

"Good morning. It's Arthur Kirkland."

"Arthur! You called me," Al said.

"Why, yes, I suppose I did," Arthur joked, hoping he didn't sound too ridiculous.

But Al laughed appreciatively. "So what's the news?"

"I have the petition for your final review and signature." Arthur took another deep breath. He didn't want to presume anything. "Shall I e-mail it over or would you prefer to come by?"

"We're doing lunch, remember?" Al said. "The sun's shining."

"So it is," Arthur said in a mock-surprised voice, glad nobody could see the silly grin on his face.

"Soooo - can you meet me at the corner of State and Randolph at eleven-thirty? Lunch will be my treat."

"Ah-" Arthur wanted to point out that Al was already paying him a great deal, but then Al could afford to buy many lunches. Arthur knew this intimately, having been buried in the man's business for a week. He paused anyway, as if checking his schedule on something other than his memory. "Yes, that should be fine."

"See you then," Al said.

"Quite. Goodbye," Arthur said. Just as he was about to hang up he heard Al's voice, distant-sounding as if he'd pulled his phone away from his face, mumbling God, I love that- And then it was cut off as Al disconnected the call.

Arthur's face warmed, still thankfully in the privacy of his own office. He would have given up a portion of his fee to know what Jones had been saying to himself. Likely it had nothing at all to do with Arthur and everything to do with a passing car or a girl's skirt or something. So Arthur told himself.

Awful, awful, awful, he also told himself. Obviously he'd not been successful in wanking out his unfortunate thing for Alfred Jones. Well, it would happen eventually, since unrequited and inappropriate lust was too annoying to bear for long.

Arthur downed the last of the cold tea in the cup on his desk and went to see if his partner Lars Andersen was available. They usually had a short, general chat on Mondays, to catch up on new and continuing cases, coordinate space usage, and other whatnots.

Andersen was agog to hear how much Arthur's newest case had progressed. He was also impressed with the fee. Arthur let Andersen handle the financial aspects of running a law firm and was only too happy to do so, because it freed him for things he was better at, like handling personnel and practicing law.

Their staff and practices were mostly separate, if related. They'd met when they'd been on opposite sides of a rather nasty divorce case involving a local politician. Arthur had represented the wife in that matter, and Andersen the philandering husband. When the ashes had all settled, the two had been impressed with each other's work and ethics despite their clients' acrimony.

Andersen's partner at the time had been about to retire, and Arthur had been a solo practitioner, and so they'd agreed to join forces. Bella had come with Arthur and had been thrilled to finally do what she did best and was trained for, instead of doing all the odd jobs of Arthur's small practice.

"I may borrow Emil for discovery, if you don't mind," Arthur said, fixing a new cup of tea in the bar in Andersen's office. Emil Steilsson was their new associate, Andersen's son-in-law who'd recently passed the bar.

"Absolutely. It'll be good for him to get some billable hours instead of running courier duties to the court all day."

"It won't be for at least a week. Even Beilschmidt isn't that efficient," Arthur said.

"Hmm," Andersen said. He set his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers, pointing them up like his gelled, silvery hair. He was a tall, slender, distinguished sort who looked like a politician himself. "He's in an awful hell-fired hurry. And those outrageous demands. Something's going on there."

Arthur sipped his tea and nodded. "On one side or the other. But it's not like they can hurry the courts along."

"No."

"I'm ... meeting with Mr. Jones for lunch today, to get his signature on the petition," Arthur said. And strangely, he didn't want to really discuss that too thoroughly, lest something be revealed. The more he tried to hide things, the more transparent it seemed he became to others. "So! I've been thinking. How would you feel about the staff having Casual Fridays? I thought about giving my people permission, but didn't want to create friction in the office."

Andersen's eyebrows shot sky-high, till it seemed all of him was pointing up. "That's not like you, Arthur. You must be in a very good mood. Hot date last weekend?"

Arthur's ears warmed. "No, not at all. Working like a dog. I guess it was something that's been rattling around up here for a while. Ha ha."

