by Natalie Wrye
He places his folders on the edge of my desk, pulling up a chair. I sit and as we work in silence, the room grows still around us, the atmosphere turning thick. You could cut the tension between us with a well-placed spoon and as I watch Heath’s full lips part to speak, a cell phone rings, shattering the uncomfortable quiet between us.
He picks it up, tearing my trance in two.
I tuck my fist into my side, my sweaty fingers now trembling from something more dangerous than desire. Grabbing my notebook and laptop with one hand, I try to blaze past Heath, almost clipping his shoulder with mine as I make my way past him to the door.
Until he grabs me.
I turn to him before crossing through it.
He places his phone on his shoulder, his towering frame hovering over mine as he gazes down at me, his sharp jaw ticking. I don’t say a word.
“I need a moment with you before you go.”
“I don’t have a moment, Heath,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. “And even if I did…I have no intention of sharing it with you.”
I don’t like what “a moment” suggests. And, hell, the suggestion part is a stretch, at best. He’s telling me what he’s going to do, reverting back to the old Heath…and I’m tempted to pepper spray those big brown eyes of his right out of their sockets.
The man’s ego knows no bounds.
“A moment is the last thing you and I need, Heath. Trying to play nice doesn’t seem to work for either of us these days, so here’s my suggestion.”
I tap the mace from earlier on my hip, pointing the non-spraying end in his direction.
“Just please, Heath,” I release a long breath, feeling it down to my toes. “Just stay the hell out of my way…and I promise to stay out of yours. I appreciate your help I do. But like I said when we first met again: We can work… Just separate.”
With those words, I turn…but not before seeing a strange smile creep slowly onto his face.
It isn’t until I’m halfway down the hall, almost to the front door of the building, that I realize the can of mace in my hand—the one I’ve been waving around during my little tirade—is actually my small, pink Rabbit vibrator.
Hence, the smile…
I sigh.
I can’t seem to win when it comes to Heath, my body whispering that it doesn’t want to…
Chapter 15
HEATH
There was a natural rhythm to the clicking of the Mont Blanc pen she was using to write in the margins of her notepad, and where I was positive that that sort of nervous habit would have driven me bat-shit crazy anywhere else, right here…with her?
I found it oddly charming.
Maybe it was because she was so damned focused. Maybe it was because of her charming button nose…
I couldn’t help but notice the small scar across her hand, a birthmark near her knuckle. Her calves and wrists were tiny and though her fingers constantly moved as she scribbled on the pages of the book in front of her, everything else was as unmoving as ice.
Her demeanor was twice as frigid.
It was clear that her aloofness was practiced, and though I admired her for sticking to it as long as she could, I held in a silent laugh at the knowledge that her rigid façade would fall at my feet.
I just couldn’t stop myself.
I liked to chip at the cracks. I fiddled with the breaking points in people’s psyches, poking at their fissures—prodding at the chinks in their armors until the only option left for the armor was to crumble.
Melt.
I was carefully working at melting Violet’s arctic veneer. And though it took longer than most, I was enjoying it. I let my hot gaze travel the length of her body, lingering below her breasts until the speed of her pen’s clicking began to quicken.
I wasn’t big enough of a prick to order her around. Although, I had the absolute power to do so.
This was one woman—an employee now, at that—that I couldn’t touch, but I had to admit: I admired her. And I didn’t admire many people.
She was slightly nervous, I could tell…but she was doing her damnedest to not show it.
She had no idea how alike she and I really were. Two people without real family—fumbling around in the world. I pass through the office, stalking towards her.
Knocking before entering, I stroll inside the small room, and she blinks up at me, raising her head from between her pages and lifting it in my direction. With a shaky grin, she says my name, and all of a sudden I’m thinking of last night. Of what it should have been.
Her shoes would have never made it. Her loose bun would have been obliterated. Her skirt would have sat rumpled around her waist by the time I was bending her over her desk—pounding into her, beating her body with my own to the rhythm of that nervous pen-clicking habit I’d grown to strangely adore.
