by Amelia Wilde
I walked into the clinic ready to make up my missed days. It was busy, with a long line of people waiting to meet with an attorney. I went to the cubicle cluster I sometimes shared with my classmates when I wasn’t working directly with Kieran. Several were finishing up their early hours while Professor Ashe moved between them, checking and rechecking their work. I was the first to arrive for the later shift.
Eric was at the desk next to mine, finishing a meeting with a new client. He nodded as I walked past to check in with Kieran.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Sanchez,” he said to his client before standing up to look over the flimsy walls of his cubicle to where I was setting down my things. “Watch out. She’s on a rampage today,” he said before popping back down to Mrs. Sanchez.
I frowned and then walked to Kieran’s office, where she was clearly in the middle of a contentious phone call.
“You can’t keep blowing her off!” Her voice echoed down the hallway.
Obviously, it wasn’t a client phone call.
“It makes me look like an idiot when you and I aren’t on the same page, and she’s getting pissed off too. You’re supposed to be my client, for crying out loud! I should know these things first!”
Huh. Apparently, it was a client after all. I knocked lightly, and Kieran looked up with a dagger-sharp glare.
“No,” she said on the phone as she waved me in. “No, I’m not going to drop you, you idiot. I wouldn’t do that. But please, will you take this shit seriously? Miranda has sharks for representation, and they’re circling the ship right now.”
The voice on the other side of the line mumbled something that made Kieran roll her eyes. She tugged a file out of her desk and handed it to me.
“You’re ridiculous,” she retorted. “A bull-headed, stubborn, complete fucking moron if you don’t do what I tell you and let me handle this. I’m not kidding.”
The voice, obviously a man’s, said something else that made one corner of Kieran’s crimson mouth lift. She shook her head, bemused.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she scoffed. “Just keep that thing in your pants in court, all right? I don’t need a pissing contest between you and her lawyer on top of everything else. Who Miranda, uh, spends her time with is Miranda’s business, and it’s not going to matter worth a damn to the judge, especially considering how long it’s been. Besides—” She looked sharply at me and frowned. “I didn’t think you’d care about that much these days.”
The voice said one more thing, causing Kieran to laugh, a short, terse bark.
“Good to hear. Well, I have to get back to cleaning up your damn mess. Again. I’ll call you later.” She hung up the phone and turned to me. “Sorry about that. It’s been a catastrophe today, and it’s not even noon yet.”
“Everything all right?” I asked, holding up the file. “Anything I can help with?”
Kieran ground her teeth a little, as if weighing whether or not to tell me. As her underling, I was technically protected by client-attorney privilege, but it didn’t sound like the client she was speaking to was from FLS. I had never seen Kieran talk to any of the people here like that; she was usually professional to the point of robotic.
“It’s nothing,” she said finally. “Just a client from my firm. A difficult one. Anyway, can you double-check that motion for me? It needs to be filed by the end of the day. Then you can start taking clients.” Kieran waved me out of the office as she started dialing another number on her phone. “Skylar?” she called as she brought the phone to her ear.
I turned around, prepared to take another request. Maybe she had changed her mind about the other client.
“Close the door on your way out,” she said and turned back to her work.
I had seen five separate clients by the time the ancient wall clock marked the end of my shift. As I finished packing up my things, my cell phone rang. I answered it quickly, not recognizing the number.
“Hello?” I said as I pulled on my jacket.
“Is this Skylar Crosby?”
“It is,” I replied as I checked my desk, making sure I hadn’t left anything. I grabbed my keys from the far corner.
“Ms. Crosby, this is Matthew Zola with the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office.”
“Oh!” I reached behind me for my chair and sat down immediately. “Hello. What can I do for you? And…how did you get my number?”
There was a small chuckle on the other end of the line. “It wasn’t that hard, actually. Your grandmother is very accommodating.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk. Why had Bubbe been chatting with the D.A.?
“Apparently your father requested that any inquiries into his involvement with the Messina case be directed to his lawyer—that’s you, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “That’s me. For now. But I’m not under the impression that my father has changed his mind about testifying. He’s sustained enough personal damage over the last few weeks; I’m afraid the stress of the trial would be too much for him.”
I was careful not to say anything that would directly implicate Dad, but the message was clear. He wasn’t interested in being Messina’s target yet again.
“I understand,” Zola said, unexpectedly amicable. “I hope he’ll change his decision, but I get it.”
I twisted back and forth in my chair, somewhat taken aback. Was this some sort of gambit? “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “Great.”
“I also wanted to let you know that the domestic violence bureau received your resume, and I put in a good word for you with the D.A. If I were a betting man, I’d guess you’ll be getting a phone call within the next few days.”
Eric turned from his desk and frowned when he saw my face. “What is it?” he mouthed.
I shook my head. No doubt I looked confused. Zola’s call was completely unorthodox. He had no reason to take such an active interest in my employment—unless he wanted something.
