All Worked Up

By JoAnn

I knew they were idiots from the moment I laid eyes on them.

Here they were, sitting in my office, actually thinking they could pull one over on me. Me, with fifteen years experience as a worker's compensation claims adjuster under my belt. Me, the woman who had seen everything under the sun at least twice. Me, who knew a fraud when I saw one at forty paces, in the dark, blindfolded. Oh, yes. First class idiots, all the way.

"Let me get this straight, Mr…"

"Pitman, Senorita. Morales Pitman. Attorney at Law." He leaned forward in his chair, reaching over my desk to shake my hand again, as if saying his title enough times would make it true. My intuition told me that if he were an attorney, I was the next winner of the Indianapolis 500…in my Volkswagen.

"Yes, Mr. Pitman. Your client, um…your name is actually 'Weed', sir?"

The sandy-haired young man next to the attorney wannabe nodded his head. "Yes'um. That's my name. 'Cause Daddy said I grew up so fast, I was just like a dadgummed weed." He giggled giddily, like a slightly deranged schoolboy, and I shook my head. It was clear who was the brain of this operation. Not that I thought the pseudo attorney in front of me had much in that department in the first place. He did have a rather…curious charm, I suppose. His dark, wavy hair and shadowed, amber eyes were compelling, despite his rather odd yellow sunglasses. He seemed strange and out of place, as if he had just walked out of a pulp fiction novel and had forgotten to bookmark the page, trapping him in the real world. I reviewed the file in front of me while he rattled on about his client's pain and suffering.

Mr…um, "Weed" had been employed as a boxboy at Jeffy's Food Mart for a grand total of 3 hours before his on the job injury had occurred. He'd cut his thumb with the end of a Slushy-Dog straw dispenser. He'd been treated at the local emergency room and then released, but he'd later claimed that he was unable to work, due to the "mental trauma he had incurred" in the accident.

Yeah, sure, I thought bitterly. He'll never drink a Slushy again. Oh my. I lifted my eyes to Mr. Pitman, who as still going on and on about the physical and emotional horrors that his client had endured. I'd had enough. I crossed my arms over the file and interrupted his monologue.

"Mr. Pitman, let me be blunt. You have absolutely no medical evidence of any kind to support your claims. Even your own doctor, the doctor of your choice, says there is nothing wrong with Mr. Weed. He needs to return to work as instructed by his physician. Period."

Pitman adjusted his glasses, apparently trying to come up with a different tactic. He chose to be demanding. Bad choice. "Miss Adams," he said, setting his chin and leaning towards me. "I demand my client receive just compensation. He has a total and permanent injury. 100,000 dollars would be acceptable compensation for my client. That is my final offer to settle this case." He looked down his nose at me, his face a mask of superior male authority. He leaned back in the orange-colored office chair that he'd commandeered from the file clerk and steepled his fingers, apparently sure I would acquiesce with all due haste. He appeared to think he ruled the world as benevolent king.

I leaned back in my chair, amused by his masquerade. "Well, Mr. Pitman, in the state of Texas, all your client is legally entitled to is 60 weeks compensation for his thumb. That comes to about $6,000. Of course, none of your doctors, or ours, has given him a total and permanent classification. He's healed, Mr. Pitman. Your demand is rejected. Our company will see you in court." I scooped the papers into my file and stood up, indicating to both these bozos that this meeting was over.

Pitman struggled to regain ground. "But…court? Miss Adams, surely we can reach another settlement, perhaps I was too rash, I…"

I smiled, at least partially impressed by his ability to keep the ball in play. Especially when the ball was filled with hot air. "In court, Mr. Pitman. Save it for court. You're an experienced attorney, correct? Surely a court date won't phase you in the least."

Pitman and Weed exchanged furtive glances, and I felt reassured that my initial suspicion that they were frauds, and poor ones at that, was correct. "I think you see my point, gentlemen. Good day." I walked to my office door and opened it, waiting for them to leave. Weed shrugged his shoulders and shuffled out the door, clearly defeated. Pitman followed him, apparently leaving without further comment, when suddenly he turned to me, removing his glasses.

He moved closer, the bumbling idiot suddenly replaced with a cool, smooth snake with hot blood coursing through its veins. This was no ordinary reptile. It had a brain, and I was shocked by the sudden intelligence and shrewdness I saw flash in his eyes. I backed up a bit, my shoulder blades touching the wall. He followed me, his heated gaze traveling over my long, chestnut hair, down the curves of my body beneath my blue silk suit, touching the tips of my black leather pumps, and then back up again, with a sensual thoroughness I'd never experienced before. He paused to look into my eyes, seeming to assess me, determining whether I was predator or prey. He seemed satisfied by the answer he received, and smiled.

It was the smile that got me. It was blatantly sexual, it's impact like the sun coming out from behind the clouds and flooding the world with piercing light. I swallowed hard, concerned that my professionalism was at serious risk as this man closed the distance between us even further. I could feel the heat emanating from his body and I felt weak, as if he were drawing all the energy from me and leaving me with nothing left except a longing for his touch. I struggled to snap out of the spell that he seemed to be creating and lifted my chin. He would never get the upper hand with me. No man did.

"Good day, Mr. Pitman," I said firmly, lifting my gaze to his and sending him the signal that I was not like the bimbos he was apparently used to meeting and charming into doing God-knows-what every day of the week. He nodded, giving a little shrug, replacing the scaly predator with a cuddly, teddy bear persona. He was so changeable. Probably due to all that time hiding under a rock, I thought, frowning at him.

