The intimate crowd at Bar 54 had thinned dramatically between Donna's third and fourth Long Island Iced Tea. It was so quiet she could easily hear her ice cubes softly clinking as she stirred them around with a tall straw. Periodically, the brunette behind the bar would throw her a derisive glance, silently judging her alcohol consumption. Granted, four of the potent cocktails were a lot, but she'd been draining them over nearly two hours, waiting for Harvey to show up.
He obviously wasn't coming, and she didn't blame him for the radio silence. No matter how good a closer he was, getting her father to accept her money was always going to be a difficult task.
Her phone lit up with a message from Teddie, asking how things went, and she quickly turned the screen face-down.
Over the years, after a brief fling between them ended, he'd become like a big brother to her. In the beginning, their friendship had taken a little while to find its feet, but fate kept pushing them together in the most random places: the library, a deli, even at the car wash once. Eventually, they'd decided to take an unorthodox approach to the random occurrences, turning them into a game of dating without sex. Then once they'd really gotten to know each other, they realized why the universe had intervened. They weren't meant to be together, but they were meant to be in each other's lives, even when they couldn't stand each other.
Which was why she didn't want to hear Teddie's stubbornly charming "I told you so." He'd warned her not to manipulate Harvey, but if she'd told the NYC lawyer the truth, he would have shown her the door without a second thought.
With a shallow breath, she drove an elongated sigh into her glass.
Her relationship with her father was complicated, but it hadn't always been the fragile mess it was now. For sixteen years, she'd idolized the man who'd raised her with love, care, and devotion. He was a good person, but one bad investment had altered her family in ways she still struggled to understand. They'd lost everything, but no blame was ever cast upon her dad — only the shame he'd placed on himself. Guilt pushed him into a deep depression, one that drove him to the bottle, and twelve months later, her parents' divorce followed.
After her mother moved them to California, her dad sought help for his addiction, determined to reclaim what he'd lost. But once he'd gotten sober, she suspected his failure to win them back was rooted in his fear of confronting the full extent of the damage he'd caused. She could forgive him for everything else, but not the fact her mother had passed away with the hope for a reconciliation still in her heart.
The painful empathy and regret she felt made her want to sink into oblivion, and she took a large sip under the frugal eyes of the barmaid. With a terse smile, she swallowed the irony that alcohol had been largely responsible for destroying her family.
Clara had often said she was too much like her father for her own good; eager to please, with a stubbornly quiet side of self-deprecating behavior. Fortunately, she'd also inherited her mother's showgirl confidence and shrewd versatility. When plans didn't go her way, she adapted, and when a woody, vetiver cologne encroached on her space, understatedly announcing, " I'm here, I own the room, and I play to win, " she realized the rules had changed, but the game hadn't.
"Macallan 18, double, neat."
The muscles under Harvey's suit flexed as he leaned over the bar, casually avoiding her in a way she guessed was a typical trait — hiding his frustraion beneath a thinly veiled curtain, and letting his menacingly tight posture speak for itself.
She'd rehearsed an apology on the off chance he decided to show up, but his intimidating stance dispelled her fluctuating guilt.
If he only knew how many powerful men in Hollywood had used their physicality to try and lure her into submission. She'd go a round with him, come clean, maybe. But she wouldn't fold just because he could swing his reproductive organs around, and her voice was unapologetic as she acknowledged him. "You're late."
The barmaid delivered Harvey's scotch with a wink, her purple nails lingering around the glass ridges, and of course he smiled charmingly as he swept it up with a soft nod. The brunette turned with a seductive sway, crossing to the other side of the bar, but even though his eyes trailed her — putting on a delightfully display of misogyny — the bite to his sarcasm betrayed how overtly false his interest was.
"According to the tabloids, you like your chardonnay. Didn't think tardiness would be an issue."
Donna swiveled her straw with a smirk. There was no way the refined Harvey Specter paid attention to tabloid gossip. He'd been Googling her, and that, along with the fact he was here, made his insult a backhanded compliment.
"Haven't you heard? You shouldn't believe everything you read online."
"Oh, I wouldn't dare assume anything about you, Your Highness."
