by Vivian Wood
“Vi, babe. I’ve got to go. We just walked into the hospital. And this place is packed. A hell of a time of year to have your loved ones here. I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.”
“Nor would I,” I say, my gait slowing. “Call me when you have time. I’d like to talk more.” I inhale slowly. “I miss you.”
I can hear her sad smile. “I miss you too, Vi. Call you shortly. Love your face.”
“Not as much as I love yours.”
The call ends. And so does my run. I slow to a walk, staring at my multi-colored surroundings. The dying trees come alive around me. In misty hues of red, orange and yellow, the wind whipping through the trees whispers to me, telling me sad tales I don’t want to hear, and I pick up the pace again, my stride stretching until I’m running again, my red hair blowing in the icy breeze as I try to escape my own thoughts.
I run all the way home.
With a ten-minute shower and a quick change of clothes, I head towards the huge office building—the law offices of King & Sparrow—feeling more spent than ever—yesterday’s late flight weighing more on me than I care to admit.
I hustle through the tiled, shiny lobby of the SparrowHead building, my red-bottomed shoes clicking noisily as I cross past the silver walls, the big black granite structures looming just outside the elevators.
I catch the next lift heading up to the seventieth floor, and as I do, a news report on the in-door elevator television shouts at me, showing a broadcast I’d rather not see. But I can’t help myself.
My mascara-lined eyes are glued to the screen as a report that I’m only too familiar with flashes a barrage of images in my bitterly-cold direction. A blonde, coiffed woman appears on the screen, holding a mic bigger than her arm.
The case against infamous New York financier Chris Jackson is only heating up in the wake of new allegations against the long-time businessman. Late last year, Jackson was publicly arrested on federal charges of fraud, accounting malpractice and securities law violations.
Reports are conflicted on the ongoing testimony of the witnesses in the case against the renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist. Our sources lead us to believe that more witnesses may come to the stand against Jackson, and that additional charges—both criminal and civil—may be pending against the…
The shudder of the elevator as it comes to a stop shocks me back into reality, and I blink as the doors part, straightening the growing frown from my face as I head into the halls of one of the most reputable law offices in the entire country.
Mahogany and gold fixtures meet me as I swipe in at the front receptionist’s desk, and as I stroll past the glass-encased offices, my eyes find those of a man standing behind the clear-plated walls, his blue eyes alive with passion as he gestures in front of a seated meeting of twelve suits.
He glances up at me, smiling. David King.
I return the smile of the man whose name is on the moniker above my head, a sudden warmth creeping its way up my neck, as I nearly collide with the slightly scratched desk of lead legal secretary, Emily Armand. Her caramel colored hair smells of lilac as she flips it over her shoulder, her hazel eyes blazing up at me, as she regards from the safety of her leather-lined seat. She grins.
“Distracted by something?” Her grin reaches her eyes, reflecting back a suspicious glint. I clear my throat, coughing as I throw back my shoulders and try to shake off an impending blush.
I glance down at her. “Not really.” I shrug, struggling to remain flippant. “Just wondering if I’m missing an important meeting or something. I’m several minutes late today.” Damn that run I just had to have before work.
But Emily doesn’t miss a beat. She glances over my shoulder, her eyes shooting in the direction of the suits sequestered around a large oak table. Her eyes hold the hint of suspicion I feel. She frowns.
“I don’t know… They’ve been in there all morning. Some secret meeting. The senior partners never keep me in the loop.”
I grunt, glancing backwards with her, my nerves needing coffee more than ever. “Don’t feel too bad. They don’t tell the junior partners much either.”
“At least you fall somewhere on the totem pole. I’m the gunk under the pole. I’m sure I’ll find out about the secret meeting once the stack of paperwork surrounding it needs to be taken care of.” She stares up at my face, her pretty head tilting as she inspects me, her stare scanning slowly over my face. Emily inclines towards me. “You alright?”
