Woman Of The Night

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?"

"Whatever," I dismissed, waving my hand. "I've never been a bar-goer anyway. Too much noise and commotion. And how do you know about this so-called lesbian bar?"

She leaned back against my desk. "My friend told me about it. She's talked about it a few times. In fact, she met her girlfriend there. You should go and see who you can meet."

"No, no, no. I'm not in a position to get involved in a relationship right now. I think I'm just gonna go home for the night. I'm exhausted already and it's not even eight in the morning."

"Boring," she teased.

"It's not boring," I defended. "I'm halfway through the book and want to keep going. That and a glass of wine and a hot bath. Literally, nothing is better."

"Sounds boring to me," she went on. "When's the last time you got laid?"

I averted my eyes toward the wall. "Laila, you do remember I'm your boss, right?"

"Of course, I remember that you're the most gracious, most wonderful boss in the world," she said with false excitement.

"You're kissing my ass now. And it's been a while since I've been laid." She shook her head dispiritedly. "Anyway, we've both got to get through the workday before either of us can do anything. And I need to get ready for these bond hearings this morning. Hopefully, they won't last long."

"Yup," Laila said as she handed me a binder. "First guy was arrested two days ago — drunk in public, assault and battery against a police officer, resisting arrest."

"This is the one who pissed in a fountain too, right?"

"It is," she confirmed. "But you agreed not to charge him for that."

"Got it. And the other one?"

She handed me another binder. "Domestic battery, third time." She continued, "and you have a ten o'clock with defense attorneys and an eleven o'clock with the chief solicitor. Finally, a full trial at one-thirty against your child-punching defendant. But that's it. Easy day, right?"

"Were it so easy," I mumbled. "Are you joining me in the bond hearings?"

"You want me to?"

"Yeah, if you're going to be a lawyer yourself someday, you need to see as much of the process as possible, not just the behind-the-scenes stuff. But only if it means you're not going to be behind on other work."

"I won't be behind," she said. "I'll come. You're very kind to do this, Showing me the ropes rather than just treating me like a secretary — it means a lot."

"It'll help you in the future. And you've taken so much initiative it's not even funny."

I was a deputy solicitor for South Carolina's Fifth Judicial Circuit, which included the state's capital and second-largest city, Columbia. My main job was to ensure that people charged with crimes were found guilty and imprisoned, and I mostly worked with cases involving violent criminals. I was appointed by the chief solicitor, Byron Rutherford, an elected position.

* * *

After work, Laila and I walked in the underground parking garage, our heels tapping against the concrete in tandem.

"Any plans for the weekend?" I asked.

"Didn't I tell you earlier that I was spending it with Damien?"

"You did, smarty. But what does that mean? Netflix? The movies? Shopping? What?"

"Tomorrow morning we might go to the Soda City Market. Other than that, we don't have any specific plans. But it's not what you do, it's who you do it with." She gestured toward me. "And you—"

I interrupted, "I need to find someone. Yeah, yeah, I got it. You sound like a damn Disney movie."

"Okay, but part of my job is to ensure that you are mentally sound — that you are taking care of yourself and that you're healthy."

"What?" I said sharply. "Nowhere is that in your job description."

She returned, laying her hand on her chest. "I have assumed the responsibility and made it part of my job."

"Because you care about my well-being?"

"Nope!" She joked. "There's a selfish motive in there. The easier your job is for you, the easier my job is for me." Her teeth glimmered as she chuckled.

"You're ridiculous," I smirked.

"Okay, so yes, I care about your well-being," she said. "And if that's an issue you should fire me." She pridefully elevated her chin, showing off her well-cut jawline.

"Umm, you know I can't do that, Laila. You're too important. I'd be a fish out of water without you."

"That's so sweet," she hummed, her teeth sparkling again.

"But don't get cocky," I said. "You're smiling because you knew I was going to say that."

"There's Damien," Laila pointed to his car idling alongside a wall. He got out as we approached and they kissed briefly and dryly. I watched them for a moment, but I twitched my head in a different direction as soon as she looked toward me. "Now, don't forget what I said. Have a good weekend."

"See you Monday, Laila."

I glanced at my watch, surprised to see that I was leaving at five in the afternoon. It was a rarity to leave so early.

I guess I have time to swing by the library and get another book.

