by M. S. Parker
“I need coffee. You drink coffee?”
“Who doesn't?”
His response was a short laugh, and the sound of it warmed something inside me. I tried not to look at his ass as he turned the corner. When I caught up with him, I found myself in a bright, open kitchen area. I stared, feeling more than a little off balance. I’d had more than a few well -off clients, but Paxton Gorham wasn’t well off.
He was loaded.
Half my apartment could fit in the spot alone. “Do you…own this studio?”
He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Partially. The guys who play with me, and a few other groups, we all went in together and bought it. We prefer to be in charge of our own music.” He stopped at the counter and reached for a pot of coffee. It was half-full, and he lifted it to his nose, sniffed it, before lowering it with a shudder. “I'm making fresh. This stuff could power a diesel engine by now.”
As he dumped it out, I said gamely, “You should probably just give it to me. I need the charge.”
“Nobody should do that to their stomach.”
I sat down at a table, watching as he went about making coffee with the competence of a pro. He didn't look uncomfortable with the task. It was surprising, I had to admit, but then I wanted to kick myself. Just because he was a mega-rich rock star didn't mean he couldn't take care of basic tasks by himself. Besides, he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I'd done my research on him as well as Brinke.
It paid to do that when you were a lawyer. Cut down on the surprises. He’d grown up rough, both parents getting in trouble for possession and assault – on each other more often than not – plus resisting arrest and the typical petty criminal’s laundry list of crimes. Paxton had a few issues of his own, some of them the same as his parents, including assault and drug charges, but he’d straightened his act up seven years ago. Right about the time he would have found out he was going to be a dad, if my calculations were correct. He’d gone in for rehab and when he'd come out, he hadn’t gotten in any trouble, period. He was like an after-school special on turning your life around.
No, I shouldn’t be surprised that he could fend for himself with typical things, like making a pot of coffee. He probably lived on the stuff, especially since he didn't do drugs anymore.
It didn't escape my notice that while he was comfortable with the task, he wasn't relaxed. There was a fine tension to his body, something that kept his shoulders rigid, and while he kept his face averted, I could see how it kept clenching and clenching his jaw.
“If you're not ready to do this, or if you're having second thoughts, we can reschedule this.”
Paxton shook his head. He shifted, reaching into a cabinet. With almost deliberate care, he took out a pair of mugs and set them on the counter. Once that was done, he braced his hands on the surface next to them, lowering his head. His wide shoulders strained the faded material of his t-shirt as he took one, then another, deep breath.
“I'm not going to change my mind, Leslie. I should've done this a long time ago. But that doesn't mean any of this is easy. Brinke and I have been together a long time.”
I couldn't say that I understood. I'd never had a relationship longer than a couple of months. Ever.
“Okay.” Looking away from him, I reached into my bag and pulled out the information Kowalski put together for me.
The woman must've been crazy, I couldn't help but think, to throw away a life with that man and a beautiful little girl. A part of me wondered how long he'd been trying to make it work, but it wasn't my place to ask. My job was to facilitate a divorce and make it as smooth as I could for him.
And make sure his crazy ex didn't get custody of their daughter.
The scent of coffee filled the air after another moment, and I kept myself busy organizing, and then reorganizing everything I brought with me. By the time I finished, Paxton came over and placed a mug of coffee in front of me.
“You drink it black or do you take anything with it?”
“Black. I used to drink it loaded, but law school pretty much help me kick that habit. Cramming and a tight budget doesn’t always…” I stopped and shrugged, forced a laugh. “Well, college students and budgets. Familiar story.”
What was wrong with me? When had I developed the habit of running off at the mouth like that? I liked to talk, but it was never babbling. Chatting with a client to make them feel more comfortable was one thing, but telling one of them bits and pieces of my life was a different matter altogether. I needed to pull myself together.
“Why don’t you sit down so we can get started?”
“I don't do well sitting still. If you don't mind, I'll move around.” And he proceeded to do that, moving over to the window that faced out over the city.
In his defense, it was one hell of a view, but it wasn't going to shield him from the nastiness he was about to see. It would be easier if he’d sit and read the report, look at the pictures, so I didn't have to say any of it.
“Of course.” I took a sip of coffee, finding to my delight that it was extremely good. After putting it down, I reached for the report from Kowalski. “I have a pretty thorough report from the private investigator I hired. It might be easier if you just read it.”
Paxton lowered his head, and I had a feeling he didn't want to know what was in the report. I didn't blame him.
“Can you just cut to the chase and make it short?” He sounded so tired.
So much for hoping for the easy way. “Yes.” I needed to make it fast, like ripping off the Band-Aid. “The investigator's findings support my original opinion that it’d be best to immediately pursue full custody and request that the court limit her mother’s rights to supervised visits, only after she’s gone through a court-mandated, supervised drug rehabilitation program. After she's proven herself responsible, you can revisit the custody agreement.”
As he turned to stare at me, his eyes hard, I looked down. In this job, I often had to speak hard truths, but this was harder than usual.
