by Natalie Wrye
Only this time, I swivel fast enough to catch the person lurking over my shoulder, and I grab for the throat immediately, my grip hard—almost bruising as I squeeze.
A small voice yelps as I clamp down. The woman in my hand barely manages to cough.
“Don’t.” Kayla croaks, her brown eyes wide. “Didn’t mean to…”
“Fuck.” I swear, thinking of Sawyer and that damn cursing jar of his. “I didn’t… I thought you were…”
“I’m so sorry, Kay. I didn’t know it was you.”
My alcohol-tinged thoughts are scrambled and I work hard to put them back together. I snatch my hand away from her neck. “God, I thought you were, I don’t know, someone else.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine,” she wheezes. “What’s a little choking between friends?”
I snort, patting her back. “I think the choking part is exactly how you and Deacon ended up as more than friends.” I stand straighter. “How is our boy handling himself these days?”
“Good. Great, actually. Both bars have been bringing in business.” My ex-publicist eyes me with intrigue. “You would know that if you stopped by once in a while.”
“Just because a man is part owner of a bar doesn’t mean he has to act like it, does he?” I let myself laugh. “Besides, The Alchemist is his baby. And we all know I’m not exactly father material.”
Kayla’s face turns serious, her blue eyes burning right through me. “You know that’s exactly why I’m here, Sevin.” Her dark hair falls over her face as her brown brows knit in front of me. “Deborah is here.”
“Deborah? You mean...” I can barely get the words out. “She’s here?” My eyes grow ten times wider. “As in Chicago?”
“As in right next door.” She shifts on her feet, almost squirming. “I set her up in the hotel across the street.”
“From my apartment?” My alcohol-tinged thoughts are scrambled and I work hard to put them back together. I squeeze my fingers into fists as I stare. “No offense, Kay, but I may have stopped choking you a minute too soon.” I rub a hand across my nape, my eyes lowering. “What does the blackmailing leech want this time? My sanity not good enough? She need my soul this time?”
Kayla warns. “Sevin…”
“The woman is blackmailing me for a million dollars, Kay.” I interrupt, my skin prickling all over. “And to be honest, I’m as likely the father of her child as Pee-wee Herman.”
“I’ll be sure to give Pee-wee my congratulations. But for the time being, I need to talk to Emily right now so we can get this sorted. Shit. I don’t want to use my spare key, but…” The pretty brunette checks her cell. “Tried calling her, but I think her phone died.”
“Wait, Emily? What does this have to do with her?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
My ex-publicist sighs, sagging against the apartment door in front of her. “Oh God, please tell me you guys are not still holding a grudge against each other?”
I gape, but Kay keeps going. “Yes, I know all about it. I know everything.” Her shoulders slump. “I hope you know I don’t give two shits about whatever little neighborly feud you guys are having. And I certainly don’t care about your little hate letters to each other or calling the cops or whatever the both of you have done because we have bigger issues, Sev.”
But I can’t hear anything else. Not over the roar in my head, with Emily’s name ringing in my ears.
My mouth goes dry, my tongue numbed.
Because just the thought that Emily—my Emily…
The sweet, irresistible, sexy-as-hell-in-just-a-t-shirt-and-sweats Emily might be my arch-nemesis is enough to make me sick, and God knows the amount of alcohol I’ve had to drink to talk to that Bunny has made me sick enough already.
I want to get Kayla to clarify. To answer the many questions circling in my head.
But my curiosity soon becomes buried under my rage, as I realize it’s useless.
There’s no doubt that Emily’s the one, the neighbor.
She lives exactly one floor below.
Not to mention, the quick-tongued brunette practically told me so with her confession of her music choices.
I’d simply chosen not to see that the irritating tenant blasting Sarah McLachlan just one floor below would be the woman I’d been dying to bed.
And all the while she’d been making my life a living hell, sending what little sanity I have to brand new lows.
The thought is enough to sober me completely.
