The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  Clearly having Sawyer’s mouth on my Hello Kitty has made me thirsty.

  I push the thought away.

  “See, that’s why you’re the best bartender in Chicago. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “No flattery.” He shrugs. “Just facts.” He hesitates, seeming to choose his words. He stares over at me. “You ever thought about being a pastry chef? Or getting into the catering business? I bet you’d be phenomenal at either.”

  I try to grin, but the expression won’t make it to my face.

  Just the word “pastry” has me thinking of long-lost days in Miami. Sitting in Mamma’s kitchen, watching her work magic with a carton of eggs, a pound of flour and some sugar.

  The best of times. The worst of times.

  Days where we’d debate who wore red hair better: Titanic’s Kate or Pretty Woman’s Julia.

  Long, hot, humid, Little Havana-Miamian days in my parents’ little pink kitchen. Days when I’d dipped my hands in warm batter and watch something beautiful take form.

  Those days were long behind me, this semblance of an existence I’d made myself in Chicago—was the only life left.

  A life that my brother and I so sorely need now that my parents are both gone. And speaking of which…

  I finish the first glass of wine, slamming the small glass onto the bar top. I don’t wait for the second. “Hey, Chris,” I call out, grabbing his attention. “I’m going to take a call in Sevin’s office, if no one minds.”

  He glances around, shrugging. “Can’t imagine that anyone would. Hell, you use that office more than Sevin does.”

  My answering smile is weak, and I move fast.

  Slinking into the back hallways behind the bar, I inhale the surrounding faint smell of smoke and whiskey as I slip out my spare key to head inside Sevin’s sequestered domain.

  I close the door behind me, locking it before picking my cell phone out of my left back jean pocket and dialing the first number in my Recent Calls.

  Luckily, she picks up in two seconds, preventing me from panicking. My neighbor Mrs. Headley clears her throat.

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning,” the elderly woman croaks, her throaty voice flat.

  “I know.” I nod, knowing she can’t see it. “I know it’s late, Mrs. Headley. I just wanted to check on Diego. And our Aunt Sandra is out of town…on a retreat.” I stammer over the words, but keep going. “He’s alright, isn’t he? I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to check on him earlier.”

  “You mean the four times you called earlier weren’t enough?” She sighs, smacking her lips lightly. “Well, if you must know, he’s doing plenty alright, he is. Eating me out of house and home, but…that’s another story.”

  I laugh, forgetting to stifle it…since Mrs. Headley is allergic to the very act. “He is a growing thirteen-year old boy.”

  “Hmph. He sure is. A thirteen-year old boy who watches dirty movies and eats a tad too much chocolate.”

  I lean into the phone. “Dirty movies? He’s been watching dirty movies?”

  “Yup,” she says, the bass growing in her voice. “Filthy ones. Ones like that…that Titanic film with that Leonardo DiMaggio.”

  I cover the smile spreading on my face, my lips pinching together way too tightly. “DiCaprio, Mrs. Headley. It’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

  “DiCaprio. DiMaggio. DaVinci. Whatever his name. It’s a dirty, filthy film, and he shouldn’t be watching it.”

  I dampen my bottom lip, grateful that this bit of news is the worst of it. “Well, he just happens to like good romantic movies, Mrs. Headley.” I grin. “Just like his big sister. But he also loves baseball and other sports. Anime. I’ll make sure he watches those instead.”

  “Good.” She spits out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d love to get some uninterrupted sleep, if you don’t mind.”

  I nod to no one, wondering if Mrs. Headley’s sleep happens to involve a crypt and several feet of worm-wriggling dirt. “Of course, Mrs. Headley. I’m sorry for the interruption. Have a great night.”

  “Hmph.” She grunts, hanging up, and I feel grateful I got that much of a response.

  I slide my phone back into my left back pocket, beginning to pace the length of Sevin’s gigantic back office, worry starting to tug at my innards.

  It was kind of hard not to, considering the fact that I jeopardized my job tonight.