“Ms. Crosby?”
“Sorry, that’s great, thank you,” I blurted out. “Really. I don’t know if I’m looking to relocate from Boston, but it’s good to have the option.”
“Especially this late in the game,” Zola replied.
I scowled, even though he couldn’t see me. My professors had been hounding me about this issue as well—I didn’t need yet another reminder that I still had no official job offers as the year was winding down.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“It’s nothing. I hope you let me know what happens. We’d be lucky to have you down here.”
“Sure,” I said, although I had no intention of calling him back.
It wasn’t until after he hung up that it occurred to me how stupid I had been to go to Nick’s myself, especially when it was being watched by the D.A. and the police. Both Brandon and I could be in major trouble if anyone caught wind of the money we were giving Messina. Yeah, there was no way in hell I’d be taking that interview, or ever talking to Matthew Zola again. I didn’t care how deep his dimples were.
After gathering my things, I called Bubbe to check in.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bubbe, it’s me.”
“Oh, hello, sweetheart. Is everything okay, bubbela? Did you forget something here?”
“No, no,” I said. “I got a call from someone at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, saying he’d talked to you.”
“Oh, yes, your father just asked that he call you instead, so I gave him your number. Nice fella. Very charming.”
I twiddled a pencil in my hand, then set it down on the desk. “Okay. Can you call me next time before you give out my number? You know, considering everything that’s happened with Dad?”
There was a brief silence, then a quiet reply. “Of course, Skylar. I’m sorry.”
My heart sank. Bubbe had been putting on a show of strength, but I knew she felt somewhat responsible for what had happened simply because she hadn’t kept better tabs on Dad. I walked to the back of the office, where I use the break room for a bit more privacy.<
br />
“It’s fine, Bubbe, I promise,” I said, trying to invest as much lightness in my voice as I could. “Listen, I also wanted to ask about the refinancing application this morning. Were you approved?”
I wanted to get the money to Messina as soon as possible to get that damn monkey off my back. Or Dad’s so to speak.
“Oh, I didn’t go.”
My heart fell in my chest as the ball of stress in my stomach tightened. I braced myself against the refrigerator. “Why not?” I asked, trying and failing to keep the edge out of my voice.
This was not good. It took time for these applications to be approved, and we were on a tight schedule.
“There was another phone call this morning. They talked to Danny, and whoever it was said the debt had been paid off, so I didn’t have to go to the bank after all.”
The meaning of her statement swept over me like ice as the truth hit home. Someone else had paid off the debt. Someone with a lot of money. And only one other person knew about it besides me, Bubbe, Dad, and Messina.
“I—I gotta go, Bubbe,” I said, barely taking the time to say goodbye before I hurriedly dialed Brandon’s cell.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hey, beautiful, this is a nice surprise. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you until later.”
“You paid off the rest of my dad’s debt.”
Silence echoed through the speaker. One of my classmates entered the break room, but spun on his heel at the look on my face. I turned to the sink, gripping the counter.
“Skylar,” Brandon started gently. “Yes. I did. But before you freak out—”
“I told you to leave it to me!” I hissed, unable to raise my voice the way I wanted to, but equally unable to cap the mounting fury. “You said you’d let me handle it!”
“Yeah, well, I thought about it, and that was a stupid idea!”
I held my phone out and glared at it before returning it to my ear.
“Are you serious right now?” I demanded. “I explicitly asked you to do something, you agreed, then went around my back to do the exact opposite. And I’m the bad guy here?”
“You are if you don’t listen to me!”
The line went nearly silent again, although I could hear the sound of his breathing. Another classmate walked in for a cup of water, so I stalked out, past the cubicles, through the reception area, and to the street where I didn’t have to be quiet any longer.
“What the fuck, Brandon!” I yelled. “Are we back to square one here? Trips to Paris and throwing money around to make me like you? Completely disregarding any of my basic preferences for our relationship?”
“Goddamn it, Skylar, can you just take your head out of your ass and listen?”
His rising voice only made my blood simmer. I yanked on my ponytail and paced around the corner toward the T- stop.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I asked through clenched teeth. “You can’t get involved here. Why would you do something like this?”
“Because it was the fucking decent thing to do!”
Brandon’s voice roared through the speaker, forcing me to hold it away from my ear, even on the street. I sat down on a bus stop bench, ignoring the man next to me currently digging into a box of very fragrant fried chicken. Several cars drove by blasting bachata music. I barely registered any of it.
“Your dad owed money. I have money,” Brandon was saying. “I could pay it off myself, which is a fucking drop in the bucket for me. Or I could let a septuagenarian take on a thirty-year mortgage. Maybe I should have talked to you about this first, but honestly, Skylar, you know that you’re way too stubborn to say yes. And what the fuck kind of man would I be if I didn’t do the easiest, simplest thing I could to protect the family of the woman I love?”