And fast.
My mind finally clearing, Kayla’s voice calling after me, I make a beeline back to the elevator bank, the surface of my skin practically steaming.
I enter the elevator, swiping my key card to the Penthouse floor. The second the doors part, I’m marching out, my vision blind with barely contained rage.
Teeth tightened, fists cramping, I turn the corner, heading back to my penthouse as fast as my legs will carry me, every inch of my body on fire.
But I don’t expect what I find around the bend when I do.
A wall. A living breathing wall.
A mass of blue uniforms stops me mid-storm, and I glance up to find another slew of Chicago’s finest standing outside my door, their glances finding me in my rage.
I fixate my anger on them, my brow furrowing with every step I take closer.
“Jesus Christ, Emily sure made sure you boys have a hard-on for knocking on my door… What, another noise ordinance? That’s fine.” I reach in my jeans pocket for my wallet. “Just tell me how much I have to pay for another ‘Disturbing the Peace’ ticket so that you gentlemen can be on your merry way. I’ve got shit to do.”
“Mr. Smith?” One of the officers steps forward.
I lift my chin. “Yeah, that’s me…Or, if you prefer, you can call me the ‘idiot dickhead who can’t see past his own cock.’ Either one works.”
The officer frowns. “We’re not here for a noise ordinance. We’re here providing an escort. Your doorman called us, and we can’t exactly leave abandoned minors unattended.”
“Hank called you?” I shake my head, scoffing as I reach for my front door, the bass of music blasting behind it. I start to open it. “Remind me not to tip him for a few days. I’m in no fucking mood for any more guests.”
And suddenly I can’t turn my own knob.
What the officer’s said is still processing through my half-drunk mind, and with a single second of clarity, I turn, body tense, a line of sweat circling fresh around my collar. I stare at his face.
“Wait, what did you say?”
“I said we can’t leave a minor unattended, so we’re bringing her to you.” He steps aside. “This little lady belong with you? She says she does. Apparently, her mother dropped her off in your lobby, and the first thing she told us was your name.”
But then I see it. Or rather, I see her.
The reason for the police escort.
A heart-shaped face framed by sandy hair peeks out from beneath the wall of blue, and I stare back into a face I’ve never seen before. A face exactly like mine.
My heart drops to the floor, and fate kicks the fuck out of it for good measure.
A knot the size of a baseball climbs into my throat as a new reality forms in my brain against my will.
Sawyer was right… Tonight, I am getting so screwed.
I swallow thickly.
Chapter 6
Emily
Wednesday night
Liquid courage pushes me to fear’s edge and plunges me over. Before I can back out, I am already writing a response message to Sevin’s last, my fingers shaking as I type, glancing at Sevin’s final message, eyes blurred from salty Chicago rain.
Sevin:
So, what do you say?
The message stares back at me like a neon sign, and I take a deep breath, exhaling doubt.
Emily:
I say yes… I can be there in about an hour and a half, if that’s okay. I would like to talk to you.
And only
talk. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Because I know I need to explain to Sevin exactly who I am.
The message is bold. It doesn’t make any sense. And it’s several days late, but it doesn’t stop me from sending it, a butterfly fluttering in the pit of my stomach as I squirm on the cushiony bar stool.
Anxiety sticks itself in my throat, blocking all oxygen.
That is, until a message pings back, flashing across my cell’s phone screen from none other than Mr. Elevator Man himself. My heart squeezes inside my chest as I read it. Right before my phone shuts completely down, its battery giving a final bleep of death.
Sevin:
No need. I’m heading to your front door right now.
Clearly, Happy Hour isn’t getting me drunk enough to deal with my now-dead phone and raging hormones, and after moving through the motions of the day like a zombie in a business skirt, I sit beside Ben at the bar, pretending I’m not terrified by Sevin’s last message, pretending I don’t want to dunk my head in a vat of alcohol.
I glance into my third glass of Riesling, wishing I’d ordered the gin instead.
