by Vivian Wood
Senior Partner, David King, is just standing there, leaning against the doorframe. In a navy blue suit almost the color of his eyes, he smirks in my direction, arms crossed. His tiny smile is crooked and when he looks at me, his eyes full of humor, I don’t know whether to laugh or hide my face in shame.
I glance at Emily.
Fuck, how long has he been standing there? My closest coworker hops off my desk. Clearing her throat, she laughs dryly and I usher David in, standing up as he makes his tall, dirty blond way into my office. I try to keep my knees from buckling…and fail.
David smiles. “Just wanted to grab you ladies before our meeting.”
I frown. “Our meeting?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “Spur of the moment meeting of the minds. There are a lot of new developments. I want to make sure that we’re ahead of them. Now more than ever.”
His fingers splay on the edge of my desk. In that moment, I remember what they felt like on my skin when I first shook his hand almost eleven months ago, and I shake the memory of them off me, grabbing my planner and heading out with Emily at my side, my nerves humming as I follow David down the hall and to the conference room at the end of it.
The entire law firm staff is already waiting inside.
I take a seat, feeling somber, anxiety suddenly eating me up as David takes a stand at the front of the room, raising his hands.
“Alright, everyone. Please be seated. This won’t take but a minute.”
Crossing my hands in my lap, I straighten my back, not for a minute expecting what comes out of his mouth next.
“So, I know you’ve heard all by now about Fitzgerald Sparrow’s, uh, accident.” My heart jumps into my throat. “Well, I will be the first one here to confirm that the rumors are in fact true. We’re going to have a new guest in the office as we roll out some new changes for the firm.” He bows at the waist slightly. “With your permission, of course.” He looks around at the rest of the room. “I believe many of you here know him. He is, of course, family to this firm.”
My eyes flit to Emily, and I suddenly have the sensation of feeling very fucked. And definitely not in the good way.
David continues. “And we must be open to change.” He frowns. “As a result, our distinguished firm here might receive a lot of attention and press because of Fitzgerald’s horrible misfortune. In no one way,” he starts to circle the room, “shape or form, are we going to encourage this—this negative attention. We are going to do what we do best: Rise above it. So, if anyone—anyone—here feels the need to feed this gruesome media beast surrounding our former—excuse me—current Managing Partner, let me know now, because I can tell you…that maybe you and this firm aren’t the right fit for each other.”
The room grows silent.
“If there are any questions, feel free to let me know now or within the next twenty-four hours. After that, I refuse to let the gossip mill drag us down with it. A sort of ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.’” His eyes scan the room before finding mine. I meet his stare, unblinkingly.
“Alright, well, if no one has anything to say at the moment, then…” He knocks his knuckles against the tabletop. “Meeting adjourned.”
The rest of the room begins to file out. I feel eyes on the back of my body as I follow the rest of my colleagues out but I don’t dare turn to meet them. Emily pinches my side and we both slide into my office without a second word, silently shutting the wooden door behind us.
She lets out a big sigh.
“Holy hell, that was intense.”
I turn to her. “Ya think?”
“David went all cloak and dagger with that one. I usually think of the guy as a stuffed shirt, but the way he laid down the law about Fitzgerald…? Kinda hot.”
“Correction: Hot…but confusing as all hell.”
“Right, right. The family bit.” Emily smacks her forehead. “Does David have any, uh, siblings?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
“But didn’t you obsessively research him when he first star—?”
I hold up one finger. “Finish that sentence, and I will have to kill you.”
“Okay, so I’m guessing that’s a Hell no.”
I plop down behind my desk. “What are we going to do now?”
“What can we do? Fitz is in the hospital. We have no say in anything. The answer is nothing.”
“It can’t be nothing…” I reply out loud.
“Why?”
“Because with Fitzgerald Sparrow in the hospital and David’s mystery guest, too much is up in the air. My guess? The new Managing Partner won’t be David. And despite my head screaming that it can’t be possible, I’m starting to have my suspicions of who it could be…”
Chapter Ten
HEATH
Nightfall hits me like a fucking train. Steadfast. And unmerciful.
