The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  “Okay, well, then you never told me that you’re kissing the hell out of Sawyer Kennedy.”

  “Don’t give me that look, Ros. Sleeping together and kissing are two different things.”

  “And don’t I know it? I’m not doing either, so I’m one to talk. I can’t believe this.” She signals the bartender for a drink, looking like she stepped off a magazine, her curly hair swept up and off her face. She swipes a few tendrils. “And I thought I was the one with the guy problems tonight.”

  “Guy problems? Who…?”

  I glance over, finding Chris staring at us from the corner, his blond hair looking pale against his face. He looks enraged.

  In fact, he isn’t looking at us at all. He’s looking at Rosalyn.

  My eyes flick from his face to hers, recognition dawning as the bartender slides two glasses of wine towards Rosalyn’s hand. She hands me one, stepping back.

  “You and Chris…” I begin.

  “Me and Chris nothing,” she emphasizes, sipping her drink. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Apparently, not that long though. He is burning a hole in your back right now. He hasn’t stopped looking at you since the second you stepped in here.”

  She pokes me. “You’re one to talk. You’ve got a gorgeous hunk of a baseball player drooling at you from the moment we entered the doorway.”

  “Wait… But I thought you and Sawyer…?”

  “Oh, God no. No, no, no. I stopped by your house, hoping you were still there an hour ago. My phone had died, and I’d run out of mascara. I looked up and found Mr. Kennedy over there, pacing in front of your door, hands in his hair as he marched. He looked troubled.”

  “He is troubled,” I say, wincing as I sip at the dark elixir. “He’s a guy with many, many problems, most of them involving women. And I know I shouldn’t touch that situation with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Knowing and doing are two different things, my friend.”

  I grip my glass harder, hoping I can keep making the distinction. “And I’d like to keep it that way, that’s for damned sure.”

  “Doesn’t sound that way to me. In fact, it sounds the opposite. If I’m not mistaken,” she sidles up to me, smiling, “you sounded super jealous when the topic of me and Sawyer came up. Am I to assume that you didn’t want to meet men tonight because you already have one of your own?”

  She motions behind me, to Sawyer still standing beside the hallway near the bathrooms. Staring right at me.

  A woman approaches him, sliding a hand along his arm. Without looking away, he removes it, and she walks away. The pout of her pretty face is hard to miss from this distance, but there’s no missing the heat on Sawyer’s face, the hidden promise of stolen kisses and Hello Kitty panty-soakings to come if he gets his way.

  I swallow. “We’re not seeing each other. We just have…an agreement, that’s all.”

  “An agreement about orgasms, I hope?”

  I groan out loud. “Ros, I’m trying to do the right thing here. He’s my boss’s best friend.”

  “Are you saying you’re going to let this little snafu set you back on your dating quest?”

  “I’m not an astronaut. This isn’t exactly a quest, Neil Armstrong,” I nudge her. “And if it were, then that’s exactly what I’m saying. I need to focus on work, anyway. I’ve been seriously slacking at taking care of Sevin’s schedule. I’ve been baking more than keeping his calendar. Passing out at the Alchemist over arranging his flights.” I grimace as I take another sip of the sweet wine, needing the courage. “Kissing asshole baseball players in corners of clubs. And running around, samba-dancing and laughing without a care in the world.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Ros cuts in, “But if you were any more focused on work, I’d think you were made of gears and not skin. Talking seriously here, everyone in the Cougars org knows that you’re a walking machine. No offense, Nome, because you know I love you…but my grandmother has more ‘smexy’ times than you. And she has severe arthritis and a clubbed foot.”

  “Okay, your compliments could use a lot of work, Ros. Thanks.”

  “All I’m saying is that we could end this self-imposed chastity of yours and get you on the next smoking ride. And by ‘ride’ I mean Sawyer. You’ve been my closest friend since I landed in this Godforsaken city, and I’m not going to let my closest friend—who looks like a supermodel tonight, by the way—take a trip to Hagsville where the cats are plenty and the climaxes missing. I just… I can’t. I won’t allow you to become me.”

  “And what’s so wrong with you?”

  “Well, I don’t have a hot guy pacing in front of my front door, clearly all worked up into knots because he’s crazy about me…”

  “Only one in the corner, staring lasers at your red dress.” I go for the wine again, almost afraid since it’s starting to taste like water. I take a sip. “How do you and Chris know each other again?”

  Ros clears her throat, joining me in the effort to get drunk. She swallows more red wine. “It’s a long story. I…didn’t know he worked at the Alchemist until I moved here. We, uh… We kinda have our own agreement of sorts. He stays out of my hair. And I stay out of his.”

  Which explains why he disappeared every time Ros took a seat at the Alchemist. Interesting.

  “But we’re not talking about me,” she follows up, inclining close. “We’re talking about you.”

  “No, we aren’t,” I say, finishing what’s left in my glass. I set it on a nearby table. “We’re talking about meeting men here. At least we were…”

  Ros nods. “We still are.”

  “So, why don’t you and I just make it another mission to find guys who don’t give us headaches? Guys who will buy the drinks and have the fun and not make you suck on several bananas?”

  I don’t know why that idea sounds so good. But maybe the two barrels of red wine in my system can answer.

  Because suddenly they’re doing the talking for me.

  I grab Rosalyn’s hand while she stares at me, a small frown imprinted on her face. Cabernet sloshing from her glass, she follows me as I march to the dance floor, determined to push Sawyer from my mind.

  The beat of the song overhead is loud, thundering, as we head to the hardwood, and still somehow I manage to hear her ask over the crowd in a screeching voice: “By the way, what did you mean by ‘a guy not making you suck on several bananas’?”

