The Wedding Crasher by Mia Sosa

“So, in other words, I need to get in on whatever they’re planning.”
“Let me put it this way: If you manage to lure Kimberly Bailey to the firm,
the partners will be so far up your ass you’ll need an enema to flush them
out.”
I stare at him blankly. “This was all good news until you said that.”
He shakes his head at me. “Focus, Dean. You want to be the master of
your own fate? Well, here’s your shot.”
“All right, all right. Thanks for having my back.”
Michael salutes me. “Admittedly, I’m doing this for my own benefit too.
It’s hard hanging around with those folks. They’re stodgy as hell, and they
wouldn’t recognize an innovative idea even if it was delivered in wrapping
paper that literally said ‘Innovative ideas inside.’ I need you to get your ass in
gear and join me.”
“I plan to, and I’m on it.”
A quarter of an hour into the Monday Morning Meeting—capitalized
because it’s very much a specific phenomenon at Olney & Henderson—I sit
in one of the chairs reserved for associates that frame the perimeter of the
room and wait for the opportunity to snag the Bailey assignment.
“Final order of business,” Sam Henderson says from the head of the
partners-only conference table. “Senior associates, we’re looking for one of
you to work on an after-hours assignment. Non-billable. Any takers?”
Henderson is in typical form; everything’s a game to him. This must be the
Kimberly Bailey assignment, but he’s testing us to see who’s willing to take
on an extra project. No associate with a sense of self-preservation volunteers
for anything that doesn’t count toward their minimum billable hours
requirement, so most associates’ gazes fall to their laps. Not me, though.
Thanks to Michael, I know this will be a relatively easy task with the
potential for great rewards.
I shoot up my hand. “I’d be happy to.”
Peter Barnum, an Ed Sheeran lookalike who’s as close to a nemesis as I
have at the firm, shoots up a hand as well. “Me too.”
Henderson looks between us. “Dean, I don’t think—”
Olney clears her throat, eliciting an eye roll from Henderson.
“Come see me after the meeting, then,” he says to us both.
Ten minutes later, Peter and I arrive at the threshold of Henderson’s office.
Our boss’s assistant, who only works for Henderson, ignores us.
“Peter.”