My morning wasn’t much better after bumping into Violet in the office. And though we only spoke for less than ten seconds, I was affected all afternoon, my thoughts stuck on her for the better part of my evening, my consciousness torn into two—scattered along the train track that was my day.
The only notion that keeps me from falling too far?
Marilyn.
A call from the hospital reveals that my sister’s ready for visitors, and with a relief I didn’t know I could feel, I rushed to New York Presbyterian in my customary town car, my gait tearing a hole through the hallways as I made a beeline for her room, ignoring all else.
She was awake. More alert than ever.
Her black and blue-ish bruises were turning into sickly yellow hues across her skin, but despite noting her painfully decorated body, I couldn’t help myself from reaching for her…and holding her in my arms.
I kept my touch tender, despite how desperate I was to squeeze her, to show her how glad I was that I could hug her. Feel her. Talk to her. Trade jokes and jabs with the funniest twenty-four year old to ever walk the planet.
My heart squeezed, my chest aching from the raw emotion.
Especially when she flashed me a weak smile, wincing as she sat up under the ghostly white sheets. She examined me with assessing blue eyes.
“I never thought you’d make it here so soon.”
“Thought? Or hoped?”
She grinned. “The hospital staff told me you made it here that night. That you slept in my room. Stayed until the morning.”
“They over-exaggerate. I really only stayed because you owed me money. Wanted to make sure I got it back.”
She laughed. “You’re the same as ever, Hollywood.”
“And so are you, Squirt. Tougher than nails.”
She gazed down at her freshly bruised body, smiling. “Don’t I look tough?”
“I learned to never judge a book by its cover.”
“Interesting advice. Considering that you’ve always looked like the asshole you are.” She winced again with a smirk. “What’s with the fancy threads?”
“Had some business to take care of earlier.” I glanced down at the newest Tom Ford threads on my shoulders. “Not everyone can be as tough as you.”
“Some of us are tougher.” She winked in my direction, her stare wandering out of the window at the setting sun. Her smile fell from her gorgeous, discolored face. She glanced back at me.
“I heard about dad.”
I nodded. “I figured you had.”
“They say he may never wake up.”
“They say a lot of things,” I answered, my stare stalwart and unblinking. “But then again…they’ve never met the Sparrows, have they?”
My sister grinned. “No, I guess not.”
Minutes pass, and we filled them up with light-hearted banter, sibling stories and jokes.
Until Marilyn started talking about the night of the accident.
And I sat down near the edge of her stiff hospital bed, careful not to touch her, careful not to poke too hard at the pieces of her that were slowly cracking. I let her speak, never saying a wor
d.
Not until she finished.
The car accident was brutal, she’d said. Like nothing she’d ever experienced.
Satan himself, in her words, had set them on a road to Hell, and as she sat in the passenger’s seat, she watched—as if in slow motion—my father’s expensive red Ferrari spin out of control, tilting on two wheels before turning completely over.
Winding in a cartwheel of pain and impending death.
The world went topsy-turvy before turning black. And the next thing Marilyn remembered was waking up in a white-washed hospital bed, her back and bones aching on every inch, her mouth unable to move as she assessed the red wounds and new scars now stretching across her skin.
She said the leather wheel seemed to slip out of my father’s grasp, found a mind of its own.
A well of emotion built behind my tired eyes, but anger—seething and hot—dried the unfallen tears. I was angry that she’d had to go through such pain alone. I was angry that my dad’s damn driving had put here there.
Several hours later, after the sun has already set, I step inside the Manhattan penthouse I’d left behind, shedding my clothes like an unwanted skin. I loosen the tie, drop the slacks, ditch the shirt. Naked, I march over the marbled tile and inside of my polished glass shower door. Shutting it behind me, I let a stream of scalding hot water, bear down on my body, beating the emotion out of me.