  I’m clearly the worst type of person. The sticky shit at the bottom of a beat-up shoe for getting half-naked with my boss’s best friend.

  And I know I should tell Sevin. I know I should.

  But isn’t having an orgasm with your boss’s closest bro high up on the list of employee no-no’s?

  I’m very into rules. And if there was an unspoken rule book for a personal assistant, having an orgasm with Sawyer just ensured that I burned my copy and danced around it like a tribal ritual.

  If Sevin wound up furious, he’d have every right to be.

  I imagine no one would blame him for killing me. Or, worse, firing me…

  Gut tightening, I shake off the nerves and the stupid notion of telling Sevin, heading back the way I came in and closing the door behind me.

  I turn down the back hallway, avoiding the bustling of waiters, bartenders and pub staff, a stiff smile on my face.

  I nod to each passing wave, faking the entire time. But I’m barely back on the floor before I slam into someone, the sudden jerking making my head snap back. I stumble in my overly-worn ballet flats only to find an excited Rosalyn inches from my face, the marketing intern more amped up than I’ve ever seen her.

  She grabs my wrist, steadying me. “Holy fuck, Nome, I nearly killed you. You alright?”

  “Trying to be,” I say, actually meaning it. “Sorry I wasn’t looking.”

  “Look, don’t apologize,” she responds, a wide smile on her excited face. “I came running over here. I was so excited to see you that I almost tackled you like a linebacker.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “I texted you earlier but you didn’t respond. You left the party so fast.”

  Think. Think. Think.

  My brain screams and scrambles at the same time as I avoid chewing on my chipped red nail, a telltale sign that I’m near nuclear levels of anxious.

  I clasp my hands together. “Oh, yeah, that. I…uh, I had a bad reaction to the beer.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh yeah. It must have been the brand. Too, uh, frothy.”

  God, I suck at this. But Ros buys it…I think.

  She shrugs, patting my shoulder. “I’m guessing you’re better now, though, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely. Much, much better.” Now that I’m not sneaking out of the bathroom, my underwear soaked to within an inch of its life.

  I start walking back to the bar, and Ros follows. I glance up, hoping to see Chris but he’s gone. Strange.

  “So, how was the rest of the party in my absence?”

  “It was pretty freaking awesome. That guy—that brooding one from the kitchen with the eyes and beard and hair? Well, he came back and we got a chance to talk.”

  “Yeah?” My heart starts doing a pirouette inside my chest, spinning in circles and tap-dancing into my stomach. I motion to the nearest bartender I can find.

  Wine. Must. have. wine.

  Right now.

  “Yeah, he’s so freaking hot. Sawyer, I think his name was. I’ve never seen him up close and personal until tonight, but whew, that man is fine. Kinda broody. And a little intense tonight. But fine, all the same.” Her eyebrows waggle. “Now there’s a man who can teach a woman a trick or seventy.”

  “Tricks?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “I happen to know Sawyer quite a bit and I can assure you: The man hasn’t exactly been potty-trained.”

  “You know what I mean, girl. The good kind of tricks. The ‘moves.’ Or whatever they’re calling them these days. It’s clear that man has them in spades. I mean, he barely said two words to me and had me wondering what kind of det
ergent he’d like me to wash his drawers in.” She looks over at me, noting my raised hand, which is still waving to get any of the bartenders’ attention. “Case in point… Exhibit A.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, look at us. Can’t even get the barkeeps’ attention. Don’t get me wrong: I’m happy to say that we’re both beautiful women in my opinion. But you’re dressed in a collared shirt and jeans. I’m not too far off in my simple halter dress. And on the other hand, there’s women like her…” She gestures to the far side of the bar where a beautiful brunette sits in a body-con dress, her long hair running over her shoulders in Victoria’s Secret model waves.

  Two of Sevin’s bartenders talk animatedly in front of her, vying for her attention and another three men nearby stare on in longing.

  And then there was Rosalyn, the self-deprecating beauty queen she is, and then me. A woman who thought flannel was high fashion.