“Mr. Gorham, I'm sorry, and I'm sure you're aware of this, but your wife has a serious problem and she's placing your daughter in jeopardy.”
“Look,” he said, his voice rough. “Brinke loves our daughter. Yeah, I know she's got a fucking problem. Why else do you think I'm divorcing her? I already said I should've done it a long time ago. But she wouldn't do anything intentionally to hurt Carter.”
“In all likelihood, you're right.” I needed to be careful here. “The problem is, your wife's problem has made her reckless, very reckless. I’m not sure she even understands how careless, how thoughtless she has become.”
As his eyes continued to flash, I took a deep breath and reached for the pictures from the day at the toy store. “Perhaps you should look at this. Would you please sit down? Even just for a few moments? You need to understand what I'm talking about.”
Ten minutes later, the silence was starting to get to me. I'd explained everything that Kowalski had detailed in his report, everything he had explained to me. Paxton had gone through the pictures now three separate times. Now he held one. His fingers had brushed over the little girl’s face before he'd plucked the picture up and now he was staring at it, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.
I knew exactly which image it was – the one where Brinke had picked up their daughter and hugged her, the silver pouch clearly visible above the partially opened zipper of the backpack. The picture that had showed his wife using their daughter to commit a crime.
As I watched, he slowly crumbled the photo in his fist. When he relaxed his fingers, the image fell to the floor and his gaze slid to mine.
I needed to fill the silence. Opening my mouth, uncertain what was going to come back out, I started with just his name.
That was where I really screwed up. I shouldn’t have used his name. “Paxton...”
His pupils spiked, flared. “See. That wasn't so hard. You can say my name just fine.”
The sudden rush of color that flooded my
cheeks was humiliating. I wasn't some naïve, inexperienced kid fresh out of high school. Although sometimes he made me feel like one. “Whether or not I can say your name isn't the point.”
“Trust me, I know what the fucking point is.”
He shot up, shoving a hand through already tumbled hair. His booted foot kicked something, the picture. He bent down and grabbed it, hurling it across the room. It didn’t go far.
“Where was Alex when all this was happening?”
Alex? Right, the nanny. “My PI said that these were times when Brinke sent Alex out to do something. That picture,” I gestured toward the floor, “was taken after Alex was sent back to get something for Carter that was left behind.”
Paxton started to pace. “So Brinke could put drugs in Carter’s backpack without Alex seeing.”
“More than likely. A good lawyer could argue that – ”
“Fuck arguments.” He turned, his eyes narrow. “That little silver clutch? She calls that her party bag. She’s had it forever. There were a few times when we both got wasted on the shit she’d have tucked inside there. I know damn well what she carries in it.” He shook his head, the pain obvious in his eyes. “I kept hoping after Carter that she’d get clean. I did. I wised up, knew I couldn’t live like that with a kid. But Brinke…”
He stopped and spun away, slamming a fist on the counter.
The ferocity of it startled me, but I understood it.
Using a child that way...your own child...
Even as I was trying to figure out something to say to him, he came back to the table and pulled out the chair, sitting back down. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice flat. “None of this is your fault. I just…”
Unable to stop myself, I reached out a hand.
Touching him would be a mistake, and I knew it even before I did it.
I did it anyway.
Brushing my fingers down his wrist, I tried to smile, to make it a harmless gesture, but it was too late. I’d already touched him, and the shock of it went through me like lightning.
Slowly, I withdrew my hand and busied myself with reorganizing the photos, hoping my face didn't show what I was feeling. “You don’t need to apologize. I don’t have children myself, but I can’t imagine how outraged I’d be if I were in your shoes.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I looked up, he was staring at me.
Look away.
I couldn’t do it though. Just like I hadn’t been able to not touch him.
His gaze lowered to my mouth.
My heart skipped a beat – then a few more. Again. As it started to race away inside my chest, I sucked in a deep breath.
Was he –?
The phone rang and the moment fractured, then splintered into a hundred pieces.
Chapter Eleven
Paxton
That mouth of hers had driven me crazy almost from the very minute we’d met. If I was smart, I would have gone and found some boring, suit and tie lawyer, somebody who charged thousands on the hour and didn't make me think about bending her over her desk...
I’d chosen the attorney in Queens partly because she was in Queens, damn far from anywhere Brinke or her friends would be seen and because Leslie had looked…sharp. Her picture had jumped out at me from the ad in the phone book, looking like somebody who wouldn’t be manipulated by Brinke’s games. Like somebody who knew how to play those games herself and win.
But that mouth…
Yeah, if I'd been smart, I would have just found somebody else after the initial consult.
Now, a split second away from kissing her, I told myself again…Fire her. Find somebody else.
I wouldn’t though. She was too damn good.
The phone rang.
Her eyes widened for a brief moment, then her lashes swept low, shielding the mesmerizing green. Standing, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and walked over to the window.
“Hey, Alex. What’s up?”