Because after confessing to him about my not-so-small flirtation with Sevin, I’m a fumbling, bumbling mess of emotions.
Planting an elbow on the bar’s oak surface, my best friend’s bottom lip hangs low enough to catch flies as he gazes at me across the beautifully rustic bar known as the The Alchemist that he’s dragged me into.
He doesn’t blink as his eyes roam my face. “So you met…”
“Yup.” I answer for the third time, staring into my glass.
“And the two of you have been…”
“No.”
“But he invited you over his place tonight, so you could…”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t believe it.” My good friend takes another swig of his drink, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair.
I shake my head, letting dark strands of my hair fly. “I know. Me neither.”
“I’m talking about you.” He inches closer on his stool, his tailored suit unwrinkled on his lean frame. “I can’t believe you, Ems. I mean, seriously. You’re the luckiest woman in this freaking city.”
Licking his bottom lip, he leans in, excitement making his blue eyes light up. Strands of his blond hair fall forward, released from their gel prison. “You’ve been asked to potentially spend a night with the hottest man in Chicago. A man whose muscles have muscles. A man with the face of Adonis, biceps the size of oranges and an ass like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…”
“Yes, I’ve got the picture, Ben, thank you very much.”
I twirl my glass, finally feeling the alcohol in my system. I glance down at my dead cell phone screen, wishing it were a crystal ball.
Because Ben’s not wrong.
Sevin is every bit as good-looking as the magazines have made him out to be. Which makes him all the more dangerous to be around.
There’s something about the man. Something that scares the hell out of me.
Crisis management law is hard. Working with our type of clientele? Even harder.
But joking with Sevin, talking with him, laughing with him, hasn’t been hard. In fact…it’s as easy as breathing, which—shockingly enough—is hard to do around that man.
Around him, I feel that sort of seductive pull of throwing caution to the wind, an act, I’m sure, my area of legality banned in forty-nine states.
There’s something about his reckless confidence, the casual confidence in the way he talks, walks—and from the things I’ve heard in my apartment, fucks—that pushes at my professional and personal boundaries.
Which is exactly why taking him on as a client is a million times harder than I ever thought possible.
But I can’t turn down my closest chance at proving myself in my new position; I can’t do it. Not when I’m this close.
Even though I’m currently wondering what the color of my new client’s boxer briefs currently are.
Ben nudges my arm, knocking me out of my own head. His stare is narrowed. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I don’t want to tell him that my thoughts are currently on Sevin’s butter pecan-like ass. Not yet, at least.
But I do need to talk to Sevin, and if it’s one thing Ben is good at, it’s knowing how to get a guy alone. And that’s what I exactly need to do with Sevin.
To talk…of course.
Shaking my head, I straighten on my stool, my fingers fiddling with the edge of my skirt.
“You had a lot to say about Sevin when you first found out we were taking him on as a client.”
“Of course.” Ben grins as he takes another gulp of his drink. “Sevin’s a lot of man to talk about.”
I suppress a smile. “What do you know about him?”
“Me?” He points at his chest. “Know about Sevin?”
“Well, you are the biggest mouth in Chicago, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “I’m going to try to take that comment in the non-sexual sense, so go ahead.”
“I know you’ve gotta have heard all the best whisperings and gossip about him.”
“Well, he’s new to Chicago, so there hasn’t been much…” Ben quirks one perfect eyebrow. “I mean, besides his sex life, of course.”
I feel my stomach tumble. “Wait, what do you know about Sevin’s sex life?”
Ben peers at me over his glass. “Do you really want to know?”
My chin tilts towards him. “Only with the fire of a thousand Persian suns.”
“Well, it’s just rumors…maybe. Sevin just joined the Cougars. And every woman in the city, of course, wants a piece of him. So far, it seems the only person who has ever managed that difficult task was Kimmy Wallace.” He lifts his eyebrows, and my face falls blank as I stare at him.
