Green-Eyed Monster Part I

Alan entered the building one blistery February morning. Miranda had arrived earlier to prepare some research for a case. He hoped she had his coffee and breakfast in his office. He needed to be in court soon but had to pick up some files first. When he entered the hallway leading to his office he noticed Miranda chatting with a young man. Alan did not recognize this man and ascertained he was some new assistant or associate.

When Miranda saw Alan, she ended her conversation and approached him warmly. "Good morning, Mr. Shore," she said coyly.

"It seems you've made a friend," Alan said, watching the man disappear around the corner.

Miranda's eyes followed Alan's. She shrugged. "He's a new associate here—Ethan McClure."

"He seems…young. They must be handing out law degrees in kindergarten these days." He gazed at her steadily. She could feel him analyzing her. "Your conversation seemed rather…animated," he said. "I'm all aflutter to know the topic."

"I believe I was explaining the musical genius of Bob Dylan; he said he didn't get it." She studied him for a moment. "Are you feeling well?"

"I think I feel a headache coming on."

"You seem a little grumpy this morning, darling."

"You're attempting to handle me."

"What makes you think that?"

"You only use terms of endearment when you're handling me. I cannot be handled."

"Hm. Actually, you're rather easy to manage." She winked and smiled. "Besides," she said lowering her voice seductively, "I don't always use terms of endearment to handle you. I have a wide range of implements at my disposal. Now, tell me why you're grumpy."

He moved closer. "If I am, I'm certain you're to blame."

"Me?"

"Yes; you left my bed too early, so I didn't wake up properly. These past few weeks I've developed a taste for…." He cast his eyes down her body and lightly ran his hand along her ribs, feeling the soft angora sweater. "A particular sort of breakfast to set my day off right."

She took his brief case. "Yes. And while that is the most important meal of the day, I had to come to work to prepare this file." She held up a manila folder. "So my man doesn't make a fool of himself in court today. I would be the laughing stock of all the other assistants. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

He laughed. "Your man? The irony of that…"

"Yes, yes. Never mind that now. Give me your coat." He slid out of his coat and handed it to her.

"Now, come in here." She hooked her arm through his and led him into his office. "I have your coffee and your breakfast on your desk per your request. Hazel cream cheese on a cinnamon bagel, you'll be happy to know."

"That's not quite the breakfast I had in mind."

She put the file folder in front of him, placed his briefcase on the floor beside his desk, and hung the coat on the rack behind him as she spoke.

"You have an hour to eat that, read over these, and get to court."

He sat at his desk and sipped his coffee.

She continued. "I hope you weren't planning on having lunch with me today. I'm going to meet with Vera to close on the house."

"Sounds good." He opened the folder and began skimming the papers inside.

"Is there anything I can bring you for lunch while I'm out?"

"No. I'll go somewhere with Denny."

"Okay." She turned to leave.

"Miranda?"

"Yes?"

"Please stay."

She started to say that she was incredibly busy and needed to get caught up on some work, but his eyes conveyed a vulnerability she rarely saw. She moved his coffee and food over and sat on the corner of his desk.

He held up a paper. "Here, read this to me."

He rolled back from the desk and took her foot in his hands, removing her shoe. He lightly touched the sole of her foot.

She gasped. "Alan. You know that tickles. Stop it."

He held her foot tight. "Keep reading."

She continued to read while he rubbed her foot. After a brief passage she paused. "Are you even getting any of this?"

"Every word."

She resumed reading as he moved his hands up her shin, her knee, her thigh. Just as his hand was about to slip under her skirt, there was a knock at the door.

"There must be sensors to alert people to interrupt us; it's becoming more than coincidental, don't you think?"

Miranda tried to slide off the desk, but Alan gripped her knee and peeked around her body as she looked over her shoulder.

"Hi, Ethan," she said.

"Um, I had a question. But, if you're busy…"

Miranda and Alan spoke at the same time.

Alan said, "Yes, she is."

Miranda said, "I'm not."

They locked eyes. Alan's glinted stubbornly; hers pleaded, embarrassed. Without looking away from Alan she said, "I'll be right with you, Ethan. Wait at my desk."

