I sincerely hope you enjoy this story, which has been over a year in the making. This is a slow-burning lesbian romance, and as with all my stories, some of the places and locations are real, but all of the characters are purely a work of fiction. All characters are above the age of eighteen. And sometimes I get bored! Send me private messages if you have comments, feedback, or just want to chat. I love hearing from people! It makes publishing these stories worth while.
- Abby Ray
The Multitude of the Heavens
Chapter 1 -
Emily Rush
- January -
"Good morning, Ms. Rush," the security guard greeted.
"Hey, Mr. Marlon," I said coarsely.
He chuckled, "it's Friday!" His face beamed with joy, but my forced smile was a weak attempt to conceal my exhaustion. I was up until two in the morning reading case files, and I hoped my mascara and eyeliner were enough to hide my fatigue.
"Yes, sir," I breathed. I placed my purse and briefcase on the X-ray machine's conveyor belt. I murmured, "just one more day," before stepping through the metal detector.
He asked, "any plans for the weekend?"
I shook my head, "just resting and catching up on some work."
"Well, you have a good one, Ms. Rush."
"You too." As I collected my belongings, I caught a glimpse of Lucas Harmon pompously walking in my direction. I averted my eyes thinking he wouldn't see me, but I was kidding myself. My red hair stood out like a house on fire.
"Ms. Rush!" He exclaimed, shuffling toward me. I clenched my fists, and Marlon giggled under his breath when I audibly sighed.
"Morning, Mr. Harmon," I said coldly as I started toward my office. Lucas was a tall, thin man. He carried a sloppy briefcase with papers struggling to escape. He had an annoying tenor voice and wore a hideous brown suit.
"You look nice this morning," he said, crudely running his eyes over my body. "The blue blouse really complements your hair. I like the whole blue and red concept."
"What do you want, Lucas?" I moved quickly, forcing him to keep up with my pace. As we spoke, I looked forward, not at him.
"Can't I compliment a nice young lady?"
"No," I answered, my voice bitter. "I'm tired, Lucas — not in the mood for nonsense. What do you want?"
"Let's consider a plea deal for Mr. Bradley," he proposed.
I asked, "how is it that you manage to find me every morning, Lucas? Do you sit here and wait for me? Who has the time?"
"It's a coincidence," he claimed, scratching his head.
"There's no chance."
"Well," he started to say, lacking an answer.
I said, "and what's the deal for Mr. Bradley?"
"Five years in prison and four years probation."
"Absolutely not, Lucas," I rejected. "He's facing up to fifty-five years."
Lucas begged, "but remember, Emily, this is Mr. Bradley's first offense. He's never had so much as a speeding ticket. If he pleads guilty to attempted assault—"
I halted, arched my eyebrows, and interrupted, "attempted assault?" My voice was sharp; I flailed my right hand as I argued. "Your client robbed a convenience store and shot the clerk in the arm. Then he proceeded to rage through town at over a hundred miles an hour and crashed into a city bus. So, that's thirty years for the attempted murder, five years for the illegal firearm, twenty years for the robbery, thirty days for the reckless driving, and thirty days for the bag of weed they found on him." I continued walking.
"But Emily, fifty-five years in prison is unwarranted for a first-time offender."
I scoffed, "if he stole a candy bar, yeah. But he tried to kill someone, Lucas. And you and I both know he'll never serve fifty-five years if he's convicted. For a first-time offender, I'm pushing for twenty-five."
We stopped at an elevator, which Lucas called by pressing a button. I added, "have him plead guilty to the attempted murder charge, the firearm charge, and the robbery charge — twenty-five years in prison — and we'll have a deal and can avoid a full trial."
He protested, "how about Mr. Bradley pleads guilty to robbery, but not attempted murder."
"Nope," I maintained. "There's not a jury in the world that won't convict him on all charges. He's on camera at the store shooting the clerk. His fingerprints are on the casings recovered from the store's floor. The police found the same gun on his person after his crash. And to top it off, he practically told the detectives that he did it."
Lucas motioned me onto the elevator. "After you." His voice became tense, "okay, Mr. Bradley pleads guilty to attempted murder and robbery and is sentenced to fifteen years."
"No deal, Lucas. I'm pressing for twenty-five years." My words echoed in the confined space. "Twenty-five years is fair."
"Can I get you down to twenty?"
