by Vivian Wood
I watch her swallow, my eyes scanning her face. I study every tiny detail.
“You’re too good for this company, you know that, don’t you?” I inch closer. “Your reaction in that conference room said as much when I read it.”
I raise the partition between us and the driver, and I glare back at Violet. Squinting at the sultry redhead, my eyes skim the expanse of her body, starting at her heels and stopping at her baby-blue eyes. I want her to stay here and listen, but I also want to scare her.
I want her to know what she’s getting into with me, with this firm—this case. With a world that will stab at her road to success. I can tell by the twinge of her slight Chicago accent that she’s still a stranger to my city. I’m sure Violet came here as a naive girl in a city full of sharks…but she has no idea that she now works for some of the biggest ones.
Works for a man who would cut his own nose off just to come one step closer to success. A man…who is much like me.
I take a deep breath.
“We’ll eat lunch. We’ll talk. I promise you won’t die from either of those,” I tell her. “But first I want to prepare you. I want to prepare you for what you’re in for—my life. I want to prepare you for what David doesn’t seem to know—that we’re going to be implicated with this case…and what he will do once we fall out of line.”
“We?” She presses.
“Yes…” I scan her body once more. “We,” I emphasize. “Especially since he’s got his eye on you.”
Violet’s jaw drops. “David?” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t.”
I smile. “Yeah, you keep thinking that. And I’m going to give you the tools you need to get through this fucking circus.”
I look out the window, as Violet raises her eyebrows, giving me another glance. “And how do I know I can trust you to do that?”
“Because…” I stare out at the streets, not meeting her eye. “Sparrows? We were born in a fucking circus.” I shoot her a pointed look. “Or hadn’t you heard?”
Chapter Thirteen
VIOLET
Day number six…and it belongs to asshole number one.
The cool New York air is wet with mist as the next few days warm up considerably in Manhattan. Heath’s arrival is official, his immaculate suits in tow. He walks amidst the firm’s lawyers as if he has always belonged, and by mid-day, a gentle breeze turns brisk, putting everybody in the office on edge.
Except for David. Me. And now, of course, him.
Our brand-new boss. More bastardly than ever.
His arms bulge against his expensive white button-down shirt, his biceps stretching at the fabric, showing off. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his forearms on full display despite the chill, he reveals a smattering of dark hair trails along his arms and jaw, and as he strolls past my office door in the afternoon, he raises a rough hand to rub it, his frustration evident as he swipes a palm across the cropped strands below his chin.
In preparation for a brand new corporate client, Heath arranges for sets of depositions, pulling participating lawyers in at his whim, and I swear the entire law firm sways with him, obeying his every instinct.
Everyone—every employee, right down to the paralegals—seem to be looking exclusively to him for direction. Even David.
The asshole was smarter than I’d expected, and, hell, I’d always known he was smart. His Harvard education has obviously served him well, and as he sets up meetings, arranges court appearances and sets up a few judicial sessions, I watch him, unable to do anything else.
I’d heard Heath Sparrow was a boy prodigy, but now I’m seeing him in action. Listening to him speak, full of passion and fervor and finesse, is almost more than my holiday-drained head can handle, and I take to ignoring him completely. Crossing a hallway just to avoid him. Turning a corner just so I won’t see his annoyingly handsome face.
Despite the fact that the brain cells of everyone involved in Chris Jackson—including my favorite secretary—seems to be located in their Calvin Kleins, mine are abso-fucking-lutely not, and I decide somewhere deep in my Victoria’s Secret not to let a pretty face—no matter how fucking gorgeous—distract me from my job.
A job that Heath seems so intent on interfering with at every turn.
“Package delivery!” I hear from somewhere in my muddled subconscious. The sound makes me jump.
The nasally sound of new delivery guy Steve’s annoying voice rolls on the edge of rumbling thunder from outside, and the sky opens up, dumping frozen rain down on Manhattan, washing our floor-to-ceiling windows in a sea of dark gray.
