Rebel Custody

by Sarah Hawthorne

  Then Davide came out and sat in the other chair. They passed a joint back and forth. The door opened again and showed a small, dark figure. With the bright light of the inside of the room, the person’s features were in shadow. The shadow only went a foot or so past the doorknob. A kid

  My heart leaped up into my throat. I tried to breathe, but it just came out as a guttural sound. Even though I couldn’t see the kid clearly, I knew. It was like a brush stroke inside my brain that spread truth. Davide hadn’t come all the way across the country just to shake me down. He was telling the truth.

  Holy shit.

  I had a kid.

  Chapter Two

  Miriam

  Sheena cleared her throat from the doorway of my office. She didn’t have her notepad with her, so it must be the end of the day. I had lost track. There were no windows in my tiny office with its glass walls that allowed everyone to see in, but I was the boss’s daughter, so it wasn’t like I had any expectations of privacy anyway.

  “I’m headed out.” Sheena made a sad face. “Is he still not here yet?”

  Thank God for Sheena. The rest of Dad’s firm was stuffy and straight-laced, but I was allowed to hire my own assistant. The office sometimes buzzed about her blue hair, but she was an excellent paralegal—and my friend.

  “Thanks.” I smiled. “I’m sure he’s just late.”

  “I forwarded the reception phone to your desk.” She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder. “Don’t forget to reset it when you go, or else you’ll get all the morning calls.”

  I nodded. My father’s firm had four partners and fifteen associates, me being one of the associates. Clients always called in a wave in the morning to check on their cases. Most cases were criminal or corporate, but I handled family law. My hourly rate was lower than everyone else’s, but at least I wasn’t defending murderers.

  “I got it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved her off.

  At five-thirty, I packed up my bags. My client was an hour and a half late, and it was time for me to go. I had more work to start on once I got home.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I loosened my bun and grabbed my bag. I slipped off my heels and changed into flats, my little rebellion at the end of the day. I hated the noise my heels made when I walked through the empty parking garage at night.

  Taking a left in the hallway, I headed toward the underground parking.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I stopped. Was someone in the hall with me? I glanced down at my cell phone. No missed calls from my absent client. Probably not him, then.

  Footsteps echoed off the bare walls and linoleum floor as I walked. The sounds were getting louder and louder, and closer. No one came down this hall at night. Was someone following me? I rolled my eyes at my train of thought. It was probably just the cleaning crew or a security guard. I tried to shrug it off, but I quickened my pace.

  The footsteps came faster in rapid-fire succession down the hall.

  Slamming into the fire door that led to the garage, I launched into a full run.

  “Hey!” a male voice called from behind me.

  Shit, my car was too far. I’d never make it. Time for a new plan. I slipped my hand into my purse as I ran. Sunglasses, lipstick, wallet, it was all bouncing around like mad. My wallet popped out of my purse and flew to the ground. I kept running. My fingers closed around the cold cylinder. Jackpot. I yanked the pepper spray out of my purse.

  “I just wanna talk to you!”

  It was a man’s voice, in a weird accent. It was almost European, but not quite. I would never outrun him. Maybe the element of surprise was in my favor. I stopped and spun around. Aimed. Fired.

  The pepper spray came out in a stream, burning my face. I had the damn bottle backward. Tears were already burning in my eyes, but I didn’t care. I had to get him. My hands shook as I felt the top of the bottle to figure out which way to aim it.

  “Hey, calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanna talk,” the man said again.

  I didn’t care why he was here; I just wanted him gone. Gasping for air, I turned the bottle and hit the button again. This time I got him. He yelled and covered his eyes. I didn’t stop, though, and kept stumbling toward my car. The burning increased in my own eyes, and my vision began to blur. The tears were like acid stinging my eyes and cheeks. I just needed to get to my car. I could at least sit in there and lock the door.

  His fingers closed around my forearm, and I fell, landing hard on the asphalt.

  “Jesus Christ, lady,” he gasped. “We had an appointment at four.”

  We both fought for breath, and my heart stopped beating quite so fast. He was my missing appointment? Shit. I had sprayed a client. Dad was not going to be happy.

  I held the can in front of me and peered at him through my tears. He had shaggy hair and was wearing a black leather vest. I needed to make sure he was actually my client and not a rapist waiting for an unsuspecting woman in the parking garage.

  “Oh yeah?” I gulped in some air and wiped at my stinging tears. “Who referred you?”

  My throat, my nose, my eyes, even my ears were on fire, my vision swimming.

  “He’s our club’s lawyer. Demon Horde, Tacoma Chapter. He assigned my case to his daughter, Miriam Englestein.” He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and blotted his face. “I showed up late and saw you heading down the hall as I got there.” He wiped the tears that were streaming down his face. “Put away the damn pepper spray, please. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Gerald Englestein was the best defense attorney between Seattle and Los Angeles. If you wanted to get out of a murder charge, you called him, and then you paid him. A lot. My dad liked luxury yachts, fast cars, and had a bill rate to support all of it. He charged more for one hour than I made in a week.