But guilt makes me stop, halts the fantasy in my fucked-up head. I’m still dealing with the guilt that I’ve been leading her to the front of a firing squad, and I only hope that she was smart enough to see what was coming her way. That David King, and the other senior partners I suspect are on his side, have no intentions on helping her, on being decent.
And the clincher?
I honestly don’t know why I want to. Why I want to help the firm.
Marilyn was right; where had I fucked around and found a conscience?
I’m willing to bet the Beemers that half of our attorneys drove here tonight…that Violet won’t exactly be pleased to be saved by the likes of someone like me.
Not like she really has a choice in the matter. I’m here.
In fact, one of the main reasons I’m here is because of her…
Because I needed to know.
Know that I wasn’t being clouded by judgment just because Violet Keats was attractive to look at. Know that I wasn’t entertaining making the biggest move in this firm’s history because I couldn’t separate the twisted twosome of business and pleasure, even as I imagined the last time that I was forced to separate everything that was long and hard on me from her half-naked and panting little body.
I’d talked Keats into letting me meet her client. That was enough for now.
In fact, the client had called the meeting when Violet told her the good news. That I might take her case. That I might risk the very ground we all walked on to help a client bury a man whose business once put us at the top of the law firm ranks.
I close my eyes. Sucking a breath so hard it almost fucking hurts. I reach out my hand.
“Mind if I borrow a pen?”
Her grin wilts as she looks into my eyes. “Sure.”
Violet rummages through her drawers, producing another expensive pen. As she passes it to me, our fingers touch, and the thought of fucking her is almost enough to make me cancel this meeting with the client when my new secretary buzzes my phone, announcing her arrival.
I leave with a nod, willing my hard-on to save it for another time. Summoning the potential new client in, my pulse pulling a Gene Kelly on the tip of my tired tongue, I take a seat behind my desk, squeezing my fists.
Strengthening my willpower, I remember what Marilyn said, what Brett lectured me about. With their voices in my head, I find a willpower I’d believed I’d lost.
Twenty seconds later, the client opens the door, beating back the sounds inside my brain.
Mrs. Fletcher was dignified, that was for sure. Clad in a blue suit that cost more than a BMW, she steps lightly into my gigantic office, her gaze flitting over the glass. Clearly accustomed to the finer things in life, she almost sneers at my father’s infamous, lightly chipped oak desk. Tempted to tell her that this desk has seen more action than she’s encountered in two lifetimes, I smile instead, rising to my feet as I shake her thin hand, motioning towards her seat.
“Please. Make yourself comfortable, Ms. Fletcher.”
She glares. “Oh, I intend to.”
I sit down across from her, crossing my legs. I beat my thumb in time to the ticking clock on the wal
l. I start talking without wasting a second.
“You said your company was tricked out of money, is that correct?”
She nods. “Yes.”
I gaze down at my notes. “You also say that one Christopher Jackson was the man who tricked you out of said money.” I glance up. “Is that also correct?”
Her red lips purse. “Yes, that is correct.”
“You invested with Chris Jackson’s company?”
“Yes.”
I grit my teeth. “And you didn’t know about the rumors, Ms. Fletcher? The whispers about Jackson’s wanton ways?” I lean forward. “You didn’t know about the double-dealings, the back-stabbings?” I inch closer. “You didn’t know about the illegal activities, the slander, the fraud, the broken promises?” My eyes drill into hers, dragging the truth out. “You didn’t know, Ms. Fletcher, that you were consorting with the most crooked man in all of New York City investment business… Is that correct, Ms. Fletcher?”
The time ticks away. Ms. Fletcher’s regal stare never wavers from my face, and for a second there, I believe she’s going to get up and walk away. But she doesn’t. Smoothing out a line of wrinkles across her forehead, she throws her shoulders back, her brown curls bouncing as she gazes at me through eyes of steady conviction. She nods once more.