The water is scorching. Searing. Steam builds up like a billowing smoke, and through the heat and haze, all I can think about is the strawberry-haired siren I saw just this morning in the King & Sparrow offices.
Violet fucking Keats.
The bane of my sorry existence.
In a pure white blouse and blue pencil skirt, looking every bit of a fucking fantasy, the feisty lawyer—and object of my unadulterated lust—was a sight to behold, a beauty that was unfairly unforgettable.
What’d we had in one night was fierce—fiery. Almost one year ago to the day, at Elsie and Brett’s unexpected engagement party, we’d danced, drank and dove into each other like there was no tomorrow, shallow breathing as we drowned in each other all night long.
The sight of her, standing there in a silk-lined red dress, showing off those long toned legs, is enough to make me unreasonably hard, and amongst the scouring water, I stroke one steady hand across my shaft. Needing to relive it. Needing that same release that always evades me every time I see her.
One hand against the hard black tile, another across my cock, and I remember what it was like to lay Violet Keats down, to kiss my way across her skin, to lavish her smooth body with my tongue.
Violet.
Sweet to the taste. Soft to the touch.
Violet.
Smelling as sweetly floral as her name, her fuckable mouth open to me as she accepted whatever I had to give, my hardness slipping between her cherry-red pair of lipstick-lined lips as she gazed up at me openly—her blue eyes wide.
I’d set her ankles across my shoulders, filled her to my heart’s content.
Hotly silky and disturbingly sensual, I’d given Violet Keats, Esquire, the good, the bad and the better in my bed—taking her body to new heights, crushing her sexy cries with my mouth as I kissed, sucked and tasted each inch of beautiful bow-shaped mouth.
It’s the thought of her mouth that sends my rigid erection into granite territory, and I pump myself harder among the scalding spray of the shower, imagining her plush pussy wrapped around me. Squeezing. Stroking. Loving every inch of me from the inside out.
A moan makes its way out of me, and the pressure inside me builds to painful levels, the need to sink myself into Violet Keats more visceral and violent than ever before. I slam one wet fist against the wall tile, an orgasm threatening to tear me apart until the sound of a slamming door shocks me back from the precipice of a climax, the unexpected noise knocking me violently back down from the peak of unattained pleasure.
I freeze, dropping my cock as I turn.
A growl from just beyond my bathroom doors sends my nerves to new heights, and I swing open the glass door—soaking wet, storming out of my gleaming black and marble-lined bathroom only to find myself face-to-face with a pair of razor-sharp teeth.
Baring…at me.
The snout above the angry sneer sniffs and as the growl through the air lowers to a gravelly rumble, I catch Brett turning the far corner, heading in my direction, his hand reached out to the huge dark gray dog staring at me.
He grabs the monster animal’s collar—pulling.
“Shush,” he hushes to the humongous creature. “It’s okay, Tank. It’s okay.”
“Tank?” I question, dripping all over my cream-colored carpet. I point towards the panting brute. “That’s Marilyn’s dog?”
Brett smiles. “I know. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him.”
I look back down at the beast. “Yeah. Almost a year. Fuck, I didn’t know the damned dog could get that big.”
Brett pets him, soothing him, his hand swiping along the American Bully breed’s fur. Tank calms, but never stops staring at me—his gray eyes wary, a faint growl still in the back of his thick throat. He regards me closely. And I watch him right back—aware of my every movement. Water pools beneath my body, soaking the expensive fibers beneath my feet, when Brett finally speaks up.
“Uh, Sparrow?”
“Yeah?” I say, continuing to keep my eye on Tank.
“You want to put some clothes on, man? Your sword is swinging at me, for crying out loud.”
Shit. I glance down at my naked body. “Fuck, I’d almost forgotten. It’s hard not to…when you think you’re going to be eaten alive.”
My best friend laughs. “Tank doesn’t like the taste of dickhead, Heath. You’ll be fine.”