  I push on my glasses, thinking of Jackson, the jackass I’d actually deigned to bring as a date tonight after three lonely years of single-dom. I hadn’t even been able to keep his attention.

  “I mean, just look at the bartenders drooling all over the mahogany bar. Not to mention those suits beside her. Seriously. Do you think there’s any chance that that woman has some clit-whipped man washing her drawers?”

  “Not a chance in Hell.” I shake my head, wondering what it was about me that hadn’t mastered that look, that confidence, that style down right.

  I’d never been the type of woman to “go for it.” In more ways than one.

  Chris had almost hit the nail on the head earlier. I had thought about starting my own catering business. Sharing my mother’s recipes for orgasm-inducing baked goods with the world.

  I had thought about it. Lots. But just as I’d stopped before crossing my virginal sexual lines, every time it was time to “put up or shut up” for a lack of a better phrase, I just…choked.

  Like I did at the party with Sawyer.

  I’d run. I was running so much Nike should have named a shoe after me.

  A knot in my throat, I start chewing on my chipped nail, tearing the damn thing to shreds as Rosalyn sighs beside me.

  “All I’m saying is that are some men like that Sawyer guy and some women like her that just have that ‘get what I want’ quality. That kind of magnetic energy comes to them easily. Natural. And for the rest of us? We’d have to be taught. Hell, I’d happily take a class or two if it meant I could get a strong drink right now.”

  “Taught the moves.” Taught magnetic energy. Taught how to be a person like Sawyer.

  A man who got what he wanted, when he wanted…

  Even me.

  I swallow thickly turning to Rosalyn. “So, we’d have to become students in the art of seduction?”

  Rosalyn signals for one of the bartenders, who, this time, actually comes, her eyes narrowing in thought. She shifts on the barstool, her tiny chin tilted. “Yeah, pretty much. And who better to teach a class in it than that bearded Adonis? I bet there’s a line for who gets to hand-wash his unmentionables. And I’d be the first one in it.”

  She winks, nudging me, the playful conversation about tricks and confidence and drooling bartenders over just as soon as it started.

  But now I’ve got an idea.

  Rosalyn orders us two glasses of the Alchemist’s finest red, and I have to admit that I may be buzzing from the earlier drinks already.

  Because I’m having the craziest thoughts.

  Ros may think that a class in confidence is a fun attempt at a joke. But me? I’m starting to think that learning the art of learning confidence—in the bedroom, at the bar, in front of the baking sheet—might not be such a bad idea.

  Not a bad idea at all, actually.

  I take my glass of wine when it finally comes, cheers’ing Ros, a wicked thought forming in my half-drunk mind.

  Chapter 5

  SAWYER

  Wednesday night

  I wish I could go back to a few months ago…and erase very wicked thought in my mind. Then maybe I wouldn’t be so deep in shit.

  Because when news breaks here in Chicago, it sure as hell shatters.

  I can’t even go to my local gym anymore.

  Once the news of my suspension hits the streets, it starts to feeling like the world is watching me, waiting me for me to fail more than an HBO writer of a good series.

  As I march out of my favorite fitness spot like a dishonorably discharged soldier on the way home from war, I can’t pretend not to see the sidelong stares that sweep across my face, my sweats and sweaty hair.

  The additional spotlight on my shoulders is brighter than ever.

  Ignoring the whispers, the peering, the pauses from fellow gym rats, I head for the car I’ve already ordered, missing my Ducati, as the reddish-orange sun sets on the steel-and-glass structured horizon that is Chicago.

  Slinging my bag in the back of a big-bodied Escalade instead of my beloved bike, I slip into the back passenger seat, sliding over the leather as I direct my driver to my penthouse, a luxury high-rise I specifically chose in the infamous Fulton Market District.

  A glass behemoth located conveniently in the center of the The Loop—Chicago’s central business district—the apartment, though nice when I’d bought it, was now a work of art that had been months in the making.

  The recent renovations had taken time. And every second was worth it.

  As the Chicago skies dip from dusty-gold further into an evening-indigo color, I let my stare linger out the window, thinking of the penthouse I’d poured my time, consideration and money into.