Ethan disappeared.

"I still have," Alan looked at his watch. "Fifty-five minutes. All I really need is five." His hand resumed its task. "Continue reading."

"Alan." Miranda stopped his hand. "This clearly isn't the best time."

"Just read quickly. I don't mind quickies."

She laid the paper on his desk. "You're going to be late."

Hurt mixed with frustration briefly surfaced in his eyes; then the wall she had become so familiar with fell into place. "Very well." He removed his hand and pulled himself up to his desk, returning to his reading.

"Alan…"

He wouldn't look up at her. He spoke calmly, coolly. "Young Ethan awaits you, Miranda. You don't want to keep him waiting. He has what is, no doubt, a yearning question for you."

She stared at him, trying to decide if she wanted to say something; trying to decide if it was really worth having the last word. She was amazed at how quickly he seemed to resume full lawyer mode. She wanted to say that he was acting silly. She wanted to say he was behaving like a petulant child.

He added, without looking up, "Is there something on your mind, Miranda? By your continued staring I would say there is; so let's have it."

She said exactly what popped into her mind at that moment. "It's not worth it." She strode off to speak with Ethan.

He looked up, brows furrowed, to watch her walk away. He dumped the food in the trash, no longer hungry; gulped the now lukewarm coffee and tossed the file into his briefcase. He removed his coat from the rack and left his office.

"Good luck, Alan," Miranda said.

He turned slowly and said, "Miranda, I'm one of the best trial attorneys in Boston. I don't need luck. You ought to know that by now."

Denny turned the corner, said, "Denny Crane," and continued on down the hall.

Alan motioned toward Denny's back with flair and announced. "And lest we forget: I've also got that."

Miranda put a hand on her hip and cocked an eyebrow, mildly irritated. "Then what do you say to a man who needs no luck?"

Alan turned his attention to Ethan, staring at him as he spoke to Miranda. "Nothing to say. Your attempt would be and is utterly futile."

Ethan glanced between the two. "Huh?"

"Then au revoir." She shrugged and added, in French, "See you tonight?"

Alan replied to Miranda, also in French, but still staring at Ethan. "Of course. And I will lick chocolate syrup off your body with great zeal."

Ethan, terribly uncomfortable and confused, looked around nervously. "What? Are you talking to me?"

A self-satisfied smirk crossed Alan's lips. He returned his gaze to Miranda who bit her bottom lip to stifle a laugh.

When Alan turned the corner, he paused briefly to listen.

Ethan said to Miranda. "Was he talking about me?"

"No; he wasn't."

"What did he say just now?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But he was looking at me. Who the hell is that guy?"

"That is Alan Shore—one of the best attorneys in Boston, Ethan. Weren't you paying attention?"

"Is he crazy?"

"Perhaps; however, he's never dull—which, as it turns out, is much more important than being sane."

"How can you work for that…" He struggled to find the right word but Miranda interrupted.

"I think it's best if you don't complete that sentence. And I think we're done here. If there's nothing else I've got work to do."

Alan continued down the hall. "That's my girl," he said to himself proudly as he briefly ogled a pretty blonde assistant passing by him.

When Alan and Denny had returned from lunch, Alan stopped by the break room to get a bottled water.

Ethan was there making a cup of tea. He lifted his chin in greeting and said, "S'up?"

Alan smirked, amused, annoyed. "S'up?" he said mockingly. He ran his eyes briefly over Ethan's curly dark hair slicked back off his smooth tanned forehead. "Is that a contraction? And where does the apostrophe go?"

"Huh?"

"S'up! What a succinct way to hail in all the glory of a beautiful day and the promise of new acquaintances."

Puzzled, Ethan said, "What?"

Again, Alan smirked. "You say 'huh' and 'what' a great deal. Are you hard of hearing? Is English not your first language? We know it isn't French, right? Or, I've got it!" He added with mock passion, "You're an enigma, a mysterious man of few words, who plays his cards close to his chest, keeping everyone guessing as to the deeply complex and misunderstood individual that lies beneath."