Just outside my office door, I notice lawyers, secretaries and assistants scramble, ready to wrap the day, eagerly scurrying past my glass wall to escape back to the safety of home.
But me?
I don’t budge an inch as Heath stalks our wood-grained halls, my attention still on him as he glides past the wall of pristine glass that separates me from the crowded corridor. The wall that separates me from Steven Randall.
He knocks again.
“Ms. Keats?”
It’s a name I’m only now getting used to after two years of having changed it back. Steve’s announcement for my package is still ringing in my ears, when I begrudgingly invite him in, his blue eyes shifty as he pushes into my small, square office.
His voice is shrill as he steps towards me, completely unaware of my unease. Or uncaring. He smiles widely, creating a creeping sensation across my skin.
“A delivery for you.”
I stand, retrieving the box from his sweaty hands, careful not to touch the over-imposing man. My stare shifts to Heath standing outside my office, lounging in the hallway.
He pushes away from where he perched against the receptionist’s desk, speaking low to an assistant. The icy rain outside our firm’s transparent walls begins to quicken, and when he looks up from his conversation with another one of our enamored law clerks, we lock eyes, our gazes stuck in place.
His brown hair looks nearly black against his newly-LA tanned skin. His mocha eyes never leave my face. And now we are caught in a staring contest—neither one of us daring to look away.
The splatters of the quickening thundershower match the beat of my suddenly pounding heart, and I find myself unable to turn, my ego freezing my feet, but something else—something hidden, darker…warmer driving a rhythm beneath my breast that is relentless.
Heath blinks—just once, taking a step towards me. I hold my breath…waiting, when, abruptly, tiny fingers tap my upper arm, pulling my scrutiny in a separate direction. I glance up, finding Steve’s curious eyes still staring back at me. He winks.
“I just need you to sign right here.” He holds out a clipboard and a pen, brushing my hand with the tips of his squirmy fingers. Holding my breath, I slip the utensil from his grasp, placing my impression on the paper.
I release the rest to Steven. But when I gaze back up to relocate Heath, the sophisticated asshole is gone, and in his place is the sinking knowledge that I can’t avoid him, can’t stay away from Heath Sparrow if I wanted to…
HEATH
I thought I loved LA. A part of me still does.
It’s only been a year since I’ve moved to the sunny West Coast and in the span of that time, my best friend and my brain-child of a reality TV show has taken off, garnered enough accolades and awards to drown in, plunging me into a celebrity cesspool of parties, pussy and pills and powder.
I’ve passed on the pills, played in the deep end of the pussy and plundered into the after-parties as if my life depended on it.
I left behind the steel of my New York City home and scoured the palm trees and Cali breeze. On a road to success that I’ve paved myself, I should feel on top of the world.
But Mr. Jim Beam in my glass tells another story.
It’s a crime that I’ve even come out tonight, considering the fact that I’ve been fighting to get my father’s firm’s affairs squared away all day and my balls are ready to freeze.
That is, until I see Violet Keats in the office. All warm hues and red hair.
I’ve tried to get her out of my mind. And I was almost successful. Until the delivery guy was directing a hard-on through his eyes at her curvy body, and I’d almost lost it, finally storming out of the office just to avoid turning the entire entity upside down.
I’d never been known for a tame temper.
That damned vice of mine flares up as I take a seat, joining my overly-excited sister who swings in my direction on her barstool as I sit, her breathy voice just a tad too high.
She smiles. Like the cat who ate the canary.
I know that goddamned smile. I groan.
“What, Mare?”
“I heard a rumor. The would-be bride won’t stop talking about it. Elsie apparently loves your cooking.” And I notice my sister squeak. Actually fucking squeak. “I know she would love for you to cater her and Brett’s joint Bachelor-Bachelorette party,” Marilyn starts to plea. “I just know it.”