He swallowed a finger of scotch, his attention cool and contemptuous when it finally landed on her.
"You lied to me."
"Technically, I omitted some facts." She shrugged. "Not the same thing."
His persona turned from cold to icy, the dramatic shift in his dark pupils showcasing the man beneath the suit. So, he wasn't just a pretty face who liked poker, sex, and fast cars… He genuinely cared about loyalty. Good for him. She'd feel worse about misjudging, except the buzz of her tipsiness was starting to thrum, and this couldn't be the first time a client had thrown him a curveball. There was no way his Wall Street whales were as pure as the driven snow, and she'd bet anything he didn't show up to accost them wearing his best cologne.
Being candid, and dismissing his guilt trip, she showed him the same indifference he'd walked in with. "My father and I aren't close. That makes your job harder, not impossible."
"My job is my own goddamn purview."
His tone was clipped as he reached into his inner pocket, pulling out the check she'd given. There was no song and dance this time, he simply thrust the remittance across the bar, all traces of his charm gone.
"For the record, your father is a self-righteous prick who doesn't want any help. My free advice is to go back to L.A. Don't make his problems yours."
The glass landed on the polished wood with a sharp clink, and she felt a small ripple of panic, realizing that she'd let her eye on the end-game slip.
"Wait ."
The cocktail nearly went flying as she caught his sleeve, the act of desperation lifting his brows with a hesitant flicker.
"Sign me."
She released his cuff, brushing off her franticness with a deep sobering breath. She wasn't nearly drunk enough to beg, but her lips were loose enough to part with the allegations made against her.
"The IRS thought I was a co-conspirator. That's how I found out about the charges against my dad. They backed off, but if I agree to cooperate, maybe you can find evidence to help him.'
"And there it is."
His scoff was hollow, his judgment condescending as he loomed over her stool.
'You don't give a shit about your father. You want your bases covered in case a reporter over here connects you to the embezzlement.'
She refuted his accusation with a sharp shake of her head. "You're wrong. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him."
He leaned in, and her stomach fluttered as his broad arms caged her against the bar. There wasn't a shred of empathy to his invasive demeanor, just disdain as he growled his disapproval in a low whisper.
"The thing about crocodile tears, Your Highness, is that when you cry wolf a second time, nobody comes running."
Her chest rose with a fast beat of indignation. She wouldn't buckle under his domineering prowess and refused to let him keep lording himself over her when his incentive tonight hadn't been returning a check.
"Assuming the worst of me , that's rich. If you'd gotten your apology, how long would it have taken before your hand was up my dress?"
'Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
The mix of discomfort in his steely expression said it all — the difference between her and his Wall Street whales was that she had a vagina, and his chagrined step back proved it.
"Thank you for the interest, Mr. Specter, but I'll be electing to find someone more suitable as my representation."
Stealing his storm-out from underneath him was a petty move, but the barmaid was already en route, no doubt to stroke his bruised ego, and that was fine by her.
Like she'd told him, she didn't get disappointed — she got results. And if he wasn't going to help her, she'd drum up enough media attention to find a lawyer who would.
.
.
.
Gravel crunched under Ted Black's Nikes, his heavy breathing steady as he ran along the Santa Monica Ocean Front Walk. Next to him, orange and lilac hues began to crest over the sea's horizon, the sunrise signaling it was almost time to circle back home.
The music playing through his AirPods stalled with a chime, disrupting his run, and he tilted his wrist, seeing a notification from The New York Times. His phone was programmed to push alerts anytime Donna headlined the news, which was usually a fluffy piece on E.T . or a bogus scandal on TMZ — nothing as fact-based as NYT.
A sense of unease filled his quiet morning meditation, and he slowed to a jog, reaching around his waist to get his phone.
The only condition of his friendship with Donna was no exchanging benefits or anything that could get messy. That meant technically he wasn't her lawyer, but he'd never stop looking out for her.
Stopping under the nearest bollard light, the dimming glow helped illuminate his screen, and the calm serenity around him shattered as he clicked open the story
Drama Queen or Crime Scene? Donna Paulsen, Soap's Top Villain, Faces Real-Life Embezzlement Scandal.