When his speech ended, Alan's face fell blank, staring at Ethan evenly until he was forced avert his green eyes, confused.

"Um…I guess."

Alan smiled and opened his hands toward Ethan. "You guess. Brilliant! I eagerly look forward to your next syllable. Keep me posted, will you? Shall I give you my phone number so you can text me or even tweet me? I'm all a-twitter to find out what brilliant and astute phrases shall fall upon us. The anticipation threatens to keep me awake all night."

Ethan smiled under the delusion that Alan was joking. "Funny."

Alan wasn't smiling.

Recognition dawned on Ethan. "Oh, yea! You're that Alan Shore guy."

"The very one."

"I saw you earlier when I was talking to Miranda."

"What about Ms. Houston?"

Ethan tried to be nonchalant. "Nothing."

"The way you stroked her name indicates that there's more; that there is more than her name you would like to stroke."

Ethan snorted. "Hell yea! She's smoking hot!" He added sugar to his tea. "I couldn't work around that without doing something about it. Know what I'm saying?"

"Yes. But here at Crane, Poole, and Schmidt, we don't allow our new associates to sexually harass anyone—especially the assistants. That perk is reserved only for the upper level associates." Alan poured his water in a glass.

Ethan held out his hand to Alan. "By the way, I'm Ethan."

He never took his eyes from Ethan's face nor made any motion to accept Ethan's hand.

Ethan looked at his own hand then let it drop insecurely. "I'm a new associate."

"Yes. That much was apparent—you reek of it. Or is that stench your powerful cologne?"

"Man, have I done something to offend you?"

"Not yet; but I'm waiting."

Ethan shook his head, annoyed, dropped his tea bag in the trash and started out the door.

Alan added, "I'm also watching, young Ethan. I like to watch."

Ethan eyed him incredulously and silently left the room.

Alan did watch for the next week and often caught Miranda and Ethan in the hallways, in the break room, chatting, sometimes even laughing, but he remained silent on the issue, continuing with life as usual. Then one afternoon, he cornered Miranda against the bookshelf in the research library and asked her where she wanted to go for dinner.

"Well," she said, smoothing his tie. "Since I've just moved into my townhome, I really need to unpack and get some stuff put away."

"Oh, yes," he said flatly. "But we could still go for dinner couldn't we? You could wear something tight and revealing; something for me to fantasize about while I'm in bed alone tonight."

"I really want to get started, Alan. There's so much to do. I was just going to order something to be delivered. But you can come by if you want—keep me company."

He ran his finger over her clavicle. "I don't want to get in the way." He added playfully, "Did I say I was going to be alone?"

"It's come up."

He chuckled. "Yes."

She smiled and rolled her eyes. "You would not be in the way if you wanted to come over."

"Perhaps I could be persuaded if you wore a French maid outfit while you worked. Or better yet that delightful school girl skirt."

She laughed. "Maybe this would be a good night for you to be with Denny since you haven't had a sleepover with him in awhile. Go to dinner with him. Maybe he will wear something tight and revealing for you. He might even wear the French maid costume."

He lowered his voice seductively, pulling her into him, "As entertaining as that might be, it's not quite what I had in mind. After all there would still be one very integral part of the evening left undone. And, besides, Denny would never go for the French maid costume—too much lace; it's itchy."

"Well, think back to what you did before you met me-then do that."

"Prostitutes?"

"Alan, I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I would prefer you didn't hire a prostitute. Surely there were nights when you…fended for yourself."

"Often; but that's just not the same."

"Granted; but maybe just for a few nights you can manage without me."

"You're much less fun when you're responsible."

"Yes; aren't we all? Nevertheless, I can't live in a hotel forever, so I've got to get this done."

"Why not? You can stay in my room and we'll have room service every night and day."

She scoffed. "Surely you jest. I want a real home with a real kitchen and a real dining table—my own space, my own territory."

"Highly over rated."

She squirmed out of the corner and kissed him on the cheek. "Call Denny," she said, tapping his bottom with her book.

Alan and Denny did go to dinner and topped it off with a sleepover. Alan came to work the next day completely refreshed, his mood bright and energized.