“Paxton…”
Immediately, dread settled inside, a heavy, ugly weight, and I hooked a hand over my neck, staring outside. “What’s she done now?”
“She left to go run a few errands…or so she said. She never came back. That was like three hours ago and Carter is getting pretty upset. I was going to take her to the play myself, but the tickets for the show aren’t here and…well. She was really looking forward to spending the day with her mom.”
Shit. I shifted my hand from my neck to my forehead, then pinched the bridge of my nose. So much for finishing up that last song. I was hoping to have something to show the guys on Monday, but that wasn’t going to happen. “Alright. Tell Carter I’ll be there soon. Look, if Brinke shows up…hell, just call me. And make sure you go with them if they go anywhere. I’ll catch up with you and take over, okay?”
“You got it. But you know she isn’t…” Alex didn’t finish.
She didn't have to. “I know.” Brinke wasn’t going to show. She was out partying. She’d already forgotten the plans she’d made with our daughter.
After disconnecting, I turned to Leslie. She was already gathering up her stuff, her face a carefully blank mask. “I’ve gotta go. Is there…do I need to sign stuff or anything to move forward from here?”
“No.”
She gave me a quick smile – the professional one she used almost every damn time she looked at me. I knew why she used it too. She felt the same tug I felt, only I was better at hiding it.
It was those eyes that gave her away.
“From here on out, a lot of the work is going to be mine. Well, up until it comes time to go to court.”
Court. It left a bad taste in my mouth. “I…look, I don’t want to keep Brinke away from Carter completely. She does love her.”
“I’m sure she does. But she’s also unstable. She…” Leslie sighed and set her bag on a chair.
This time, when she looked at me, there was no pretext or false smiles, nothing but seriousness – and concern, I realized. For a kid she didn’t even know. My kid. My heart gave an unsteady thump.
“You have to understand that she’s committed illegal acts that have placed your daughter in danger. I mean, I know you understand that. That’s what drove you to take action, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you need to take that action. Who knows, maybe this will be the thing that forces your wife to realize just how badly she needs help.”
I turned away. I guess a guy could hope. It might be like hoping for snow in July in New York City, but hey, anything was possible, right?
* * *
“This is fucking impossible.”
Staring at the dashboard of the 1962 Shelby Cobra I’d bought at auction the first time we'd gone platinum, I threw my head back against the butter soft leather and proceeded to mutter a long and steady stream of curses. Then I did it in Spanish. I was trying to help Carter become bilingual and I figured I’d do the same thing. All the fun words were cuss words. Not that I'd taught her any of those.
Climbing out of the car, I debated between throwing up the hood and kicking the tire. In the end, I kicked the tire, because there was no way I was going to touch the engine. That car was my baby and she was more temperamental than Brinke. No one but a pro touched her.
At the sound of a car stopping close by, I looked up, saw the valet just across the lot passing the key over to Leslie. She glanced up, smiled at me, but then the smile faltered. She said something to the valet and then trotted across the road to where I stood.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, the piece of shit engine won’t turn over.”
Leslie slid her eyes behind me. There was a gleam of appreciation in them as she studied the silver coat. “I don’t think you can call that car a piece of shit.”
“You're right. The car is fine. The engine is a temperamental piece of shit. It won’t turn over when I need it to. The damn car loves to screw with me.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a driver who takes y
ou wherever you want to go.”
Restless, I shrugged, tossing my keys into the air before catching them. “I do have one. He’s got kids, a wife. It’s a holiday. Besides, if I use him all the time, how am I ever going to drive my baby?”
“And that’s your baby…the car that’s screwing with you?” A smile curved her lips up.
I wanted to kiss that mouth, bad.
“Yeah.” With a curt nod, I sidestepped around her and headed toward the valet. It was Joey working today, so at least my luck didn’t totally suck. “Hey, can you call your brother? Tell him she’s acting up again?”
He gave me a pained look. “I can, Mr. Gorham, but he’s out of town for the Fourth. I know a couple of the guys are on call, though. Good guys, really. Tony doesn’t put up with losers.”
“That’s cool. If you keep an eye on her until somebody can get her to the garage, I’d appreciate it.” I pulled a few bills out of my pocket and passed them. Joey's older brother Tony ran a high-end repair shop, just for people who had cars like mine, expensive relics that liked to test their owners' patience. It was in good hands. “Thanks, kid.”
Turning, I saw Leslie still standing there. Figuring she needed to get her keys, I stepped away. “Enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
“How will you get to your place?” she asked to my back.
“The way anybody else does in New York, I guess. Take a taxi.”
She laughed and I heard the jingle of her keys. “On a holiday? You'd have better luck walking. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
Don’t do it.
I’d already reached the street and from where I stood, I saw two familiar yellow cars. One had their service light on, but as I watched, a woman with an arm full of bags flagged it down and she stepped up to the curb.
The other was parked off to the side of the road, light off.
Taking it as a sign, I turned back to her. “It’s a drive from here.”
“I’m not doing anything in particular.”
Unable to stop myself, I let my eyes drift back down to her mouth.