I parallel-parked at the county library and searched my purse for coins to feed the meter. When I flung open the door, I did so carelessly and clipped the handlebar of a passing cyclist. The rider fell to the ground and slammed their head against the pavement. My body seized in shock; my mouth hung open. I was unable to move or speak, paralyzed with disbelief as the cyclist lay still. My temporary paralysis yielded to horror. "Oh, shit!" I screamed, jumping from the driver's seat. "Are you okay?"

The cyclist was a woman. Breathing heavily, she rolled onto her back, lying in a lane of traffic. Fortunately, other drivers swerved around her, but nobody was willing to stop to check on the woman on the ground. "I'm so sorry," I wailed, my chest pumping so fiercely I could feel it in my hands. She unfastened her helmet and threw it aside. "I'm so sorry," I repeated. She removed her sunglasses and glared at me, her eyes burning me relentlessly.

"What the hell, lady?" She muttered. She sat up and brushed the dirt from her bright green shirt.

"I'm so sorry," I pleaded a third time. She extended her arm and I attempted to help pull her from the ground, though my shaking hands could hardly grip hers. "Are you okay?" My voice wavered. "I — I didn't see you coming."

"I'll be fine," she said before inspecting her bike to ensure there was no damage. Her expression was neutral and reserved, neither angry nor emotional. She was quite attractive and young-looking, having an athletic figure and brunette hair, frazzled from the sweat of her exercise.

"Are you hurt?"

"Believe it or not, it happens every now and then." Her voice, calm and collected, defied the moment. "I'm fine," she said.

"I— I— I'm sorry," I bumbled. "I didn't see you coming."

"Just keep an eye out in the future." My stiffness returned and I was unable to speak. She stuffed her hair beneath her helmet and replaced her glasses. "Have a good day," she said plainly as she rode away. I looked around to find the passersby, who had witnessed the incident, were artlessly staring at me. I closed my eyes and looked toward the sky and breathed, "I am such an idiot." I moseyed inside the library with my head hung low.

Chapter 2 -

Valor

Laila and I arrived at the same time Monday. In the parking garage, she shouted, "good morning," and walked quickly to catch up to me. "I presume you had a boring weekend, didn't you."

"Nope," I said happily. "I started reading

The Grapes of Wrath

for the third time."

"Isn't that the one where the author writes an entire chapter about the intricacies of a turtle crossing the road?" I held the door open for her as we entered the stairwell.

"It is," I nodded.

The concrete walls made her voice reverberate. "Well, I don't mean to intrude on your monotony, Madame Deputy Circuit Solicitor, but—"

"Ugh — would you stop calling me that?" I interrupted.

"Why?" She asked. "It's your official title."

"Because, if you don't stop, I'll call you by your real name," I said amusingly. "That's why."

"My real name?" She said, her expression one of bewilderment. "My real name is Laila Isabelle Wiley."

I went on, "oh, really? I thought your real name was Jackass."

She stopped halfway up a step and raised only one of her eyebrows. "Where did you get that mouth of yours?" She was trying to be serious, but I could tell she was withholding a smile.

"Harvard Law School," I answered. "How was your weekend, Jackass?"

She sighed heavily.

"What's that huffing and puffing for?"

"We got into an argument, Damien and me." We started down the hallway that led to the main entrance.

"What's the matter?"

"We went to Ikea, which is like an hour and a half up the road. But the argument was mostly about my dad, who can't stand Damien. Damien knows it too, and he equally resents my father. Anyway, that's what got us edgy — talking about Dad. But I also told Damien that he was treating me like I was in the way the whole time we were on our little trip."

"In the way?" I said, my voice growing with concern. "What do you mean?"

"I don't even know what I mean," she said. She crossed her long arms as we walked, and they formed two right angles across her stomach. "It's almost — it's almost like he would rather be doing something else."

"He's not going to 100% like everything you like, but that's part of a relationship — compromise. You meet in the middle. And it's not being at Ikea that should be the thing that is or isn't fun. It's being with you that should make the difference. If he loves you, then it doesn't matter if you're both sweeping floors. Doing it together is what should make him happy."

"Yeah," she breathed.

We arrived at Mr. Marlon's security station and proceeded without issue. "God dammit!" I said through my teeth. "Here comes that snake. Save me."