Andersen threw up his hands in a "who knows" gesture. "Well, you're the personnel expert. I'm sure you can come up with an appropriate dress code. So they have Casual Fridays in the UK?"

"From what I've seen, it depends on the office," Arthur said, thankful the conversation seemed to have moved on.

They chatted briefly then went back to their respective work. Arthur called Lili into his office to discuss the relaxation of the dress code for Fridays and she lit up like a child on Christmas. She swore to keep everything as professional as possible, he would never notice a thing, and practically jogged from his office to tell the other staff. Lili, who wore suits and heels every day, was thrilled to death with the idea.

Arthur began to wonder whether or not his thing had infected his mood after all. He certainly didn't feel like moping. Did he usually? He couldn't remember.

The temperature outside was still near freezing despite the sunshine, and as Arthur walked up State Street he resisted the urge to hunch against the frigid breeze blowing in from the lake. He would be impossibly red and wind-chafed by the time he met Jones no matter what he did.

The sounds of ever-present construction made the walk further less than pleasant, as machinery thumped into concrete and workers tried to holler at each other over the din. There had to be a more attractive way to shield pedestrians from dust and noise than with hastily constructed tunnels of white plastic nailed to bare wood, but the Chicago Department of Transportation had obviously not researched them.

Arthur emerged from one such tunnel to see Al, waiting for him on the corner. He hadn't yet spotted Arthur, and Arthur took the chance to watch him unseen. Al was wearing the same long, black wool coat he'd worn on Friday, and stood with his hands in his pockets, half-smiling and staring off at nothing Arthur could see. He swung his coat from side to side slightly, almost like a child might.

He turned and saw Arthur and his half-smile grew into his usual devastating grin. Devastating to Arthur, anyway. "Hello!" he called.

"Morning," Arthur said. He stretched out a gloved hand for Al to shake. Al's cheeks were as wind-pink as Arthur's must be. He glanced at the file tucked under Arthur's arm but didn't mention it.

"Wind today's killer, isn't it? Let's get going."

"Lead on," Arthur said, open-palmed.

They walked. Al was even chattier than usual. "We're having American for lunch. Ha ha. Burgers, if that's okay." He didn't wait for a reply before continuing. "My assistant is sick today. Some head thing-chest thing. This time of year all that stuff seems to go around. I never really get it, though."

He looked at Arthur with his eyebrows raised, and Arthur wasn't sure what he was supposed to respond to. "Fortunate for you," he said after a moment. "I am chronically healthy as well."

It seemed to be the correct response. "Right? Knock on wood, haha, except there's only concrete here, though I guess it'll count. Getting out in the fresh air is the key. Everyone wants to hibernate and coop themselves up indoors all winter but not me."

Al pointed right as they neared a corner. Arthur had to hurry slightly to keep up with his quick strides.

"In the mall," Al continued. "Right here on the bottom floor."

Arthur slid after Al into the revolving door and emerged in front of a ... Burger King? Surely not?

"This is it!" Al confirmed. "God, I love fast food. Sorry if it's not too high class, but the food is tasty and we've beat the lunch rush."

Arthur hid a half-exasperated, half-amused headshake. He wasn't paying and, well, this seemed very like Al. He shouldn't be surprised. "No, this is fine," he said.

They ordered their meals - Whoppers and fries, Arthur would have to do extra crunches or something tonight - and chose a booth tucked away in the back where they could have some quiet.

Al salted and coated his fries in ketchup while Arthur sorted through his file. He plucked out the dissolution cross-petition and laid it next to Al, on top of an overturned plastic tray and away from the ketchup.

Al paused in the act of taking a first bite out of his Whopper. He stared at the pleading and there was a flash of something in his eyes: Arthur might have called it fear. Then his expression returned to its more normal general brashness. "Should I read it?"

