Read Cash Out for Free Online

don’t want me to know about.”
    Like a flash, I am reminded of “the erotica.”
    Not erotica, exactly. But a handful of stupid instant messages I had with a married woman who works down the hall, which the nerds have intercepted. The thought of Kate reading a transcript of my dirty online chat with Anne Browne, a hot public-relations coordinator, makes me sick. My skin goes cold, and I’m overcome by a wave of guilt that twists my gut into a knot.
    I’m such a fucking idiot, such a fucking horny scumbag, such a fucking animal.
    The thing with Anne was, it came out of nowhere—kind of. Sure, I liked the way she paid attention to me—smiling at me a little longer, giggling flirtatiously at my lame jokes, letting her eyes settle on me and stay there. But I never wanted it to go beyond that. Then one day we were exchanging some banter on IM, pretty harmless, talking about preferences and turnoffs and crap like that, and the next thing I knew we were trading sex secrets. We never did touch—not that Kate would care. Nor that she would even necessarily believe me.
    I hate myself.
    After a long pause, Kate says, “Are you sure you can’t go to FlowBid security?”
    â€œFirst thing they’d do is scour my activity on the network, and we’d be fucked.”
    She sighs and looks away. “We need to find a lawyer.”
    â€œKate?” I rearrange the peas again. They’re starting to thaw. “What do you say we call it a day?”
    Kate turns to me, crestfallen again.
    â€œI’m sorry, honey. My crotch is soaked.”
    K ate calls our sitter, Stacey, to say we’re coming home early. Dan’s testicles are throbbing , she explains, and he needs to lie down . Through the cell, I can hear Stacey laughing. Stacey says she and the boys have walked to Burton Park, where they’re playing in the sand lot.
    At the parking lot, standing between our cars, Kate says, “Why don’t I go pick them up at the park? That way they don’t have to walk back, and we can send Stacey home, and you can go frost your testes on the couch?”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I say, trying to be conciliatory. “I can go get them.”
    Kate frowns. “I thought you were supposed to be in pain?”
    â€œI’ll manage. You go home and get their bath ready and set the couch up for me with a bunch of pillows.” I reach into my sweats, pull out the wet bag of thawed peas, and toss it to her. “Just throw these in the freezer.”
    T he April sun is still pretty strong, and the interior of my old Corolla feels like a vinyl oven set for 120. The AC crapped out three years ago, but right now I have the windows rolled up. A few minutes later, Kate calls my cell. I’m still glad to hear her voice.
    â€œCalling for a nuts update?”
    â€œI wanna reiterate, Dan. We have a plan for this matter with the nerds.”
    â€œWe do?”
    â€œYeah,” Kate says, “the plan is, you’re going to find an employment lawyer ASAP.”
    Lawyer? Who, some greasy guy in a wood-paneled office above a pawnshop? I don’t want to deal with a lawyer. Who does? But as I head north on El Camino, I realize she’s right: I do need one of these people—pronto. Any other option—contacting FlowBid security, HR, even the FBI—will lead to immediate devastation. Who but an employment lawyer can give me an accurate reading on the how-fucked-am-I scale?
    Kate says, “You know anybody who knows a good lawyer?”
    â€œIsn’t Larry a lawyer?”
    Kate laughs. “Crazy Larry? Across-the-street Larry?”
    â€œThey say he’s brilliant.”
    â€œThey? Who’s they?”
    Good question. “They just say—”
    â€œDan, the man was disbarred. Like, ten years ago. He walks around in a skin-colored Speedo and heaves buck knives at his garage door.” She’s almost yelling. “You want go to