Suddenly every bit of anger flowed from my brain like blood from a wound. My heart rose about six inches into my throat. “The woman you…what?”
Brandon sighed. “Just come over tonight, all right? We can fight properly and make up then. I’ve got some things to say, and I’d rather say them to your face.”
I bit my lip, unable to form words. He loved me? I wanted to say it back more than anything, but all I could do was stare at the gum-lined ceiling of the bus shelter.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
“Seven,” said Brandon, and he hung up before I could reply.
35
I stood outside of Brandon’s door for close to ten minutes, just watching the light bounce off the prismed glass windows while I talked my temper down again and again. It had continued to resurface throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. I felt like an emotional yo-yo, back and forth and back and forth between my love for Brandon and his sweet words and my hatred of the situation and his actions.
It wasn’t just as simple as being mad, either. I was mad, of course, but not just at him. The truth was, when Bubbe had first told me the debt had been resolved, my initial reaction was relief. It was a major weight off to know that a dangerous gangster wasn’t waiting around the corner to beat the shit out of my father again, just as it was good to know my grandmother wouldn’t have to accumulate her own debt at seventy-two or that I wouldn’t potentially be disbarred for giving the man illegal gambling funds.
And for that feeling, I couldn’t forgive myself.
Just as I was about to ring the bell, one of the massive double doors swung open. Brandon stood there in bare feet, black suit pants, and a white undershirt that hugged every one of his toned muscles. He was on the phone.
“Hey,” he mouthed, stepping aside so I could enter.
The voice on the other end of the phone was loud and insistent. He closed the door, then put a hand over the phone’s speaker.
“What were you doing out there?” he asked. “I was getting worried.”
I shook my head and stood still next to the console like a statue. Brandon looked at me curiously, then leaned in for a kiss. I turned my face. He frowned, and then his expression turned cautious.
“I have to go, Kieran,” he said, setting off a flurry of yelling on the other end. He turned away from me, speaking quietly though I could hear him just fine. “Just move it to next week. I said I can’t make it tomorrow. No, I can’t.”
Kieran’s voice kept yelling, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
Brandon drew a hand through his hair. “I already told you, I’m not coming. Not gonna happen,” he said again, this time more forcefully. “Just deal with it. That’s what I pay you for.”
Without waiting for an answer, he disconnected the phone and set it down on the console next to me. He pushed a hand through his hair again, which looked as if it had been getting that treatment a lot today. Then he expelled a long sigh.
“She sounded mad,” I remarked. “Is everything okay?”
Brandon shook his head, but more as if to dispel the conversation than to answer my question. “It’s fine, just a deal that’s causing a lot of headaches. She’s overreacting.”
“We don’t have plans tomorrow. You can still go to whatever it is.”
“We don’t?”
Saturday was normally the day where we stayed at his house, working together. I edged a toe nervously around the zig-zag patterns of the wood grain in the flooring. I still hadn’t removed my coat. I wasn’t sure how long I would be staying. Brandon reached out tentatively to touch my hand.
“Am I really in that much trouble for trying to help?” he asked.
The confusion in his voice deflated me. I sighed and set my purse on the console, then took off my coat and hung it on the coatrack.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m frustrated with you, but I’m not going to dump you for helping my family.”
Still avoiding his careful gaze, I turned to the living room, where the fire was lit, as per usual, despite it being a nice spring day. I glanced around suspiciously.
The furniture had been rearranged. The couch had been moved closer to th
e arched entry and turned perpendicular to the fireplace, its spot replaced with a matching love seat that now looked toward the fireplace. Beyond that, the firelight flickered off something large, shiny, and black.
I froze.
“Maybe we should go out to dinner. Come upstairs. I’ll get dressed.”
“What the hell is that?”
My question was obviously rhetorical. The piano was massive, taking up most of the space in the far corner of the room, surrounded by the windows where Brandon had originally discovered me, yet leaving enough space for people to sit in them while…someone…played. Waving away Brandon’s attempts to take my hand, I strode across the room to examine the instrument more closely.
Like everything else in Brandon’s house, it was the best money could buy. A concert grand piano, it was at least nine feet long, with glossy black lines that bore no trace of dust or fingerprints. Everything was closed to protect the interior from dust, but I knew that the inside, if opened, would reveal the soundboard and shiny bronze strings.
I turned back to Brandon. “This is a Steinway.”
From the foyer, he nodded, eyes wide. “Yes.”
I looked at the piano, then back to him. “This is one of the most expensive pianos in the world. It’s the same piano that’s at Carnegie Hall.”
He didn’t affirm my statement—he didn’t need to.
“Why did you buy this?” I asked.
My voice was shaky—the rising anxiety was building in my stomach again as that feeling of being overwhelmed, which had seemed everywhere when I had first met Brandon, returned like a tidal wave. Brandon stepped into the room as if he were approaching a wild animal.
“Why do you think?” he asked softly. “There’s only one pianist who spends time here.”