“Yes…” She breathes out slowly. “That is correct, Mr. Sparrow. And I’m not so sure we both needed that recap.”
“You called for this appointment, Ms. Fletcher. If you didn’t want a thorough recap…then why did you come?”
I slide backwards in my leather chair, running a thumb along my jaw as I admire the older woman still sitting across from me. Her tenacity is stronger than I assumed, and I find myself fighting the urge to grin. I like her goddamned style.
“I came because I was asked to come. I was sent to make sure you were still on the level.”
I point at her. “Are you?” She blinks again, and I continue. “Are you so sure that this isn’t a lost cause, Ms. Fletcher?”
“Missus Fletcher,” she corrected, sighing. “And you wouldn’t be here if you thought my company’s case was a lost cause, Mr. Sparrow. We carefully vet everyone we bring on.” She takes a peek at me through a pound of carefully applied makeup on her face. “Even you. And yes, we went to Chris Jackson, hoping he could build our business. We’d hoped the rumors weren’t true. We’d hoped he’d help us make money. We…” She shakes her coiffed head, a glaze starting to grow over her green irises. She looks up. “We hoped he could help us grow the cash we needed to save my husband from the cancer that ravaged him…” She raises her chin. “But he didn’t. And now Howard’s dead. We hoped we could count on someone else to help solve our problems.”
I shrugged, feeling the weight of the heavy suit jacket on my shoulders.
“A useless exercise.” I glare. “I’m sure you know enough about my reputation by now, Mrs. Fletcher. Some people are born this way. Others… are built this way piece-by-piece. And then there are those of us who are bred this way. Siphoned. Cultivated. Molded before we ever left our wombs, weeping—crying because we knew that the fucked-up place we just entered into would be so much worse than the last.”
She inhales deeply and I keep going.
“Only those last type of people come to a place like this, Mrs. Fletcher. They’re not meant for this world or…” I look around. “Even this room. They’re meant for something deeper, darker. They’re not meant to reveal their true selves. If they did…the world would want to shove them right back into the womb where they belonged.”
I narrow my eyes and watch her lively green ones widen.
Hell, this client of Violet’s was handling my resistance better than I expected. Most, by now, would be hanging on by a very thin thread, but she was determined.
Maybe she really thinks we can help her. Maybe she believes every word I’m saying. Or, hell, maybe Violet was right; maybe we do have a shot in Hell at justice against a man who escaped judgment for so long.
Either way, I’d find out within the next sixty seconds or so.
I settle in, standing to my feet. I walk towards her.
“But there’s a reason you wanted to work with King & Sparrow. There are lots of reasons why people want to work with King & Sparrow, Mrs. Fletcher.” I finally reach her, sweeping an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “What are yours?”
She bites her lip. Adrenaline singes under my skin, and after several seconds of silence, I grow impatient, circling back to my desk so I can sit down.
I think of Violet. My sensuous Violet…with no idea the trouble she’d walked her pretty legs into. Doing the right thing was harder than she had imagined; I knew it better than most.
This wasn’t her world. But it was mine.
And I knew better than most the bitter connections that wealthy men like Chris Jackson and my father had built were as solid as brick, knew that some scandals were meant to lay buried, secreted—unsheathed.
Fifteen hours after last night’s warning to her—fifty long, hard hours of contemplating the ramifications of going after a man like Chris Jackson, and I had finally separated myself from the situation, staring down at my body as I cursed myself a fucking fool.
But it was worth it to me. To my better conscience. To Brett.
And in some ways, it was worth it to Violet, the sharp-shooting vixen with the wicked mouth and even more wicked tongue.
I remembered that tongue. And everything surrounding it.
At last, after what feels like an eternity, Ms—excuse me, Mrs.—Fletcher sighs, her shoulders straightening as she regards me.
