Shortness of Breath

Chapter Thirteen

Casey - July third, 1998

I remember swallowing hard as I knocked on the heavy cedar door, my feet pointed toward one another, standing like a child with my head bowed and knees quavering. It was summer then, and as I grew increasingly aware of the July heat, his voice found its way through the thick wood that separated us, and I recoiled just at the sound, all the while knowing I couldn't walk away now.

"What is it?" he'd called, or rather, demanded.

I tried to begin speaking, but whatever sound came out, it probably wasn't sufficient. I don't remember what I said, or what I tried to say. But I remember the footsteps. They were deafening, and each one louder than the last.

"How many times do I-"

I just stared back into his cold, stern eyes, probably looking every bit as terrified as I was.

"Oh," he said, more quietly. Softening. "I'm sorry."

"No," I managed. "I am. I, this is my first day, here, and...you had a call, and I can't seem to work the stupid intercom, and...I'm sorry, Counselor. This was a mistake."

Saving me from the internal self-destruct button, and astounding me in the purest sense of the word, he laughed.

"Don't apologize," he said. "Come in."

"Come," I repeated, like he'd been messing with me. "Come in?"

"Yes," he said, with a giant hand gesturing into his office, which greatly surpassed my bedroom in size. Not wanting to be rude, not wanting to get fired hours after I'd begun, I obliged. "New administrative assistant? They told me you were coming by."

"Casey," I introduced, with a touch more warmth, a touch less timidity. "Lansing."

"Wilson Kenny," he replied with an extension of the hand. "Corp law."

I just nodded. That meant absolutely nothing to me, and from my expression I'd guess we both knew it.

"3L?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Third year?"

"Third year of what?"

He blinked several times, probably wondering where the hell I was raised. "Of school?"

"Oh. No. Fourth."

"Fourth year of law school?"

"Oh, I'm not in law school."

"You're working for my law firm and you're not in law school," he confirmed.

I swallowed hard. "I'm an undergrad," I explained.

"Ah," he said, disinterested. "Pre-law, then."

I cast my eyes downward, feeling strangely apologetic. "Pre-med, actually. Bio, pre-med."

His expression read that he'd never heard of such a prospect. "What are you doing here?"

Probably the worst thing I could have done, I shrugged. "Saving up for med school," I gave as a candid answer.

He just stared back. "Who hired you?"

"Ferigno?"

Wilson met my eyes again, then scanned my entire body slowly. I felt his gaze hit every single part of me in what felt like an hour time frame. Finally, he returned to my face. "I think I can guess why."

In the weeks that followed, I finally learned how to use the intercom that linked my desk with Wilson Kenny's office, but if I was happy about discovering it for the first time, he too was taking some newfound pleasure in using it. A little too liberally, he would page me throughout the day, requesting my presence in his office, and in the name of doing and keeping my job, I would go. Sometimes, he had a real request; other times, he'd invent them. He seemed to be overly reliant on me, but I knew he didn't need me in the slightest; he simply wanted me around because he liked to look at me. And being twenty one, insecure, and under-qualified, I was okay with that.