  Most of the time, Dad’s clients were just as rich as he was. They played golf as they discussed their case or took three-hour lunches at martini bars. But not everyone was from the country club. Dad had bills to pay, after all, and organized crime paid well. The mob was mostly on the east coast, so Gerald Englestein, Esquire, specialized in motorcycle clubs and street gangs—basically anyone that could pay cash up front.

  When I got out of college, I took the job at my dad’s firm with the understanding that I would never take criminal cases. I just didn’t want to defend murderers. Dad put me in family law and gave me the divorces and the custody battles. We didn’t get them often, just established clients who had already paid their retainer fees for some other issue.

  Here I was, sitting in the middle of the parking lot with one of Dad’s cash clients, heaving and crying from the pepper spray. His hair touched his shoulders, and he wore a black leather vest and faded jeans. This guy wasn’t going to be mingling with Seattle’s upper crust anytime soon.

  “If you’re my dad’s client, why did he send you to me?” I still kept my death grip on the pepper spray.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I need a lawyer to handle a custody case. My kid.” He breathed in and out. “The best way to deal with pepper spray is to just cry it out. You got any tissues?” I fished tissues out of my purse and handed him a pack of Kleenex. My skin prickled. He’d been pepper-sprayed before? Hopefully he wasn’t dangerous.

  “Is there any way you can let me back inside so I can use your bathroom?” he asked, blotting his cheeks. “I think you got that shit in my hair, and I gotta wear a helmet to ride home.”

  “There’s a gym with showers,” I explained. “We can clean up there.”

  I was still crying from the pepper spray as we walked through the building. My skin prickled with every step. Logically, I knew the man next to me was a client and wouldn’t hurt me, but the little girl who grew up in the upper-class Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle was terrified.

 
The gym was on the ground floor, so we had to go up. Not wanting to be in an enclosed space with the remains of the pepper spray fumes, I passed the elevator and opted for the stairwell. Our footsteps echoed as we walked up, highlighting just how alone I was with this client. Just him and me. No one to hear me scream.

  “So, where are you from?” I asked, trying to make conversation. His accent was unusual, and I couldn’t place it.

  “I grew up in Louisiana,” he replied. “But I live in Tacoma now.”

  I shivered. Tacoma had one of the highest murder rates in the nation. He was a client, I reminded myself. He deserved the same level of customer service that I gave to everyone, no matter how he paid. I repeated that again as we rounded the landing in silence.

  On the last step, my toe caught, and I stumbled. I grabbed for the railing to steady myself, but something grabbed my arm.

  It was him. He had grabbed my arm and pulled me up to the landing, saving me from falling backward. We stood for a moment on the landing, with his hand resting on my shoulder. His grip was firm but didn’t hurt. I knew he wouldn’t let me fall.

  His eyes were brown, honey-colored. He had some freckles across his nose. I wanted to see the rest of his face, but it was covered in a huge beard. I had never seen a beard that wild before.

  “You okay?” He searched my eyes. “Thought I was gonna lose you down the stairs.”

  “I’m fine.” I pulled on the collar of my sweater. I must have gotten hot going up the stairs. I took a step toward the door. “The gym is this way.”

  We passed by the cardio area, with all the treadmills lined up and empty. I stopped in front of the men’s locker room.

  “I’ve never been in there, but there are towels next to the women’s showers, so I assume it’s the same for the men.” I frowned. I had sprayed the poor guy with mace, and this was the best I could do? “Just call me if you need help with something.”

  “I’m sure I won’t need help in the shower,” he said.

  Then he smiled, and I felt my knees grow shaky. Dimples showed through the heavy beard, and his entire face changed. He was no longer the menacing guy who had chased me in the parking garage.

  He disappeared into the locker room. After fleeing into the women’s room, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess and mashed down on one side where the spray had hit me. I was completely unacceptable. After I showered, I borrowed one of the gym’s hair dryers and managed to twist my hair into a bun. At least I looked professional now.

  Since he didn’t know where my office was located, I lurked in the gym until he came out of the locker room. Shirtless. I gasped. He had a large tattoo that covered his shoulder and trailed down his arm. On his other arm, he had a 1940s-style pinup with dark hair.

  “Oh.” He ducked his head and pulled a towel around his shoulders. “Sorry, my shirt is soaked, and I don’t have anything else. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” I scoffed. “I’ve seen a man without a shirt before.”

  “Just one?” he asked, laughing.

  I pressed my lips together and tried to smile. Customer service. I could do this. Just because he was amazingly gorgeous did not mean I would turn into some simpering lovesick idiot.

  “My office is this way.” I turned and started to walk back to the stairwell, not waiting for him to follow. My cheeks were hot, and I was sure it wasn’t from my shower. Juggling my purse, I took off my cardigan as I walked. It wasn’t going to be any cooler in my office.

  Settling myself at my desk, I invited him to sit in the leather guest chair. I smiled and grabbed a notepad, pretending it was perfectly normal for a client to be half naked in my office. Perfectly normal. Customer service. I could do this.

  “Jean Luc Devaneaux.” He reached out for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Miriam Englestein.” I took his hand. Just like it had been on the landing, he was firm, but not hard. I put on my most professional smile. “I want to apologize for what happened. I hope we can put it behind us and have a very successful working relationship.”