I take the few steps inside my bathroom, reaching for the nearest dark towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I point Brett towards the kitchen as he escorts Tank into the corner of the living room, and with a lofty sigh, my business partner sinks onto a stool, a tired smile on his face, his skin pale underneath a myriad of colorful tattoos.
He glances up at me across the marble kitchen counters, a strain on his face that I hadn’t seen until now. He exhales soundly, appearing almost small beneath a black Tee and pair of blue jeans.
“I’m sorry for bursting in like this.”
“Looks like the only one who was going to be sorry was me. After Tank bit my ass.”
Brett grins. “But I had no other avenue. Elsie and I have had Tank. Ever since the…” he hesitates, “Marilyn and your dad’s accident.”
“I know.” I nod.
“But we can’t take care of him right now. Not with all the press and reporters harassing us because of my dad’s case. Not with all the travel before the wedding. We have so much to get squared away. Tattoo Gods has another season I’m producing. The ink shops are in great shape, but business has become overwhelming for the managers. The Manhattan location is being bombarded by the same media following after my father. It’s a mess.”
I stare at Brett. “I know. If you recall, brother…this is not my first rodeo.”
He laughs on a dry scoff, his head hanging as he mutters under his breath, his voice softer than a sigh. “And you never let me forget it.”
I lean forward. “What was that?”
“It’s just that…” Brett stares back up at me, his blue and green eyes gazing into mine. His voice is gritty. “You know, you didn’t have to pull out as a producer of Tattoo Gods. We could have run the show together.”
I snort. “That was your thing.”
“Yes. And it could have been ours.” Brett shakes a head of brown hair, the strands falling over and into his eyes. His jaw pulses. “I know I started the show without talking to you. Without bringing you in from the beginning. But cutting yourself out like that? Moving to Hollywood?” He crosses his hands. “You barely have any stake in our tattoo shops as it is, and what little emotional investment you do have is mainly for criticizing our staff.” Brett wat
ches me as I stroll towards the stainless steel fridge, opening its door. His words are strained, almost soft. “You shut me out.”
I turn. “I didn’t shut you out. I just did my own thing.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “You always do. But don’t you think you could afford to give a damn about something that’s not all about you? Take Tank, for instance. Have you even offered to see what your sister needed? Or were you worried about making sure she was alright so you could be on the next plane smoking, leaving everyone behind?”
I practically snarl. “Don’t you dare talk about me and my family, you son-of-a-bitch. You know nothing.”
“I know that you’ve fought hard to forge your own path without your father’s help. Carved out your own career in investing in the right businesses. And yes, your dad abandoned you in many ways, made you the black sheep. Treated you like the bad seed and prodigal son, I get it.”
He stands from his stool. “But he’s also a man who ended up here. In a hospital room alone. Divorced. Bitter. Broken in so many ways.” He closes his eyes before opening them again. He stares at the ceiling before directing his glare at me. His strangled words drive the point home. “Dammit, Heath…” He huffs. “I know your father made you feel as though you weren’t worth shit because you didn’t follow in his lawyer footsteps. But that doesn’t mean you have to step on the rest of us.” He points towards his chest, breathing heavier than before, his entire body heaving with the effort. “I talked to the hospital staff. Have you visited your father in his room even once?”
I grab a beer from the fridge, fumbling with its tight cap. I form a fist around its neck so tight I could break the glass. My eyes are cold as I return Brett’s stare. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Like hell, it isn’t. I’m your friend. Your family…” He trails off. “And if you keep at this self-made man bullshit, you’re going to find yourself without both.” He glances over at Tank, his shoulders tight as he rotates towards the door. “I’ll be back to deliver Tank’s things later.”
He turns and walks away, heading out the front door, and I’m tempted to stop him. But years of unexpressed repentance and regret fix my feet to the floor. I open the beer bottle, alone as ever, draining its contents, marveling at how—somehow, someway—I’ve ended up like my father after all…