I plaster a smile on my face that might crack if I push too hard. I force the gesture into my tired eyes. “Sure, I’m fine. Don’t I look it?”
“To be honest? Not really.”
I deflate, my shoulders sagging. “Gee, thanks, Em.”
She laughs softly. “I’m sorry… You just…look like you need to get laid, that’s all.”
“The world would be a better place if it was that simple. Just got a lot on my mind, is all.”
I don’t tell her that “a lot” is short-form for a “shit-ton” and that I could cover the globe twice over with the amount of baggage barreling down on me, a year’s worth of emotional trauma taking its turns setting on my weary shoulders.
I can feel the burden on my body even now.
The flight from Chicago. Marilyn’s hospital visit. The prospect of running into her wayward brother.
Just the last twenty-four hours have been enough to send even the sanest person over the edge, and I swallow all of my feelings down with a mouthful of determination, my willpower hardening as I walk past Emily, to my office, my legs threatening to give out every step of the pearl carpeted way.
I lock the door behind me, letting out a shaky breath. I bite my lip so hard it might bleed. And I begin my work.
As always.
Work was always something I dove into when life got its worst. And it’s a salve to me now, on the coldest of winter days, as I try to sweep the worries of the world behind me.
With a Nirvana playlist in my headphones and my fingers on the keyboard, I knock out a month’s worth of work in the span of ten hours, and as the clock ticks towards seven o’clock, I pack up my things, feeling more accomplished than ever.
With the majority of the office clearing out, I cut a path towards the elevators, desperate to sink myself into an after-work scotch when a text from Elsie hits my cell phone, stopping any plans I had before.
I open my Messages app, reading the tiny text on the screen:
Come over when you’re off work. We should definitely finish our talk. I want to hear all about Chicago.
I agree. More than she knows.
I shoot her a text back, reminding myself that it’s been hours since we’ve spoken. The Chicago trip is the last thing I want to talk about. But even in the midst of my annoyance with what happened to me back in the Windy City, I know I need to.
To purge myself of all the poison the fiasco has left on my brain.
I catch a yellow cab on the street, heading towards uptown. I bundle in my oversized coat in the back seat, and by the time I make it to Elsie and Brett’s extravagant apartment building, I’m almost half-asleep, my body taking over my brain as its tired limbs sink into the faux-leather inside the taxicab.
I thank the cabbie, tipping him generously.
I hop out of the car, heading towards lobby security as I do, the flash of what feels like five-hundred light bulbs go off in my face as a sea of reporters, holding a myriad of black and gray mics crowd the marble floors.
I nearly trot backwards, tempted to run as the microphones and large lenses swing towards me, each stoic face attempting to see if I’m a person of importance.
My heart starts to race, alarm turning my mouth into mush, as I stare at the chaotic scene before me. Until a very large man, decked all in black, steps forward, his touch surprisingly light as he taps my elbow, urging me forward.
I sigh so hard my body sags. I glance up into the familiar face.
“Phil, Jesus.” I glance over the noisy crowd being shuffled o
ut of the doors by building security. “What the hell is going on?”
He shakes his head, his thick neck barely moving as he levels an annoyed glance over the rumbling mob. He glowers.
“A new development in the case.” He shrugs. “But it’s okay. Mr. Jackson and Ms. Carpenter are expecting you.” He finally smirks. “Come this way.”
He leads me all the way to the platinum-covered elevators, hovering like a protective blanket. We ascend like a bullet towards the thirtieth floor, and as the double doors leading to Elsie and Brett’s private hallway part, I remember where I am, who my friends are.
In the middle of my own misery, I’d almost forgotten.
I had my own problems. But none as pressing as the closest people in my life.
What was an ongoing argument with your ex-husband compared to the not-so-secretive life of a singing superstar and her TV-show partner?
What was selling your old marital condo compared to being the son of the most famous criminal in the country? I let Phil escort me all the way to the door, my own woes whisked away by those of my friends, as I lift my hand towards the pricey paint polished over their penthouse door.
