In less party-like environs, Cliff and Hart are continuing their pissing match about how to run the firm. Susan is refereeing. She suggests they share power or she'll get the partnership to elect a new chairman. They glare at each other for a while, but say nothing. Susan takes this as an agreement. Hart stalks off without a word. Cliff turns on Susan, but she brings up their relationship problems again. She knows he's been having an affair. He tries to deny it, but she found condoms. Instead of setting his nads on fire, she just tells him to clean up his mess. Cliff, in true lawyerly fashion, doesn't outright admit to the affair, but says, "If I've done anything to create a distance between us, that ends tonight." She seems pleased enough by this and makes plans to meet him at the Wilshire hotel later that night.
Katie the paralegal's apartment. Dylan shows up (still soaked) with flowers he bought at a freeway off ramp. She's charmed and gives him a kiss, then pulls him inside. Back at the firm, Beth receives another gift basket, this time from the bastardly Ollerman to thank her for betraying the old man. Liam is there, drinking champagne from the basket. They're both like, well, we're having kind of a bad day so let's get it on. And so they do. And so I hope that Liam's condoms contain both spermicide and microbicides. At Katie's apartment, she and Dylan bask in the afterglow in front of a roaring fire. For some reason, he starts thinking about Rowdy even though there's a naked girl next to him. He thinks that what Rowdy said about his lucky moment and opportunity and whatnot was right.
To prove him wrong, the universe deposits Cliff upon Katie's doorstep at that very moment with a bouquet of flowers because, you see, he is the (not very) mysterious boyfriend. He calls the Wilshire in order to tell his wife he's been detained because he is a philandering scuzzwad. Just as he reaches up to ring the doorbell, the screen goes black. Tune in next week to find out who's getting it on with whom and who's getting set on fire.
Tppi Blevins is a writer living in Houston, Texas. She's never needed a lawyer and hopes she never does, unless he's super cute. You can reach her at email@example.com.