by Vivian Wood
“Locker 201 is yours. You’re going to shove these inside.” She nods towards my new clothes, stuffed in several bags. “I’ll get our skates as soon as you tell me your size.”
I do, my head swimming the entire time.
Several minutes later, laced up in a pair of borrowed ice skates, I step out onto the white frozen floor, fear latching in my throat. I’m even more afraid when Emily steps in beside me, floating like a butterfly as she pushes herself onto the ice, gliding gracefully.
I watch her longingly, wishing I could do the same. But I feel stuck, my fingers clutching to the waist-height wall as if my life depended on it.
I suck in a freezing breath, regret mingling its way into my hard-earned oxygen. I let it go.
Hank Williams belts out the lyrics to “White Christmas” over a surround-sound speaker, and I waddle over the white ice like a newborn doe, the scratching sounds of my skates almost deafening to my sensitive ears.
I watch Emily mouth at me. “Let go,” her lips mimic.
I do. Slowly. And as the safety of the wall slips out of my grasp, I find a wind that only fills me on my morning runs, when I leave the world and all its fucked-upness behind me. That wind pushes me towards Emily.
She extends her hand, reaching for my own, and I take it, the terror I felt just moments before melting like the pure-driven snow. I smile. Frozen face and all. Looking towards the legal secretary with a new awe in my eyes. She smirks back.
“See? I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“That remains to be seen. We’ll wait until I walk out of here with an unbroken ass.”
She laughs. “You got it.”
A strange comfort finds me, and I settle in, discovering the child-like parts of me I thought were gone. I soar over the ice, skating with ease. Old skills I’d believed had abandoned me return with a vengeance, and the more I skate, the more relaxed I become.
In my oversized coat and stiff blue jeans, I circle the ice. I even twirl across it. Feeling more satisfied and serene than I’ve been in months, I find myself opening up to Emily, my icy walls lowering along with my angst.
I answer her unspoken question when she finally voices it to me. I surprise myself with my honesty.
“So?” The brunette levels at me. “Want to talk about what had you walking into work as if you’d seen a ghost?”
I don’t want to tell her that I had seen one. Just last night. Instead I say the first words that come to my mind, my mouth letting out the truth. Bit by bitter bit. I sigh.
“I’ve had a rough time of it lately. Especially on my trip.” I take a deep breath. “Ya see, I went to Chicago to sell my condo.”
“Oh.” Emily perks up.
“The condo I owned with my ex-husband.”
“Oh.” The word holds a hundred different meanings, and this “oh” is unlike the last. I continue anyway.
“My friend Marilyn was also in a really bad car accident the other day in Manhattan. A car crash that put both her and her father into a coma.”
Emily’s face sinks, sorrow sinking into her features. I keep going.
“Her coma is induced. Just until the swelling in her brain goes down. But her father’s…” I trail off. “It’s much worse. In fact…” I say, feeling the story sour on my tongue. “He might not make it.” I continue skating beside her. “And to add insult to injury, a man from my past has…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “Well, he’s come back. And what we had was, uh, really complicated.”
“‘Complicated’ as in ‘The sex was amazing.’” She grins sadly.
“As in ‘The sex was life-altering,’” I admit. The wind nearly freezes the sudden frown on my face. “But it didn’t work out. It couldn’t…” I let the statement linger in the air. “Besides, he’ll be heading back to where he came from soon. I just wish he would hurry up and leave. So I can forget how it felt to want him so badly.”
Though I know that’s not likely. Not until his family gets better.
But Emily comforts me by nodding knowingly, her expression showing a range of emotions I can’t pin down. She glances over at me. “I understand. And until Mr. Hot-Cock leaves…? What will you do?”
“Avoid him like the plague.”
“A life-altering sex plague,” she adds with a smile.
“Hey, it’s a start.”
And so is the afternoon. Emily and I skate until our limbs are tired. Until our throats are too sore from laughing.
We part ways several hours later, and for the first time in a long time, I get that familiar warm feeling. The feeling of finding a new friend.
The feeling lasts all the way downtown as I head towards my Brooklyn brownstone. On the way, in the backseat of a bright yellow taxi, I pass the Jackson Enterprises building, the site of so much corporate theft.
Minutes later, my eyes cross by the biggest clothing store I’ve ever seen. A baby’s clothing store.
It’s a reminder of all the unfinished business I left behind in Chicago. Business I know I have to go back to. Business I’m scared will break what little I have left.
Chapter Seven
HEATH
Saturday night
Saturday night is a night for sin.
It’s a night made for mistakes. Drunken or otherwise. And I’m realizing I’m making just that as I stroll into the Strip-emporium on the corner of Corinth and Lexington.
The music is blaring, a stream of laser lights scanning the expanse of the dark carpeted floor. The screaming sounds of Def Leppard lyrics drum overhead, searing into my subconscious and as I pass by Walter, the meathead bartender, my eyes skim over the blonde dancer swinging around the shiny metal pole in the center of the club, her long legs capturing the looks of every man within a hundred feet.
Every eye…except mine.
My eyes are stuck on the far side of the strip club, and I bypass the drooling onlookers in favor of the small curtained area just beyond VIP. The site of many wins, sins and more.