"I would advise it, because you'll need to sign an affirmation that the document is true," Arthur told him. Arthur unfolded a napkin in his lap and ate a fry while Al seemed to try and decide whether or not he should touch the thing. Arthur ate another fry. Al eventually peeled back the cover page and scanned it, and the next, and the next. He took a bite of his Whopper and read some more. Arthur ate his meal - it really wasn't that bad, if not what he'd expected - and waited for questions and tried not to stare at Al as he ate in distraction, at the bob of his Adams' apple when he slurped his cola.

Al didn't ask questions until he reached the end of the document. He'd gone through it so quickly there was no way he could have read it all in detail, but then they'd hashed most of those details out the previous Friday.

"I sign here?" he asked, looking at the final page.

"Yes," Arthur said. He quit goggling at the way Al's long eyelashes curled in profile, and pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it over. Al clicked the pen, then raised it like he was going to rub his lips against the end of it, and if he did Arthur would lick the pen later, he'd swear it - but instead Al signed, quickly. He turned the pages around for Arthur to see his loopy scrawl.

"So this is it, huh? The end?"

Arthur collected the document and replaced it in his folder to avoid the looming fast-food damage. "No, nothing's final until the judge signs off on the divorce decree. This is just the beginning of the process."

"Oh." Al gave back the unlicked pen. He took a bite of his burger and immediately sucked at his cola, like his food was too dry in his mouth. Arthur knew the feeling.

"I'll file it when I get back to the office."

"Okay." Al played with one of his fries. It looked like he was drawing in his splotches of ketchup. "I gotta have a meeting with my shareholders first thing tomorrow. They're kind of freaking about this whole thing."

Arthur would have bet Al was 'freaking' a bit as well. "It's fortunate you are a private corporation."

"Wish everything was private." Al looked around the restaurant, at all the people, seeming somewhat surprised that they were paying him no attention, and did not know nor care that his life was changing so drastically. "So what happens now?"

"We wait," Arthur said, looking at Al, trying to sound kind.

Al finally dropped his paintbrush-fry. He stared at the dregs of his burger. "Guess I'm just not used to the idea of joining the world of single people again."

Arthur snorted. "Well, welcome to it, I'm sorry to say."

Al looked up at him then, and his eyes narrowed in that sly expression he had. "Strange, Arthur. It seems like you're the type to be all settled down."

"One might think," Arthur said, now trying to sound dismissive.

Al looked away and then bundled his trash onto the plastic tray. "Well, you make me feel a little better about being out there."

Arthur stared. "What, by being single? Being alone?" Then Arthur flushed as he realized he was talking to Al almost like Al talked to him. Almost like he might talk to Portia. Al's presence had chipped away at Arthur's customary veneer of professionalism.

Al looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. "No. I guess I just know there are okay people out there."

Dear God, Arthur's nether regions flashed with a sudden heat at that look, and at the insinuation in the words. He sipped at the last of his iced tea and scrabbled to find anything to say that would change that subject. "It might take time. But you'll find another nice lady, I'm sure."

Al shrugged and watched his crumpled paper wrappings as they unfurled on the tray. "Well, I wouldn't say Mariel was ... it's just that. Well, she was kind of special."

"I'm sure she is," Arthur said, and the warm churn in his belly froze. His ribcage seemed to tighten in the sudden chill.

Al's eyes widened as if Arthur had alarmed him with his response. "No. I mean... aw, never mind. I'm just being weird."

Arthur was glad to know he wasn't the only one who thought so. Al was being incomprehensible to him, because surely he wasn't-

Jones continued. "I kind of tell you things I don't mean to tell you. Stuff just comes out."

"Ah," Arthur said. He begged for his inner legal psychologist to help him out. The best that man came up with was "Well, as your attorney, I've already promised you that I'll be discreet. And I hear all sorts of things in my line of work-"

Jones waved, cutting Arthur off, and leaned back in his seat. "Yeah, you did. Thanks. I guess you lawyers do this sort of stuff all the time." He had a slight frown on his face, the one he got whenever Arthur scored a point. Arthur hadn't wanted that one, but he'd won it anyway, just by being himself.

"Yes," Arthur said, quietly.

Jones craned his neck to glance out into the mall, in the direction of the doors. "Looks like it's getting cloudy. I heard it's supposed to rain later or something. We oughta get going."