"Yes, it is a good day, Miss Adams. It can get even better," he replied, his voice low and husky. The teddy bear vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again with the sensual tiger. He leaned towards me again, his gaze focused on my lips. I couldn't stop myself from licking them in response. He sucked in a small breath as he watched my tongue dart out to moisten them. "Yes…it can get much, much better," he whispered. Without my permission, my lips parted, as if waiting for him to fill them. He leaned closer, his eyelids beginning to close over those mysterious amber eyes. I held my breath, knowing that in a moment, he would kiss me.

Suddenly, without another word, he pulled back, flashing me a small, triumphant smile, letting me know he'd won this round. I jerked further away from him, shocked by my behavior, by my weakness. He turned and strode across the office, giving me one last grin over his shoulder. I was left standing there, shaking in my stilettos with anger and frustration, wondering how on earth an intelligent woman like me had ever let a man like that get within 100 yards. It was beyond belief.

It got worse.

I left work that evening about six PM, the last person to leave the office, as usual. I had the largest caseload, and therefore, I always seemed to be working longer hours than the other adjusters. I didn't mind. All I had to go home to was a TV dinner and a dying houseplant I was always too busy to water. My work kept me occupied. It also gave me a place to hide from the loneliness. I appreciated that.

I turned from the locking the office door, intent on walking to my car and treating myself to a drive-thru experience at McDonalds, when I saw him, waiting at the end of the stairs. Mr. Pitman. But not the Mr. Pitman that had been in my office. The funny glasses and poorly cut suit were gone. In their place, he wore a soft, chambray blue shirt and jeans, finished off with a pair of tan cowboy boots that seemed to be brand-new. He looked…sexy. No, sexy wasn't the word for it. Overpowering. Yes, that was it. The kind of man that sucks all the air out of the atmosphere around him, and the only way you can breathe is to be near him. That was it. He was overpowering.

I didn't know what to do. I stood gripping the railing of the stairway, just staring at him. I felt as if I couldn't move. He smiled, seeming to understand, and started to walk up the stairs toward me. He put his hand over mine and gently nudged my fingers free from the banister, then lifted my hand to his lips, lightly kissing the edge of each knuckle, never taking his gaze from mine.

God, what was the matter with me? I jerked my hand out of his grasp and tried to walk around him, but he reached across me and grabbed onto the banister. I tried to go around him the other way, but he did the same. I felt like a trapped animal, my heart beginning to pound in my chest with alarm. He merely smiled, rocking on his heels as he held onto both banisters, grinning at me as if he were playing a game he clearly enjoyed.

"Let me pass, Mr. Pitman," I said, clutching the handle on my briefcase tighter in case I had to slug him with it.

He looked up at the sky and squinted, as if weighing my request seriously. Then he looked back to me and grinned. "No."

"No? What do you mean, no? Get out of my way or I'll call the police!" I said, lifting the briefcase and swinging it menacingly. He lifted one arm as if to protect himself, but then he began to laugh. I made a dash for the open space that he'd made, but he caught me with his arm, pulling me against him.

"You can call the police if you'd like, but there's a more pleasant way to settle this. Go out to dinner with me."

"And why should I do that?" I said, squirming in his embrace. He reached up and caressed my cheek, and for some reason that I still don't fully understand, I stilled, like a skittish mare does when she realizes she's in the hands of an expert. There was something in his touch that opened up a secret door inside me, a door that I'd never dared to go near. I looked into his eyes, barely hearing what he said next. Yet I knew, deep down in my soul, what he said was true.

"Why should you? Because you want to. Because it would be fun, and you never let yourself have fun. Because it would be wild, and you want to be wild. Just once, oh yes…you want to be wild, don't you," he whispered, still caressing my cheek until my eyelids fluttered shut in an almost hypnotic trance.

"Yes," I said, my voice sounding odd to my ears, as if someone else were speaking and I was just along for the ride. He chuckled softly, then kissed the tip of my nose.

"Morales Pitman can make your dreams come true, chica. Just wait and see."

I should have slugged him then with the briefcase. Knocked him out cold and administered a few kicks to the kidneys for good measure. The old Janice Adams would have done so. But I didn't. He said he'd make my dreams come true. It was insanity, but I wanted to let him try.

We made it as far as my car before he started delivering on his promise. I didn't know those kind of things were possible in a Volkswagen. Or in a phone booth at three AM on East Houston Street. Or in the dressing room of Dillard's Department Store. Or on top of the Tower of the Americas in downtown San Antonio at noon. Or…well, you get my point. We spent three blissful days in total, mindless, hedonistic pleasure, in every conceivable location and position and situation. I still can't recall all of them. I lost count after 37. Oh, that Mr. Pitman. The ultimate promise keeper. Yes, he got me fired. It must have had something to do with that $6,000 check I wrote out the next Monday morning to settle his client's claim, which he then disappeared off the face of the earth with, never to be seen again.

But I'll never forget him. He'd been right. I'd wanted to be wild and find out what it was like to have fun. I'd surely done both in those in the 72 hours I spent in the arms of the fake attorney from south of the border. In the end, I moved to the beach and returned to the one thing that I'd always loved…writing. I've got a good job now, writing for a magazine, creating Internet websites, and I'm even working on my first novel. There's a character in it that's an awful lot like Mr. Pitman. But that's because I owe him for the favor he did for me. Because of Pitman, I'm fun, and I'm wild. But I'm something else, too, that's even better.

I'm free.