I pull back the black curtain, slipping behind it, opening the hidden door carved into its cheap wall. I unlatch the lock, pulling.
A new room opens up to me. Hell, a new world. With welcoming arms, the gambling tables invite me in, and I step inside the dimly lit area, my stare scanning the stacks of chips and money over every green-fibered tabletop. Taunting me.
As they always have.
In a way, this is my addiction. Always had been.
Risk was a regular part of my life, a thrill I’d never gotten over. Stability bored the hell out of me, and somehow I’d discovered at the tender age of twenty-two that the taste of sameness would never satisfy. Never quench my unending thirst for more.
It was the thought of that permanence, that perpetual droll that had driven me away from Harvard Law, had changed the course of my life. Forever.
I stare at the several decks of playing cards splayed before my eyes, feeling that itch that burned in my fingers every time I was ready to take a bet. And tonight that itch was nuclear, my body seeming to know what it needed when someone like Violet Keats was within fifty miles of me.
I stand, hovering, over a set of players focused on a particular poker game when the dealer at the center of the circular table stares over at me, his dead eyes piercing right through my skin. He points at my chest and then the surface of the table.
“In or out, Heath?”
I slide my silk-lined coat from my shoulders, slipping quietly into a seat. I meet his stare. “I’m in.”
He adds me into the dealing rotation, handing me a set of cards along with everyone else. A waitress swings by, taking several orders, and I ask for the darkest bourbon they’ve got. A vintage to mirror my tormented mood.
I settle in, staring at my selection of cards, my eyes soaking in a pair of Kings. My pulse picks up.
Setting a stack of hundreds in the center of the fuzz-covered table, I lean back in my chair, admiring the view of victory in my palm. Until I feel a cold hand on my shoulder—an
unwelcome touch that feels strangely familiar.
I pull away, glancing up into the face of another King—this one much worse than the first two. I take in his face.
David King.
My father’s law partner was always a prick. No matter what his nameplate said.
A money-hungry asshole more interested in swimming in dollar bills than being a decent person, he had always regarded me in some way like the scum beneath his Oxford shoes. His wrinkled hands are rough against my shirt collar, his stare steady. His blue eyes are cold—arctic, despite his smile, and as he grins down at me, I resist the urge to wrap my fingers around his… and squeeze. Squeeze until I hear a crunch hard enough to break bone.
But I put the bone-splinting thoughts aside and do nothing but glare as David King finds a seat across from me, his lightly weathered face smug as he peers at me through a set of ocean blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
He runs a few fingers through the thick salt-and-peppered strands across his head, glaring back at me, his countenance just as harsh. Just as coolly conceited as ever.
I flick a thumb over the cards between my fingers. I nod. Just once.
“David King,” I utter slowly.
“Heath Sparrow.” His stare holds a dash of humor. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Thought?” I respond. “Or hoped?”
“Does it make a difference?” He motions towards the waitress, who takes his order, smiling down at him as she does.
The overconfident prick.
I’d push the table on him, if I thought I wouldn’t get kicked out. The itch of risk in me from earlier becomes harder and harder not to scratch.
I’m ready to make a bet that has nothing to do with the game in front of me. I smile.
“Nice to know you think so highly of me, David.”
“Oh, I do.” He blinks, baring a little of his teeth. It’s more a grimace than a grin. “Especially now… Considering what’s happened with your dad.”
I want to strangle him dead. If my hands weren’t currently occupied with my cards, I might hold them around his throat. Choke the fucking life out of him for even opening his dickheaded mouth to mention my family.
My eyes never leave his face. “Thank you for your condolences.”
“My sincerest apologies.” David places a hand on his sturdy chest. “That was my attempt to give them to you. Your dad is a fine man.”
Fine to who? I’m tempted to say but don’t.
Especially as David continues, kicking back in the black paint-chipped seat as if he belongs there. As if I won’t break every bone in his goddamned body for being the asshole he always was.
He crosses one suited leg over the other, adjusting the cuffs to an English-styled ensemble. His tailoring is perfect. Just like mine.
He, of course, has no qualms, letting me know that I’m not the only high roller at our little illegal poker game, and he gazes at me like the cat who ate the canary, his eyes full of some sentiment I can’t yet describe.
I feel an ambush coming, but can’t tell from what angle. I wait.
“A very fine man,” he keeps going. “The best, in fact. Just like Chris Jackson.”
Here we go.
“It’s a shame Chris has been implicated in all this mess. He’s a fine businessman himself. A good man.”
“If by ‘good,’ you mean ‘ruthless and money-grubbing,’” I counter, and David grins—amused at my rising anger, his mouth open to say something else when the shouts at a table across from us reaches our ears, the sounds of a verbal shuffle bringing us back down to earth.
I glance up, only to catch a drunken player swinging at one of his poker opponents, his fist flying through the air as he tries to throw a punch at the other man. He misses, stumbling to the floor as momentum carries him downward.
The room erupts in laughter, cheers and jeers, and as security swoops in to escort the two men out, David King’s eyes never stray from mine, his poised stature seemingly more empowered by the violence happening around us.