"Nope," I said again. "Twenty-five out of fifty-five years is generous. If you can't agree to that, we're going to have to take it to trial." I let on the flicker of an arrogant smile. "But I'll do you the favor of dropping the reckless driving and marijuana charges." Lucas sighed, his head dropping. He retreated, exiting onto a different floor than me.
My office was small, having only enough space for a bookshelf, a desk, a couple of chairs, and a couch. I had a paralegal, Laila Wiley, whose makeshift desk was a small wooden table in the corner of the room. Laila's superpower was her quick-wittedness and adaptability.
"Good morning, Laila," I smiled as I entered the office. The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee was my saving grace for the day. "How long have you been here?"
"Twenty minutes or so," she answered energetically. Her bronze skin bloomed with youth. Her hair was naturally fluffy and curly, bound by a small headband so that it was flat in the front. But behind the band, her hair was lush and voluminous, simultaneously unrestricted and well-groomed. She had piercing brown eyes, around which she applied a light layer of black liner. She wore a pair of circular glasses and simple earrings. She dressed professionally; her white blouse was buttoned to her neck and her knee-length black skirt curved along her slender figure.
"You alright?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said with little confidence, tying my hair behind my head. "Or I will be once I have this coffee. I had a spat with Lucas on the way up here. He keeps 'happening' to bump into me in the hallway." I air quoted "happening."
Laila added, "and unfortunately, he's the defense attorney for your first bond hearing this morning."
"Oh, dammit," I muttered. "I can't get away from him."
She handed me a mug of coffee. She knew how I liked it - straight black. I took a sip, supping it carefully lest I burn myself. "Oh, that's good," I whispered.
She raised one side of her lips in disgust. "I still don't see how you can drink it like that."
I shrugged, "because it's good."
She said, "what are your plans for tonight?" She poured herself a mug, adding a generous helping of real cream and sugar.
I blew some heat off the coffee and smirked. "I don't know if I should tell you."
"Why not?" Her tone went high.
"Because you're just going to criticize me," I said.
"I won't," she disagreed in a lighthearted whine. She tried to hide a smile as if she were lying. "You do have something planned for tonight, right?"
"I have a book I want to keep reading," I said.
She wrinkled her nose and grumbled. "How can you read?"
"My mother taught me," I grinned. I clasped the mug between both hands, relishing its warmth on my palms.
She ignored my cheesy joke. "Come on, Emily. You can't spend a Friday night alone at home again."
"See," I pointed at her. "You're doing it. You're judging my hobbies." She giggled. I went on, "and why not? It's a fantastic story. It had me on the edge of my seat the last time I read, which hasn't been since Sunday, I might add." I shrugged and started removing files from my briefcase. "And it's not like there's anything else to do."
"What?" She squeaked. "There's plenty to do. You gotta take your mind off of work. Go to a bar or something."
"A bar?" I repeated in an annoyed tone. "I'm too old for that. And a book will keep my mind off of work just as much as anything else."
She squinted in animosity. "Too old? You just turned thirty and you could pass for twenty-five."
I pretended to gag.
"Why are you making fake puking noises?"
"It's the way you said 'turned thirty.' You make it sound like I'm milk that's gone bad."
"You're so dumb," she joked, chuckling through her teeth.
I questioned, "and why is it that everyone's expectations suddenly changed when I hit thirty? Everyone wants to know why I'm not married or why I'm not popping out kids." She shook her head, subtly smiling at my stubbornness. I said, "and what are you doing tonight, missy?" I rested my hands on my hips as if I had stumped her.
She walked toward me and spoke pretentiously, sticking her face close to mine as if I were supposed to be jealous. "I—" She pointed arrogantly at herself — "am spending the evening with Damien."
"Well, you two have fun," I sighed.
"And you should have fun too," she persisted.
"It's a college town, Laila," I said. "The people in these bars are college-aged. I'll stick out like a sore thumb."
"It's all in your head," she said. "And all the university kids are in the bars in Five Points." She pointed shallowly at me. "But I've heard of a bar on Devine Street that's —" She paused and looked at the ceiling in search of the appropriate word. "It's a special bar," she said with reluctance.
"You mean it's a lesbian bar, don't you."
Her voice went high-pitched. "If that's the way you want to put it, then yes, it's a lesbian bar."
I crossed my arms and shifted my weight to one hip. "And what makes you think I'd be interested in a lesbian bar?"
The ghost of a smile crawled to her face. "Do I need to answer that?"