  Only for my career to be in limbo by the time the last brick was laid.

  The thought is enough to make me curse my wayward dick and all its swinging ways for getting me to this screwed up point.

  As if matters weren’t worse, our season, so far, had already been particularly brutal, the Cougars clearing the playoff roster by the skin of our teeth.

  We still could wind up as a Wild Card if we weren’t careful. All sports projections had us playing in the post-season. But as a lifelong sports fan, I know how easily a few bad games can change everything—know that no matter how far a team succeeds, no matter how much greatness they build, it only takes a few bad weeks to send the whole she-bang crumbling down.

  And now I couldn’t so much as swing at a pitch for the next ten games.

  I pull myself out of my own thoughts long enough to ruminate on the game I should be swinging in in the city. Tonight.

  Shit. Since finding out about my suspension from the team, Sevin had been urging me to keep a low profile, to stay away.

  But the thought of the Cougars playing without me is like a knife in my chest, twisting with every minute.

  I sit forward in the back passenger seat, the anxiousness inside getting the best of me. I call out towards the driver’s back, asking him a question I already know the answer to. “Hey, bud, Cougars are playing tonight, right?”

  “Sure are.” He glances over his shoulder, tossing the short sentence my way. “Against the Fever. A tough matchup.” He shakes his balding head, the words coming out as a whistle. “Going to be a hell of a game.”

  I lick my suddenly dry lips, tilting my head. “The game should have already started, no?”

  “Yeah. Think so.” The suited man points at the car clock. “If I’m right, Cougars should be in the seventh inning.”

  Seventh inning. Two more to go.

  I make a quick decision.

  “Thanks. Hey…” I hesitate, hating the strain I hear in my voice. “How’s about a detour, actually?”

  I give him new directions and within the span of fifteen minutes, we find ourselves pulling up in front of Cougars stadium, which is awash in bright Wednesday night game lights and noise.

  I step out of the back seat as we stop, soaking it all in, taking a deep breath that is saturated with excitement.

  The humid Chicago heat. The evening breeze f
rom the lake. And the smell of BBQ.

  It all drifts in the air like a steady symphony—a song that sings to the very core of me.

  My body is humming just standing there on the threshold of the stadium. And I know why.

  Because baseball belongs to me.

  It is my partner, my girlfriend. My mistress.

  The sport is the only commitment I’ve ever made in my life, and it never stops giving to me. Never stops surprising me.

  I smile, turning to the driver who sits in the Escalade, letting it idle.

  “How much to have you wait for me until the game ends?”

  “For you?” One graying eyebrow arcs. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I can’t help but arch an eyebrow back. “Why?”

  “Because I’m a big fan.” He winks, gesturing over my shoulder. “That should be you they’re rooting for right now.”

  I glance behind me, up at the towering stadium at my back. My home for the last few glorious years. I exhale. “It will be again. Very soon.” I wave, taking off as the driver starts to slide away. “Thanks again. I have your number. Give you a call when it’s over.”

  He raises a hand, letting it drop shortly after. “Good luck.”

  Luck. I’ve never needed it before, but these days? I’ll take all I can get.

  I start to jog in the direction of the front ticket gates, but before I can break out into a full sprint, my phone breaks out into a blaring ringing. I lessen my pace, slowing down just enough to glance at the name on the phone screen.

  “Yeah?”

  “Now is that any way to greet your favorite little sister?”

  “Of course it is.” I smile, imagining Danica’s face right now. “Especially when it’s my only little sister.”

  “More reason for me to be the favorite.” She chuckles. “It’s been a while, Sawyer. Thought you might have forgotten about us.”

  “Forget about you?” I say, struggling to keep my tone light. “Never. Did you get the money I sent you and dad the other day?”

  “Oh, yeah, we got it. But we’d rather get you, big bro. Where have you been? It’s been too long.”

  Two years. But I don’t say it. I shrug instead. “Time has a way of beating your ass and then running away. I’ll be home for Christmas.”