He gets off on it. The prick.
And I’d love to shove my fucking cards exactly where the sun doesn’t shine. I hike one eyebrow high as he eyeballs me.
“What about those men, David? Are they ‘fine’ too? Seeing as how your standards for decency couldn’t be any goddamned lower than it already is.”
He smirks in response, one side of his slightly wrinkled face pulling upwards towards his ear. He leans back, unfazed by my comments. With the confidence of a man with the perfect poker hand, he straightens his shoulders, his size seeming to increase as he angles forward. His voice sinks to almost a whisper.
“I want you to know that my standards are high in everything I do. Be it business or women.” He smiles wider. “Speaking of women, I’m so glad your sister Marilyn recommended that friend of hers to join the firm. She’s a great new addition. And a great piece-of-ass, if I might add.”
My skin prickles. Warning bells go off in my head, but I’m too damned stubborn to ignore, too torqued up to stop myself from asking a question whose answer I’m not sure I want to hear.
But twenty-eight years of hardheadedness take hold of me, and the words come out against my will. My eyes taper into slits as I stare at the elder man.
“And which friend would you be talking about? Marilyn has many,” I comment.
He lifts his chin. “Violet Keats,” he declares, not a hint of humor in his voice. “She’s our newest junior partner. From what I’ve heard…she might be as good in the bedroom as she is in the courtroom.” He winks. “And she’s very, very good in the courtroom.”
My pulse jumps into my ears, pounding heavily. I have an out-of-body experience. I don’t even hear myself say the words until seconds later, when I realize that I snarl—out loud—a sentence very similar to this: “Stay the fuck away from Violet Keats.”
David beams. “I might stay away from Violet Keats…but I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away from me. We’re colleagues, after all. And besides…it’s my goddamned firm, Sparrow. Or haven’t you figured that out?”
“It’s my fucking father’s, you aging asshole. Ever since you both took the company public. The firm has been in my family for years. And it’ll stay that way…at least, according to my father’s Will. Or haven’t you figured that out?”
I watch his falsely-tanned face pale, the skin turning white. “Your father’s leaving you his shares?”
It’s my turn to grin. “And the Managing Partner status that comes with it… If I want it. And let me tell you, King…” I angle towards him. “I’m really close to wanting it.”
He bluffs. “You’ve never been interested in law.”
“Who says I have to be? With my father’s shares, I essentially become your CEO. That’s the risk you run when you turn a law firm into an IPO. Someone has to own the biggest piece. And right now, that someone is me, King.” I sit back. “Like it or not.”
David’s face turns red, his normally even breath coming out in huffs. His shoulders puff to twice their size, and he purses his lips together as if he might implode, a pressure building in his body that I can practically see.
I tighten a fist under the table, tempted to see how much pressure he can really deal with. I hold back as he finally finds the words to say to me. My body tightens like a taut string.
“Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, then, Sparrow? Can you handle a better bet than this?” He nods towards the table, his heated stare bearing into mine.
I eat his animosity like its breakfast, wanting to push the bastard to the breaking point. I grin.
“I can handle anything you can throw at me, Prince,” I counter, changing his self-absorbed surname. “Just name the terms.”
“You got it. The firm. And Violet. They’re mine.”
“In what fucking world?”
“This one.” He sneers. “You know stocks, right?”
“I should. It’s my fucking job.”
“
Well, now that you own the most stocks as the top shareholder, we should be on easy street, right? I mean, we should be on easy street unless the firm has some sort of scandal…” He pokes at my unruly past.
“It won’t,” I say, a silent promise to myself.
“Because,” he continues, “if the company stock were to fall, you know exactly who would be blamed, don’t you? Who would lose the trust of his own employees?”
“Wow, Prince. Subtly really isn’t your strong suit, is it?”
He smiles. “Glad you think so. Then it’s settled. Two weeks it is.”
“To do what?”
“To ensure that our stock doesn’t fall.” He smirks. “If anyone can keep our stock trading high, it’s Heath Sparrow, right? Investor extraordinaire.”
He’s mocking me. I know it. I don’t give a shit, really, but it’s that competitive streak in me, that whisper of insecurity that nags at my throat making it dry.
I’ve never lost a bet at this table. Not even once. King knows this. More than most.
His pride is on the line in front of the players, and I glance at the surrounding circle of wealthy men around us, who eat our drama as if savoring every morsel. This will be the most dangerous bet I’ve ever made. The biggest.
But to back down from a dickhead like David King at this type of table was a fate worse than death. Because in a city like New York—with its high rollers and royalty, with its stockbrokers and businessman and career white-collar criminals—respect?
Well, that was the one thing you couldn’t barter.
And I wasn’t losing a shred of it to the likes of David King. Wouldn’t sacrifice one bit of it at the altar of his oversized ego.
No matter what the loss entailed.
This was the man I was.
I think for a second about what a bet like this could mean to whatever Violet Keats and I had—or didn’t—and before my good sense can step in, I stand to my feet, sticking out my hand for David King—dickhead that he is, to shake.
I watch him take it, his hand wrapping around mine as I grin.