“I’m sorry, and Kimmy Wallace is who?”
Ben huffs. “Say it with me, Ems. Blog. B-L-O-G. It’s not that hard to find one.”
I slap his arm. “Just tell me.”
“She’s only one of the most popular billionaire socialites in the entire world. Think Kim Kardashian…with blonde hair and better shoes. Kimmy is part-model, part-mogul, all media darling. American tabloid royalty. Oh, and her family only owns about half of New York.”
I press harder. “And you’re telling me Sevin was engaged to her?”
“Supposedly. Henry Wallace was a huge college coach at the time in New York. Sevin’s college coach, actually. Which explains the rumors about the affair. And it gets even better.”
Ben leans in. “Apparently, there was some sort of love-triangle between Sevin, Kimmy and the infamously handsome pitcher, Finley Sparks. His roommate.”
Ben rubs his hands together, enjoying every bit of the juicy gossip. And I have to admit: I’m enthralled. I’m practically shaking on my stool as he keeps going.
“I’m talking fights in the dug-outs. Full-on brawls on the field. Everyone assumed it was just a ‘Roommate, Baseball Bros-type of feud’. Turns out it was much deeper than that.”
I take another sip of my Riesling, hanging on my best friend’s every word. Damn my lack of knowledge about blogs. “And then what?”
“Well, someone had to win Kimmy, right? And let’s just say it wasn’t our neighbor.”
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
She chose the roommate? This Finley pitcher guy, whoever the hell he was?
Who the hell was this Kimmy Wallace chick? And how had she managed to hide the massive brain injury she must have suffered?
What woman could pass on a man like Sevin Smith? But then again, maybe I didn’t know the Demi-god as well as I was beginning to think.
Maybe Sevin had all sorts of secrets hidden in those blogs that Ben loved so much.
I sigh, saying the obvious. “So, she chose the roommate.”
“Finley Sparks.” Ben twirls the glass in his hand before sitting it on the bar top. “And they’re still together today. Both beautiful and
married happily-ever-after style with a child.” Ben smirks, one side of his handsome face curling with some secret. “But from what I hear, happily ever after may not be so damn happy, as far as her marriage goes. And no knows why exactly it didn’t work with Sevin and Kimmy.”
He pats my leg. “Some say your little boyfriend might be the reason.”
I roll my eyes, finishing the rest of the Riesling at the thought of Sevin, a man who rides secret service elevators and avoids putting his profile picture on public platforms being exposed on seedy blogs.
I know he must hate it.
Being pushed and prodded into a life he never wanted.
Like me.
I feel my nerve trembling under this new information. I take another sip of my Riesling. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Who the hell knows?” Ben leans in even closer, lending me a whiff of his floral scent. His blue eyes twinkle in my direction. “Remember this about Chicago. It was built on the back of the mafia, ice-cold winters and brutal politicians. The city has rules. And it’s important for outsiders to learn them really quickly.”
“I’m slowly starting to realize that.”
“Good.” He slaps my knee. “Now…are you sufficiently drunk enough to screw Sevin or do you need another Riesling?”
“Is that why you agreed to have a drink with me? You’re supposed to convince me to do the right thing: To tell Sevin who I am before this gets any more complicated. I thought I made that clear when you showed up.”
Ben gingerly touches his chest. “Do I look like the type to tell you to do the right thing? For once in your perfectly planned life, please, do the wrong thing. Get laid. If you even remember what that means because it’s been, what, eleven months?”
“Twelve,” I mutter inside my empty drink. And even longer than that since I’ve had ‘good’ sex. The room swirls for a bit, and then stops. “Shit. I suck at this. What do I do? Do I message him on the MyNeighbor app? Do I ‘Like’ his last message? Do I send him a wink emoji?” I check my cell as if it will magically come back to life. “Dammit, this stupid phone.”
By the time Ben and I have stopped talking, I realize another hour and more has passed, nearly two.