Shit.
His mind started to race with panic. He couldn't retract a story from The New York Times, and even if he could, by then, the gossip tabloids would be all over it. His thumb raced down, looking for a goddamn source, and he almost hurled the phone when he landed on a video of Donna giving a press conference. There's no way her manager would have approved a media briefing. Logan, the spoiled fucking hack, wouldn't even be awake yet. She had to have orchestrated the event herself, and his chest strained with the tight burden of caring about her stubborn ass. The discomfort was, unfortunately, something he'd made room for in his life because he loved her, but Jesus… If he could lock her in a room for her own protection, sometimes he swore he would.
Preparing himself, he shook the frustration out of his hand and hit play on the clip, watching her step up to the podium. She was dressed to the nines in a beige pantsuit, her sleek, fiery red hair catching the light from multiple flashes as she leaned into the microphone.
"The reason I called you here today is because my father, Jim Paulsen, has been charged with a crime he did not commit. While charges against me haven't been announced, I acknowledge my name is tied to this investigation, and I will be offering the IRS my full cooperation until this matter is resolved fairly and justly. During this time, I will be taking a hiatus from filming Crimson Boulevard. This is my decision and does not reflect any pressure from the studio or the producers of the show. I'd ask that you please respect my family's privacy at this time. Thank you."
The replay button circled his screen, but he ignored it with a sharp, livid exhale. Watching the video again wouldn't undo the fact she'd steamrolled right over his persuasive little chat with the IRS. They'd throw the book at her for publicly aligning herself with Jim. Never mind the damage she was doing to her career—if she kept this up, she was likely to end up in a cell next to her father.
With an angry swipe, he dialed her number, storming off the path and onto the sandy terrain. After multiple attempts to reach her, he lashed out at the grainy sediment, kicking it up with his sneaker. Donna had sworn she'd come back home if Harvey refused to help, and he dove deep into his contacts, finding the man's number. If Harvey had put her up to the press conference, he was going to be a sorry son of a bitch.
The line rang, and as soon as it picked up, he barked into the phone, "What the hell did you let her do?!"
Harvey swallowed his juice, the glass rattling angrily in the sink as he snapped back, "Excuse me? I didn't do anything." He'd seen the article about Donna in The Times, and the only reason he'd answered Theodore's call was to make it clear he had no intention of getting involved. "She blew into my office like a fucking hurricane. You didn't warn me about shit, and she certainly didn't call in any goddamn favors, so I told her to go back home."
Ted tugged a hand through his hair as he paced. Specter owed him, but in light of the evidence against Jim, he'd left the decision in Harvey's hands. It wouldn't have killed the man to be civil. "You knew I sent her. I didn't think I had to attach a goddamn note."
"I looked at the case," Harvey growled into the speaker. "She manipulated me into meeting her father, who, by the way, is an asshole. He didn't want my help. So why should I give a damn what happens to either of them?"
"Because I care about her!"
The fast words caught on the breeze, drawing attention from an elderly couple power walking, but it was Harvey's silence that made him regret the outburst. He was furious with Donna. He'd warned her not to test Harvey, and he'd bet anything she'd gone rogue because she planned to stay in New York and look for different representation. Harvey wasn't the only one she'd riled up, but he knew that whatever she was doing over there, it was because she was desperately trying to save someone she cared about.
Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. The cat was out of the bag now, and there was one plea he knew would make Harvey see the situation differently.
"Donna's not just some client, Harvey. She's family… like Marcus."
The tension on the line peaked at high velocity, the waves in the background crashing into a long stretch of nothing, until Harvey finally answered with a low, pissed-off grunt.
"Goddamnit, Theodore. You'd better be clear about what you're asking here."
He braced his palm against a tall, floating palm, considering the implications of forcing Harvey's hand. Using his relationship with Marcus was the big gun—the last favor he'd ever get to call in. Or he could trust Donna to know what she was getting herself into and find someone with jurisdiction over there to get her out of trouble.
He had faith in her, but he couldn't take a chance on anyone else except Harvey.
"I want you to protect her. Do whatever you have to. Just make sure she comes home."