I take a deep breath I can feel all the way to my toes, tightening my fist. And then I knock.
Chapter Four
HEATH
Happy hour is over.
I close the deep mahogany doors behind me, clenching my coat collar against the frigid cold.
The time on my watch says “I need a drink.”
As far as days and minutes ago, I’m already on Scotch-o’clock and by the time I head towards Le Petite Pony after spending all night and most of the day with my sister, I feel somewhat normal.
If normal means being-able-to-put-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-while-fighting-the-urge-to-fucking-run.
Because that’s all my mind has been able to do since I landed back in New York. Run.
No one said coming back home would be easy…
But what I didn’t expect was that my face would be flashed on every TV screen from coast to coast, that my frown would be splayed across newspapers from here to Beirut, as social media users of all ages and colors debated on whether or not I was too pretty to play my rightful role.
A role I’d been auditioning for since I was twelve and old enough to know my father was the last person I’d wanted to be.
I’d been a hot-tempered teen once—tense and angry. Harvard Law School made me mellow. Dropping out made me sane.
Clutching my navy trench against the wintry wind, I inhale the warm air as I enter the bar with the name that sounds more “strip club” than anything else, my eyes roaming along the wooden expanse, gaze pivoting before at last landing on the tattooed man perched in the corner, his blue eyes alive with mischief as he chats with the bartender.
I stroll over, taking the empty seat beside him just as he looks up. He smiles, an expression that has frankly won the world over. He bares his teeth, punching me lightly on the shoulder.
“Fuck…” I exhale on a shuddering breath. “I must really like your ass to brave this icy weather. Missing West Coast hospitality more than ever right now.”
“West Coast hospitality?” My best friend Brett smirks. “It’s ‘southern hospitality,’ Heath. West Coast hospitality is not a saying.’”
“It should be.” I shake off ice. “They hand out triple non-fat lattes like candy.”
“Along with all the ‘hospitality’ you can get, huh?”
“You say ‘hospitality’ like it’s another word for ‘vagina.’”
He grins even wider. “In your case? It is.” He nods to the bartender before glancing back at me. “I know you well enough by now…” Motioning to the drink in front of him, he fingers its rounded edge. With a sigh, he says, “Or maybe you’re just like me. Stressed out from…hell, life, and ready to brave the cold for anything alcoholic.” He passes a twenty over the bar’s rough scratched surface. The barkeep takes it. “He’ll take the same as me, Kent,” he directs to the guy behind the wooden slab. “A pint of the Freak of Nature.” A local favorite brew. I raise a finger.
“Actually… I’ll take a scotch, if you got it.”
My alcohol tastes are as varied as my moods.
Tonight? I’m a scotch man. Dark and dry.
My attitude is slowly working its way up to aged whiskey, but I don’t tell Brett. I don’t want to ruin the meeting we’ve waited weeks to have. Or bring my bad attitude into a good friend’s life.
Good friend. I’m tempted to snort.
Brett Jackson is one of the only friends I have, if I’m being honest—something I’m going to have to be with myself now that I’m back in brutal-as-hell New York.
I take a sip of the dark drink before the bartender barely removes his hand from the glass. I exhale, needing the liquor more than life. I take a swig from the glass’s edge and swallow, glancing over at my best friend.
My eyes narrow. “So…what did the asshole do this time?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, did your dad kill someone this time? Or has Chris ‘Jerk-Off’ Jackson just stuck to stealing every dime of his partners’ money? Which new crime will we see splashed all over the news?”
He frowns. “This meeting isn’t about my jackass father.”
I swallow another gulp of the scotch. “Isn’t it?”
“No, this is about you, bro. And Marilyn. Elsie. Seriously, Sparrow. I know my fiancée needs a break from all this scandal surrounding us. This circus.” His lips turn downward into a frown. “I had to get her out of the house. And I figured you needed that too.” He exhales, his broad shoulders slumping. “What does the doctor say?”