He again noticed Miranda in the hall speaking with Ethan, who had become ever more an irritant. He paused and watched. Ethan seemed to be discussing clothes or her hair. He was reaching into Miranda's space and motioning upward. Miranda then pulled her hair up and turned like a centerfold. They both made other gestures to indicate that they were discussing something about her body or clothes. She laughed. He laughed. Alan set his jaw and approached them.

"Good morning." He looked between them with stifled suspicion. "I like jokes. What's funny?"

Ethan fidgeted uncomfortably and said, "Hey. Miranda, I'll see you around."

"Sure."

He watched Ethan walk away. "Aw. That's too bad. Ethan seems like such a funny guy." He turned to Miranda with mock concern. "I don't think he likes me."

"Should I find out for you? Maybe you two could go to the prom together."

"Would you? That would be swell."

She chuckled. "Don't worry, you're funnier," she said.

"Am I?" He took her by the elbow and led her toward his office.

"Yes." She yawned.

"Up late?"

"Yes, actually. Then when I went to bed, some jackass decided to sit outside my window with his car stereo booming."

"Did you call the police?"

"I did. Apparently they took off when the cops rolled up. But about an hour later, the car came back and the music went back up. They finally left at two this morning. It was a nightmare. Did you sleepover with Denny?"

"I did."

"How was it?"

"Comfortable. I slept amazingly well."

She looked at him surprised. "Really? You do seem to have a certain spring in your step today, bright eyes. So does this mean you don't sleep comfortably with me?"

"I probably would if we actually did much sleeping. Nevertheless, you should know that my batteries are re-charging quite nicely and in a few more evenings I will be fully energized…"

"Like that little pink bunny?"

"Exactly." He smiled. "And like that little bunny I will be able to 'keep going, and going, and…'"

"But if I don't get some sleep, you'll be all recharged with nowhere to go."

"Who says you have to be awake?"

She slapped his chest playfully.

"I'm only speaking the truth. There have been many nights when you were fast asleep and I…"

Shirley appeared.

Alan finished his sentence with "Went spelunking."

"Pardon?"

"I was just telling Miranda about how I love to go spelunking-in deep, dark caverns." He smirked.

Shirley rolled her eyes. "Yes, and since you're afraid of the dark, you probably need a night light and a guide to hold your hand every step of the way to show you exactly what to do."

Alan laughed silently. "I'll have you know I'm an expert spelunker. I'd be happy to..."

Shirley's eyes hardened. "Alan,if we can put your libido aside and talk seriously for a moment?"

"What's on your mind?"

"There's a Mrs. Gilbert. Her husband was recently mugged and shot in the street; three people stood by, took pictures and videos of the event and posted it on You Tube, Facebook, and Twitter while he bled to death. Had they used their phones to call for help instead of documenting the scene, doctors say he might still be alive. The wife wants to sue those three people for murder."

"Is she here now?"

"She is. She's in my office. I would like you to second chair this case with me."

Alan directed Miranda to start looking up case law and then he followed Shirley to her office.

After the meeting with Mrs. Gilbert, Alan stood to return to his office when Shirley said, "You and Miranda seem happy." She looked up at him over the rim of her red glasses.

"I don't know that happiness would ever be a word to describe me, Shirley. However, I suppose, in this case, I've come as close as possible."

She removed her glasses and sat back in her chair. "I know you didn't ask, and I don't mean to pry, but I wanted to say, if my opinion means anything to you at all, she seems to be a good match for you."

Alan smiled half-heartedly. "Thank you Shirley; your opinion has always meant a great deal to me."

"Because I've come to regard you as a friend, what I'm about to say, I say because I genuinely care: Don't screw it up."

He scoffed silently, smiling crookedly at her. He nodded, set his jaw, and left silently.

That afternoon, Alan found Miranda and Ethan in the research library together, talking. He peered through the window to see her jot something on a slip of paper and hand it to him. He set his jaw then abruptly turned and walked away before he could be seen. When Miranda returned to her desk he was waiting to ask her to dinner; she declined. Again, he spent the evening with Denny, but was too preoccupied to enjoy himself.