  “That sounds great.” His smile wasn’t quite as bright as it had been in the hallway, though.

  I frowned. Why had his smile dimmed? Did I do something wrong?

  “So, what can I do for you?” I asked.

  “I’m being blackmailed for child support for a kid I didn’t know I had up until last night.” He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, waiting for my reaction.

  I raised my eyebrows as he spun a tale about a darkened motel, a parking lot, and shadows. My cases were generally divorces or suing a spouse for additional alimony.

  “So, you want to file for custody, then?” I asked, writing a quick list of action items on my pad. “It’s pretty cut-and-dried. We establish paternity, then you sue for custody. If the kid shares your DNA, chances are you’ll get some sort of custodial responsibility. How much responsibility are you looking for?”

  “If I got a kid, I want full custody—if the mother really is dead. I want to know him, more than anything.” He nodded, but then cleared his throat. “But, see, it’s not that easy. I can’t go around suing him for custody or getting the court involved. He’ll run fast as hell. He’s probably got warrants, and if anyone comes sniffing around, then my kid is gone.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. There was pain in his voice. He really wanted to know his child, and my heart hurt a little for him. “I’m a lawyer—courts are kind of what I do. I want to help you, but what are you looking for exactly?”

  He leaned across my desk. My skin heated as those powerful shoulders rolled toward me. “I could just take him, but then I’m guilty of kidnapping, right? I don’t want my kid to think I just stole him away from the only family he’s ever known. I need to do this right. I don’t ever want someone to be able to take him from me.”

  Reaching out, he grabbed my hand. The pain was clear in his eyes when he talked about not knowing his child. I didn’t know how to help him—without using the court system—but I knew I had to try.

  I squeezed his fingers.

  “First let’s meet the child,” I suggested. “Then we can come up with a plan.”

  Chapter Three

  Skeeter

  I knew it was my lawyer the minute the car pulled into the parking lot where Davide was staying. Painted a pearly white, the Mercedes coupe was completely out of place in the potholed motel lot. Hopefully no one would try to steal it while we were doing business. Wearing a navy blue pantsuit, she was just as out of place as her car. Damn. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “He’s in that one.” I pointed it out for her. Davide’s room was the one with cheap plastic chairs and a metal pail for cigarette butts out front. “Davide’s truck is gone. But let’s knock anyway.”

  “Let me do it.” She touched my arm. “If the child is the only one there, I’ll be less threatening.”

  I nodded. Yeah, she was right. It was probably best not to scare the kid the first time I met him. Standing to the side, I waited while Miriam knocked on the motel room door. There were voices, then a small bang. Just to be safe, I pushed Miriam behind me as we waited for someone to answer the door.

  The door opened, and the brunette from the other night looked out. Her hair was uncombed, and her eyes barely focused until she caught sight of me. “Skeeter?” she asked, laughing.

  She was familiar. She’d been in my high school, maybe? Years behind, though. Her voice fell flat, her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t happy to see me.

  “Davide ain’t here.” She rolled her eyes and lit up a cigarette. “Why don’t you come back later?”

  “Is the kid here?” I asked, trying to look past her and into the room.

  “Davide ain’t here.” She shrugged. “That’s who matters.”

  Di
gging into my pocket, I pulled out my wad of cash. “Fifty bucks. Consider it a good-faith deposit.” Waving the cash in front of her, I watched her abnormally tiny pupils follow the bills. “I want to see the kid.”

  She took the cash out of my hand and stuffed it into her bra. Turning, she yelled into the motel room. “Christophe, get on out here. Il est ton papa.” It’s your dad.

  French Cajun—I called my momma once a month or so, just to hear that language. I left Louisiana ten years ago. I left French, and crawfish, and my heritage behind. The only thing that remained was my drawl.

  “English,” I growled. I needed my lawyer to know everything we were saying.

  She glared at me. I tried to look around her into the darkened motel room, but all I could see were two unmade beds and a pile of laundry. Toward the back of the room, the bathroom door opened, and a little boy stumbled into the room. He had a shock of red hair and freckles.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  This kid was a smaller version of me.

  I had to touch him, meet him.

  Something touched my shoulder, and I stopped. “Not yet,” Miriam murmured. “Let him come outside.”

  My son took exactly twelve steps to cross the tiny motel room and come to the door. I crouched down to look at him. Red hair, freckles, my nose, my mouth. Delphie’s eyes. He was nine. Had to be. That would have made Delphie just barely pregnant when I left for the Army.

  “Hi.” What else should I say?

  The kid smiled. My smile. I caught myself as I started to tip over.

  “Hi,” he replied.

  At some point, Miriam had joined me, squatting on the motel room porch. “Hi, sweetie, my name is Miri. What’s yours?”

  The boy looked at me and then back at Miriam. “Christophe.” He said it just the way I would have, with a strong vowel, the French way.

  “What’s your daddy’s name, Christophe?” Miriam asked.

  Fuck. I put my hand down on the concrete to steady myself. I needed to hear Christophe say my name.