I blink. “You mean… I would cook the food for the event?”
Marilyn smiles. “Unless you can give a good reason not to.”
My shoulders slump as she stammers. “What the—what the hell, Mare? I’m sure I can give you twenty. For one: I’m not a professional chef. Two: I’ve got a huge court case consuming what’s left of my life, and the man my clients want to prosecute…”
“Is the groom’s father. The bride’s father-in-law,” Marilyn finishes. “We all know the story. Brett’s dad. Chris Jackson. Fraud. Phony bank accounts. Embezzlement.” Marilyn smiles sadly. “Why do you think I’m throwing this party? In the middle of shooting my new season. It damn sure isn’t because I need another distraction. It’s because I know that they do… Brett and Elsie.”
Her eyes grow glossy. “The whole world’s looking at them. They’re the talk of the town. I just thought it would be nice…” She looks straight at me. “If their best friends in the world gave the town something else to talk about. At least, for now.” She frowns. “And since when did dad’s clients turn to yours?”
She glances up at me, her clear irises shining. “Heath Donovan Sparrow, you sneaky little slut, you.” Marilyn practically whispers at the nape of my neck. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here…”
I can feel the heat of her stare on the middle of my face, but I ignore it… just like I ignore the implication of the question she’s posing. I feign ignorance.
“What’s going on?”
“Yeah,” she reasserts. “Between you and Violet, muneca.”
The Spanish term for “doll” doesn’t lessen the accusation in her suspicious voice. In fact…it sharpens it, heightening my senses.
At this point, it’s safe to say that Marilyn knows me better than I do. But if I tell her about Violet, who knows what will happen? The brunette powerhouse was unpredictable as it was. I’m tempted to snort at the thought…
Like brother, like little sister.
My sister—the incomparable Marilyn Daniels, screen siren extraordinaire—had all of her hard-headed older sibling’s Wild Child ways minus the Sparrow name, which she’d shed like a second skin at seventeen.
A walking felony with the fame and wealth to pull it off, her new starring role on the winter season of the TV show, The Hotel, was a scorcher… Made so by a fluke fire that happened on set after-hours and an on-set love triangle around a hot production assistant.
All of which were blamed on Marilyn, a rumor I’d taken to believing was true.
Subtly was never my sister’s style. Not one little bit, and as much as my younger sibling tries to play it cool, the way she searches my face for answers is anything but. Putting her off when she smells blood in the water is almost always the best bet. I order a second drink from the bartender.
“Christ, Marilyn,” I moan, almost believing myself. “Between Violet and me? You must mean the blatant hatred.”
“No,” she stresses, sitting on the leather barstool opposite me. “I mean the blatant heat.”
I stare, swinging on her. “There is no heat between that woman and me.”
“Oh, really?” she rolls off her tongue. “There’s been a five-alarm fire on your face every time her name comes up.”
I grind my teeth, grateful that no one at the office can tell. At least, not yet.
I was just learning my way around the firm, learning to navigate. Trying to save my father’s company from David King’s incompetence was a full time job. And I hadn’t exactly been ready to surrender any more ground to him than I already have.
I steady my jaw, turning to her.
“Marilyn, you don’t get it. We’re closing in on D-day…”
“Dick day?” she interrupts.
“No. Destruction Day,” I emphasize. “The day of reckoning, departing, decision… Chris Jackson’s day in court is coming, and I might have to walk into a courtroom with a thousand cameras to play witness to a case I’m not supposed to be a part of. A case that could define King & Sparrow’s entire future. A case I can’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”
Marilyn smirks by the slightest fraction, her navy eyes glistening. “Who said you can’t touch the Chris Jackson case?”
“Sanity.” I take a swig from my drink, staring at Marilyn. “Touching this case is career-suicide. And I’m not going to let Brett’s father drag down dad’s company—and stocks—with it.”
Marilyn smirks. “Didn’t know you cared so much…”
I snort. “I don’t.”
