His sensibilities at last catching up to reality, Sam let rip a pitiful roar. He sounded like a petulant toddler, and he knew it. He beat his fists and shins against the all-encompassing cocoon formed of the woman’s closed hand. A scented fog of vanilla lotion clouded his senses. There was no fighting the strength of that hand, even closed as gently as it was, without the intention of breaking him. A simple tightening of the knuckles, and the inch-tall man would surely scrunch into a gutsy mess.
When the fingers unfurled again, Sam found himself much higher in the air, as Rachel had crawled back into her swivel and hunched over the desk to keep herself from becoming woozy. He sprawled in her open palm, far closer to her titanic face than before. Momentarily, he was struck by the finer details of her countenance now made apparent: the slight curve of her dimples leftover from adolescence, a few little laugh line wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and even a couple of scattered freckles so faint they only became apparent at this proximity.
Her skin, pale yet rosy, was almost luminescent. That chocolate-brown hair shimmered. Her plush lips pursed into a pillowy centerpoint, unintentionally blowing warm air in a steady stream, fragrant of mint chewing gum and a hint of herbal tea. She really was startlingly beautiful, even if it was usually shielded behind her overly professional exterior and modest accessorizing. All those assets, especially her knockout legs and mouth-watering feet, were hidden from the world; it was almost a crime.
Of course, in this moment, Sam was far more focused on yipping at the top of his lungs.
“What in the HELL do you think you’re doing? You could’ve broken my legs!” Sam shouted, jumping up and down, hammering his fists. All the while, his rage only slightly jiggled the soft skin of Rachel’s palm each time he stomped his miniscule shoes. “Didn’t you hear what I said? DON’T touch me! Just put me down and get someone on the line.”
Had Sam not been frothing at the mouth mid-rant, he might have noticed the glaze passing over Rachel’s eyes. A curious calm overtook her, replacing the momentary indecision upon discovering her dickwad of a client reduced to an inch tall beneath her desk. In those eyes, there swirled the recognition of newfound power, even opportunity, though Sam had no way of noticing.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and before Sam could turn around to loudly request aid, Rachel’s fingers curled over in a tidal wave of elegant digits, this time cupping Sam tighter than before to her palm. Bound down, his screams were silenced by the padding of vanilla-flavored skin all around. She was careful not to squeeze, but not a sound escaped her hand.
“Rachel?” Marsha the receptionist said. “Did you get ahold of Mr. Bennett?”
“Oh… um… no, not yet. I’ll try his phone again in a few minutes,” Rachel replied. While uncertain at first, her lie grew more confident by the end. “I got a busy signal the first time.”
“All right, then. I’ll buzz you if I see him out here.”
Astounded, Sam resumed his useless assault on the woman’s hand. What the hell did she think she was doing? If Rachel was so incapable of listening to basic instructions and calling 911, maybe that other woman would instead. He had to get out. Sam even attempted biting by wrapping his jaw into the heftiest skin crease he could fit, but the nibbling did nothing to loosen the coiled walls. When the giantess’s hand reopened, the door was shut and they were alone again.
“Now you listen to me,” Sam snarled. He dusted himself off, ruffling his mussed hair, and pointed an accusing finger up at the gigantic, serene face of his lawyer. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but nobody’s laughing. You’re going to put me down slowly, then get back on that phone and call nine-one-fucking-one. Capiche?”
The man stumbled for a second as he planted his foot up on the rounded heel of Rachel’s hand like it was a beast he’d slain, when in fact that same appendage had just easily constrained him via the mere curling of fingers. There was no change in the giant woman’s staid expression.
“Hey. Lady,” Sam blurted. He snapped his fingers. “I said, do you understand?”
“Yes, of course I understand, Mr. Bennett,” Rachel said, breaking from her reverie. “But just before I do that, I’m going to need some fresh air. I apologize if you find this uncomfortable.”
“What? No, don’t you dare-” Sam’s latest complaints were silenced when Rachel’s opposite hand arose to the level of her platformed palm. The pads of her index finger and thumb cinched slowly around his sides, grappling with the mini-man’s hips and lifting him up easier than a feather. Then, holding him delicately above her breast pocket, the woman released her fingers, allowing him to slide roughly but safely down the brief fabric incline into the pouch. The flap overhead was tucked down, sealing him inside, with only the steady rhythm of Rachel’s increased heartbeat through the layers to affirm for Sam that, yes, his very own lawyer had just dropped him in her blouse pocket like a stray button.
Rachel power-walked through the halls of Gianna, Tessa, & Associates. She needed air. Her pulse quickened again, as with each long stride, she felt the puny mass of the little man in her pocket bouncing against her breast through the blouse. Her cheeks warmed, and she sped up her pace, practically bursting out into the courtyard. Alone out in the foliage which adjoined the segments of the office, she leaned on the nearest cold brick wall to catch her breath.
This was happening. For real. She actually had Sam Bennett, the high-powered sniveling foot-perv she’d been finagled into defending despite his guilt, stowed in her clothes. As far as she could tell, no one suspected where he’d gone; Marsha didn’t think twice about him having slipped away. There were no security cameras in this part of the building to track his entrance or exit, and as she’d learned from the casework, he didn’t often drive his luxury car, preferring taxis, so no pedestrians could vandalize his property.
In essence, the man had dropped off the face of the earth without a trace, right into her hands. So what was Rachel to do about it?
Throughout her life, the woman had been taught to do the just thing. Her parents drilled morals into her, as did her schoolteachers and peers. She’d chosen law as a profession specifically to make a difference in the world of right and wrong. Yet here she was, party to a situation where a man escaped all consequence not because he was innocent, but because his pockets were deep. She’d never felt more lost.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel spotted a flash of fiery hair, belonging to one of the recently hired paralegals. Larissa, she was pretty sure her name was. A young woman of no more than twenty-two, with her ginger tresses and pearlescent freckled skin, she was a vision of grace and poise, yet possessed a steeliness that would someday make her a formidable courtroom opponent.
Larissa sat on the edge of a picnic table, playing with her cell phone, and swinging her bare legs over the side. While her fingers twirled through her hair, one of her slip-on loafers started to slide away from her lithe foot. Though Rachel couldn’t explain her fascination, her gaze was drawn from across the courtyard to the crevice of space between the girl’s soft, youthful instep and the rubbery mouth of the shoe. In the shade between, Rachel spotted a shape. She couldn’t be certain of what she saw, and as soon as Larissa’s sole slapped back inside the footwear, the illusion was ended. But there was no removing the image from Rachel’s mind: there was a tiny person in there.
Dipping her stocking-clad foot out of her own heel, Rachel peered inside at the worn-out insole. This pair of brown pumps had seen better days, and weren’t the most fashionable pair available, but they were comfortable, and Rachel felt secure and powerful when she wore them, even if they made her ankles sore after eight hours. She crossed her foot over her knee, standing on one leg like a crane, and examined her sole. The creamy, furrowed skin caught shallow ripples of the gossamer-thin nude nylon. Arcing her toes in tandem, she stretched out the fabric, then watched it tighten back against her skin. Rachel no longer saw an ordinary shoe, nor an object that represented her foot: she saw promise and potential. Instruments of justice. A chance to correct the perversion of ethics she was forced to witness before.
Rachel knew what she had to do.