I lower my drink. “It’s good and bad. Mare is going to be fine…” I trail off, my stomach tightening as I say the words. “But my father…”
I don’t have to finish for Brett to understand. He nods, knowing how the sentence will end. He grimaces. “And your father’s lawyer?”
“Another subject for another day.” I sip my scotch, wishing I could shoot the damned liquid into my veins. It’d make the slow death inside of me go quicker, at least. “Let’s just say that my father has left me in charge of his matters.” I take another swallow of the scotch. “More than I ever thought possible.”
Brett stares at my face, hope shining through his different-colored irises. His green one winks at me. “You’ll rise to the occasion, Sparrow. You always do.”
“I don’t know, Brett.” I exhale, removing my coat from my shoulders. “Maybe not this time.”
I watch as he shakes his head. But I don’t want to hear anymore.
No more words of wisdom. No more advice. No more cheer-ups.
I want to hear nothing but the sound of the scotch making its way into my system. I divert the conversation quickly, my fingers tapping the edge of my quickly emptying glass.
“When’s Elsie heading this way?” I watch as Brett glances towards the door.
“They should be here any minute. I didn’t want to interrupt her girls chat but they’re probably on their way as we speak.”
“They?” I ask, my already-tense attitude slipping southward. “They? Who’s they?”
Kent the bartender suddenly reappears. He slides an amber liquid-filled glass towards me, his hazel eyes alight with hidden humor. He winks.
“A glass of Macallan single malt for the lady.” A two hundred-fifty dollar bottle of scotch to meet my current mood.
My smile slips. “Last time I checked I didn’t have any ‘lady bits,’ brother.” I glance down at the glass. “And I didn’t order this drink.”
“No,” Kent gestures towards the end of the bar. “But she did.”
And when I follow his finger to the woman standing on the other end, I suddenly wish I didn’t.
Shock slams into my gut, my breath halting, as I stare at the face of Violet Keats. She glances in my direction, surprise draining the color from her face.
She looks beautiful stroll
ing slowly beside Elsie—regal. Better than I remembered. And she also looks livid, her stare slanting, her stride undeterred as she walks in the direction of the man she once swore she’d never see again.
Just my luck…that I happen to be that man. I sit straighter. Waiting.
One. Two.
Chapter Five
VIOLET
The Cabernet I drank with Elsie earlier in the evening threatens to come up.
I can do nothing but stare as a brown-haired wall of muscle and Italian tailoring stares in my direction, his almond brown eyes locked on my face.
His own face is perfectly symmetrical, strong and sharp at the jaw. I remember when that perfect face was buried between my thighs, licking at my most sensitive parts, bringing me to orgasm more times than all the fingers on my hands could count.
My “Happy Hour” has abruptly become “Throw-up-and-scream Hour.”
Forty minutes after agreeing to meet up with Brett and Elsie for a night-cap, I find myself walking into my favorite Irish pub with my best friend at my side, my pink-painted fingernails digging into the pockets of my red pea coat, a desperate attempt to steady myself when I finally stop in front of the only Sparrow I never wanted to see again, the heir to the Sparrow fortune standing proudly in a charcoal suit the color of a storm-filled sky.
He nods slowly, a natural gesture that speaks of his trust funded sophistication.
“Violet,” he says towards me, towering over me. As usual. I lean in to give my greeting to Elsie’s fiancé, Brett, and the entire time, my body is shaking, regret and anger both working their way under my skin. I stare up into the face of the Devil himself, hating myself for recognizing how handsome he is. I purse my lips as he looks down at me.
“Brett didn’t tell me you were coming,” he declares. He glances down at me, burning a hole into my brain. “It’s been too long.”
I want to say that a century wouldn’t have been long enough to see the man who makes my insides quiver, who pisses me off like none other. I’ve done my best to avoid Heath Sparrow, a feat that was easy when he was still in LA.