“Then why have you been so intent on doing what’s best for King & Sparrow while dad’s away?” She presses forward. “Why are you so focused on doing the right thing if all you’re going to do is pack up and head back to Hollywood anyway?”
Her voice quivers on an empty note. My sister turns from me, hiding the flush on her face. The actual fucking flush that I haven’t remembered seeing since I was ten. Her blue eyes grow teary.
I’d taken Tank when I wasn’t supposed to. Showed up at the hospital every day since. But the look on Marilyn’s disappointed face tells me that it’s not enough. That it was never enough. And that I should have known it.
Somehow, living my life, I’d broken the unspoken promise I’d made to my sister.
The promise I’d made to save the day.
Because that’s what older brothers did, right? They saved the day.
God knows I need to make up for all the days I didn’t, days I hadn’t been there when she was hurting. I’d run to Hollywood because doing so served me, and me alone. In so many ways, I was every bit of the bastard Brett accused me of being. Only looking out for myself. Leaving behind the people who meant most to me. Like him. Like Marilyn. My family.
My Violet.
It was strange, how often I was coming to think of the little lawyer as mine.
I trail a hand across my sister’s shoulders finally answering her unvoiced question.
“Mare… I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. For once, I want you to lean on me. Count on me to do the right thing. God,” I scoff, “it’s probably the first time I want to.” I squeeze her small neck. “Take advantage.”
I can already see the thoughts forming inside my TV star sister’s head, her fingers threading through themselves as they clasp each other tightly. Her dark, sky-colored eyes go bright. She tilts her head.
“So are you staying in New York for good…?”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean…” I throw my hands up, nearly laughing.
God, Mare was good at shredding my anxiety. I start again, feeling ten times lighter.
“This is about overcoming my fears, my past. And since I’m back at King & Sparrow, walking into the one place that gave me the worst memories and shaping it into some of my best, then I’m turning things around. That’s all I’m saying.” I stand, placing my hands the edge of my hips. “I’m conquering the fucking beast.”
Marilyn crosses her legs, pointing a finger at me.
“And by fucking beast, I’m sure y
ou mean Violet Keats.”
The sound of her name puts a strange fever under my skin.
I throw Marilyn a bone. “One can only hope.”
Marilyn smiles, cocking a cynical eyebrow, and I know now that the Violet talk is on pause. At least, for today.
I nod, feeling satisfied with my misdirection skills. But after saying our goodbyes, as I start to walk out, I feel a flutter in my gut—an uneasiness that hints of events to come and a myriad of words left unsaid.
Chapter Fourteen
VIOLET
Day twelve passes slowly…but without a hitch.
Outside my office window, the sun sets in a rainbow of butter-gold and red on a New York City skyline—a skyline that, years later, I don’t even recognize anymore.
Maybe it’s because the Towers are missing.
Or maybe my twenty-eight year old eyes just don’t see it the same way.
Water-paint like skies clash against a concrete slab outside of my office window, and the vision of Manhattan on the other side of the glass is like a dream, its dwindling lights and falling snow reminding me of why I fell in love with this city in the first place.
I loved the Brooklyn brownstone that’d been a family vacation home for years, but I’d always been drawn to the dregs of the other borough. The one thriving with people, businesses, brick and concrete as far as the eye could see.
Living in New York was expensive. Emotionally and physically. Anyone could tell you that. But I’d taken to the metropolis like a moth to a flame. Somehow, here, in a sea of ambition and taxi cabs, I fit, as if sliding into a new pair of name-brand pumps.
Speaking of which… I hadn’t waited more than a minute after the last worker left to take mine off tonight.
In my office, my legs crossed and bare soles up, I tap the heels of my tired feet against the wooden desk to the sound of the classic nineties band, The Cranberries. The music matches my mood as my mind races through the details of the day, the tune to Dreams putting a pep in the beat that I drum on the front of my teeth with my pen-cap.