After dinner they came back to Denny's office and sat in the dark in front of the glass doors, looking out on the balcony; it was much too cold to sit outside and it had begun to snow. They sat in silence for a long time, each trapped in his own thoughts.

Finally Alan said quietly, coolly, "I think Miranda is seeing someone else."

Denny turned stiffly, seriously, to gaze at Alan. "Hm," Denny grunted then turned away to sip his drink. "How do you know?"

"I saw her give what appeared to be her phone number to this young new associate."

"Who?"

"Ethan McClure."

"McClure? Never heard of him," he grumbled into his glass.

"And she's been laughing with him too."

"Does she still laugh with you?"

"Yes."

"As much as before?"

"I think so."

"Then what are you worried about?"

"I don't like the way he looks at her."

"Why?"

"It reminds me too much of…me, I suppose." Aland paused and sipped his scotch. "Then he said something so…" he shook his head, irritated, searching for the best word, "Asinine."

"You want me to shoot him?"

Alan chuckled, shook his head. "No, Denny I don't want you to shoot him."

"I do it-for you."

Alan nodded, smiling. "I know you would, my friend." He reached over and touched Denny's arm. "And I'm thankful for that."

"I may shoot him anyway."

Alan laughed. "I have no doubt."

"Is that why you're here tonight? Because she's out with McCracken."

"McClure."

"She says she needs time to move into her new place—which is likely the truth, but…"

"But?"

Alan sipped his scotch, evading the answer because he didn't want to admit ….

Denny said, as if completing Alan's thoughts, "It bugs you, doesn't it?"

Alan scoffed. "I have to admit, it does."

"Do you love this girl?"

"I don't know," Alan said evasively. Again, he was trapped between the truth and the version of the truth he preferred to tell himself.

"Let me ask you this…" He shifted in his seat. "Now pay attention because everything you need to know is wrapped up in the answer to this one question."

Alan looked at him.

"Is she worth fighting for?" Denny said, clenching his fist in the air.

Alan was a little taken aback by the question and fell into deep thought. "I don't know. I've never fought for anyone before."

"You fight for people everyday in the courtroom."

"Yes. But those are strangers; there's a distance, so it's easier to fight for them."

"But that's your answer to the love question—to everything."

"If I would fight for her?"

"No. If she's worth fighting for."

Alan's brows furrowed and he took another sip of scotch, staring at the flecks of snow swirling and drifting mutely against the Boston skyline.

Denny gazed at him then said in a hoarse whisper, "I know."

Alan swallowed his drink then looked at Denny. "You know what?"

Denny squinted his eye and pointed to his head. "The answer." He leaned on the arm of the chair and whispered, "I know things."

Alan laughed. "What are you talking about?"

Denny just pointed to his head again and said, "Don't you worry, my friend. Don't you worry."

"Denny what are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about it."

"You're not going to shoot him. I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" Denny laughed derisively.

"Denny, I really don't want to be an accessory to conspiracy, manslaughter, or worse, murder. I've been able to avoid prison for a long time—and let's face it, with the way I've lived my life I'm certain I can't live much longer; therefore, I would really like the rest of my days to be spent in freedom. Please, promise me you will not shoot this man."

"Don't get your panties in a wad."

"What are you going to do?"

"Sleepover?" Denny jumped up and grabbed his coat.

Alan stood, picking up his things. "You're evading the question, Denny."

Denny started out the door, with Alan following behind, putting on his coat.

Denny said, "Tonight I thought we would have Hot Tamales instead of Red Hots. Have you ever had those? Joan turned me on to those; she's turned me on to a lot of things," he growled. "You know, I think I like them better than Red Hots."

"Denny…"

"Alan!" Denny snapped, stopping in the hallway, glaring him.

Alan froze, shocked. Denny rarely snapped at him like that.

Denny spoke slowly, threateningly. "Enough! Do you want to sleepover or not?"

"Of course," Alan said quietly. He paused then added as they continued to the elevator, "So, do you really think Hot Tamales are better than Red Hots?"