“I can tell you my reasons. My reason…” she trails off, her tone twisting with grit. “Is that I want to nail that fucker Jackson to the goddamned wall.”
Her wall of decorum comes tumbling down. It is just what I need from Mrs. Fletcher. A fighter. Because it’s sure going to be a battle in court. But for the first time, I feel good about the decisions I’ve made concerning this firm, concerning myself, concerning this world.
That pen I borrowed from Violet on my way in actually comes in handy. I sign the contract with a smile, scribbling my name across the surface, before sliding the sheet over to our newest client. I stand on the spot.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Fletcher.” I reach my hand out to shake hers. “You just found the lawyers you were looking for.”
Chapter 16
VIOLET
I can’t remember the last time I thought about homicide.
I mean, real, genuine, bone-splinting homicide.
The hire-a-contract-killer-and-wait-in-the-bushes-to-watch-it-go-down homicide.
The eat-popcorn-drink-a-beer-while-the-person’s-house-is-on-fire type of homicide.
That one.
Maybe it was high school.
Imagining that Heather Palmgreen had suddenly choked on one of the many jersey-covered cocks she’d sucked behind the bleachers before football games. Or maybe it was when I’d daydreamed that Greta—the nasty, scowling cafeteria lady from fourth period lunch—had smothered in her under-seasoned mashed potatoes.
I certainly never thought about it at work. I’d always been pretty lucky in that category.
When you spend enough time around a group of people, a dynamic grows. Your coworkers, especially the crazy ones like Emily, become a sort of family. And I was having a pretty amazing relationship with all of my family members.
All of them now…except for one.
Heath Sparrow is somehow now my boss, the legal CEO at my firm. I spent the better part of the afternoon, covering all of the latest from the business mogul Chris Jackson’s corruption case, and right now, as far as I’m concerned, this one family member can choke on his own overblown ego, fall head-first off the pedestal he’s raised himself on, and smack his ass on a thousand pointy Legos on his way down before tumbling into the edge of my stiletto.
And okay, yes… I do acknowledge that it’s a very gorgeous ass to fall down on, but his ass isn’t exactly th
e one I’m worried about.
It’s my own that’s on the line.
In the midst of my work day, preparing for my next deposition, my cell phone suddenly rang in the center of my desk, blaring out a familiar melody.
Swiping a wrinkle of frustration from my forehead, I answered the phone without glancing at it, the sound of my Chicago’s realtor’s voice on the other end. Her voice is the overly chipper sound I need to run a chainsaw through my thoughts.
“Vi!” She cried, her tone just a tad too loud. “Where have you been? I thought you were heading back to the condo earlier this week.”
“Change of plans, Sarah,” I say, my mind still racing over my current case’s details. “I had to make a quick trip back to New York.” I think of the unfinished business I left back in the Windy City.
“Darling, don’t rush! It’s no big deal. Anyway…are you sure you’re supposed to be traveling in your condition? I mean, with the pregnancy and all?”
Pregnancy? The word was like a knife to the heart. After several seconds of finding the energy to breathe again, I managed to blow out the question, my oxygen expelling from my body hard enough to keel me over.
I cough, my voice dry amidst the cold office air. “Pregnancy? I repeated. “Sarah, I’m—I’m sorry. But I’m not pregnant.”
“But your husband…” She stutters. “He said his wife was… and I thought…” She stopped, almost as if aware of the secret she was revealing, her chipper voice escalating eight octaves higher. On a giggle, she tried to blow it off, as if she’d never said it. Her laughter is a shaky sound that does nothing to soothe me, and as she continued talking about closing costs for the condo and life I left behind, my chest tightened, a chilled reality settling in my bones that made me shiver, tremble from the inside out.
I certainly didn’t see that coming…
Several hours later, I am still thinking about that damn call at my favorite Happy Hour spot, my thoughts won’t leave me alone, the past two years catching up to me like never before, weighing on my mind like an anvil.
The urge to rid myself of the odor of the afternoon is overwhelming.