"Good idea," Arthur choked out.

Arthur gathered up his files while Al - Jones, dammit - dumped their trash. They donned their coats and left. In the mall, they stopped in front of the revolving door to the outside.

Jones made a strange hand gesture, like he'd been about to reach out for Arthur but stopped. Arthur told himself that it was because of his nervousness - Jones was plainly nervous - and the fact that they didn't need to shake hands to say goodbye.

"Well, call me if you hear anything," Jones said. He wasn't looking at Arthur, only in his general direction. Arthur missed Jones's smile and was glad of its absence at the same time.

"Please feel free to contact me if you have questions," Arthur said.

"Okay. Well, bye," Jones said. Arthur nodded and they parted.

Arthur walked briskly back to the office. The day was indeed turning grey. Arthur told himself that it was not at all the case that Jones was attracted to him in any way, because for a few moments it had seemed like he'd been … flirting. It couldn't possibly be, however, and that was all there was to it. It was good that they had parted as generally and professionally as possible.

Inside, Arthur gave the documents to Bella for her to copy. She would give them to Emil to run over to the clerk of court for filing. Arthur sat at his desk. His phone rang. It was Monaca.

"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Bonnefoy is calling."

Arthur sighed. "Thank you. Please put him through." There was a click. "Bonnefoy? I hope there aren't any changes, because the document is signed and headed for the clerk. Miss Martens will scan you a copy."

Bonnefoy had a pout in his voice. "Arthur! No, that's not it. I tried to face-time you on your cell this morning and again a little while ago. You didn't answer."

"Oh." Arthur felt for his neglected smartphone in his jacket pocket. He thumbed up the menu. There were three missed calls and a text from Portia: Asshole canceled our blind date already and he hasn't even met me asshole says he has a job and cant get down here goddammit. Poor Portia. "I had it turned off."

"Whatever shall we do with you?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "How may I help you?"

"Ah- well, it is a bit of a delicate matter, shall we say?"

"F.H. ..."

"Yes, yes. Well, I wanted to chat with you about - ah - Alfred Jones."

Arthur's stupid heart tightened again. "What is it?"

"Hmm. Well, I just want you to know that he is a dear boy. He has a good heart."

"Aaaaand?" Arthur said. Bonnefoy was being even stranger than usual, and that could be pretty strange.

"I have known him for years and ..." Bonnefoy paused. It sounded like he swallowed. "I just want you to be cautious, however. He can be rather ... impetuous."

"You don't say?" Arthur said. He relaxed a little.

"I should have told you this earlier," Bonnefoy said, as if completely missing the irony in Arthur's voice. "But I didn't realize a need until Friday."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Bonnefoy aaaahed as if imparting a great secret. "Well, it seemed that there was maybe a ... shall we say, a sort of current between you two? He was sillier than usual. And you were a more lovely shade of pink than I've ever seen you, even when we had you over for our Fourth of July cookout-"

"Dear God," Arthur said, swiping a hand over his face. How humiliating, that even F.H. had noticed? He'd been trying so hard, too. Well, he was half-British. He could bluff more politely than anyone he knew in this country. "You ass. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are an absolute dream, Arthur," Bonnefoy said, in the kind of voice with a silly grin attached to it. "But just know that our dear Al can be quite the bull-headed idiot when he wants something. I don't want you to be surprised, or hurt. Just prepared."

"I think I will be fine, Frannie," Arthur said, using that nickname for the first time. "Thank you for your concern."

"You have a lovely Monday as well, Arthur. Aufwiedersehen."

"Goodbye," Arthur said, and hung up.

Very well. He had to do something about this. Get out of town, his instinct told him, as it usually did when he needed an escape.

He swiveled in his chair and Googled "Weekend Destinations," and clicked "I'm feeling lucky." And there it was, the answer, like from a kind fate: California Wine Country. He copied a couple of links and e-mailed them to Portia. Then he e-mailed his staff and told them he would be out on Friday but that they could start their Casual Days without him.