  I laugh as I twirl, losing myself to the music.

  Chapter 18

  SAWYER

  She’s completely drunk.

  Not like she was at the Alchemist.

  Not this. This is way worse.

  She was inebriated at Sevin’s pub, but it was the sight of blood that actually put her over. But this?

  This is good old-fashioned one-too-many-glasses-of-red-wine syndrome swirling in her veins. And after I finally extract her from the dance floor where she can’t stop gyrating those curvy hips, I prepare to take Naomi on the long trek back to my penthouse, guiding her stumbling steps down the street.

  She holds onto my arm. “I still think we should have stayed for a few more songs.”

  “The club was closing, kitty.”

  “Or we could have given Rosalyn a ride.”

  “She already caught one with Chris.”

  “Or we could have caught a ride ourselves.”

  I roll my eyes. “I already called one for us, kitty. But you accused the driver of looking like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. And apparently? He’s not a big fan of Patrick’s. Because he drove off, leaving us stranded here.”

  “So, why are we walking again?” She slurs.

  “Because luckily, for us, my building’s within walking distance.”

  I place two hands on her shoulders, steadying her. But she’s so goddamned close. That dark cherry scent of hers wraps its way around me, and I have to bite my tongue to keep my dick from stiffening every time I catch a whiff.

  Naomi throws her drunken hands up into the air, her dark b
rown hair swinging in the wind. She closes her eyes.

  “Man, I love this city.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “I know I don’t take the time to appreciate it,” she mutters between heavy breaths, “but it really is beautiful. A night like tonight? Warm weather? Bright lights? It’s nothing like Miami, but I think that’s what I like most about it. You can get lost in a city like this. You can forget.” She pauses for a second, her red lips pursed. “I think I’d like to forget. Forget lots of things. Lots of bad, bad things that won’t stay the hell back in Little Havana, where I thought I left them.”

  “Okay, kitty, okay…” I say, still guiding her. “Just hold your horses. And your upchuck reflex. We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where?”

  “Almost home.”

  “Whose home?”

  “My home.”

  “Are you sure?” She stutters, brown eyes wide. “Because I’m not drunk enough to not see that we’re walking in circles here. We’ve been up and down Marble and Madison, crossed over Quincy and Jackson Blvd, and almost got flattened by a taxi on Monroe. I’ve lived in this city for two long years.” She holds a pair of fingers into the air. “And I still have a better idea of where your penthouse is more than you do.”

  She may be right.

  I’ve been too distracted. Too concerned with keeping my erection in check to pay attention to more street signs.

  Especially when the drunken woman in my arms makes occasional inappropriate suggestions to me. Sexy, drunken suggestions I know her sober ass will regret in the morning.

  She gazes over at me. “If we ever do make it to your house, what are you going to do with me?”

  “Put you to bed, kitty. Nothing more.”

  “Pfft,” she spits out, her pink tongue adorable as it darts out. “Don’t be so boring. Tell me something more interesting like ‘I’m going to have my way with you’ or ‘I’m going to do things to you no man has ever done to a woman.’ Interesting, dirty, filthy things like that. Say words like that.”

  “Is that what you want to hear, kitty?”

  “I want to hear…that we’re walking in the right direction. And I’d like to get there a little faster, por favor. You being so close to me has me all hot. By the time we reach your bed, I’ll be roasted like a hot dog and you’ll be able to throw me on a bun and eat me by the time this is all done.”

  “Wow. Dirty.” I tease, half-holding her as we stagger. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “I haven’t kissed much of anything with this mouth in a long time. Besides you…”

  She flashes a drunken grin in my direction, and I grind my teeth.

  One more sexy suggestion. And I’m going to have to catch a cab.

  I’m scared she’ll drive another driver away, but it might be worth the risk. I’m barely holding on to my reason and sense as it is. Being this near to Naomi obliterates both, and I’d like to be able to look at myself in the morning without hating what I see.

  I keep walking her.

  “Oh my God,” she says suddenly, bending at the waist. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh my God. I feel dizzy.” She hangs on to me tighter, nails scrapping my skin. “Sawyer, for the love of all things holy, please say something calming right now.”

  “Something calming.”

  “Tell me I won’t throw up on myself.”

  “You won’t throw up on yourself.”

  She hesitates. “Even though I need your help walking down the street?”

  “Being honest here… It’s not like you’re the most coordinated person on the planet when you’re sober, either.”

  “I thought you were supposed to tell me something calming.”

  “You said ‘something calming,’ not something ‘nice.’ And who cares if you’re not coordinated. You practically do everything else on the planet right.”

  And finally. That part… That part makes her smile.

  The drunken brunette rubs her uncoordinated hands along mine, and my erection, the one that just subsided, starting to come back full force, springing beneath my jeans.

  I stop, realizing we’ve reached my street. “See? Ha. Told you we’d make it.”

  I reach for the front door, but to my surprise, someone opens it before I do. The move is purposeful—almost intruding, and I am seconds away from swinging away at a pair of ice-cold, light blue eyes that are fixed on my face.

  The eyes belong to a thin man in an equally skinny tie. Sporting a shirt that looks pressed by the Gods themselves, the thin man tilts his head at me, gaze flicking from the fist my hands makes to my face.

  He blinks slowly. “Are you Sawyer Kennedy?”

  I hesitate, my heart thundering in my chest. “Depends. Who the hell wants to know?”

  His gaze flicks back to my fist. “A friend. You may have heard of me. I’m Benjamin Platts. I work for Stephan Knight at The Firm Crisis and Emergency management.”

  I let go of a shaky breath, stashing it away. “Let me guess: Stephan and Emily are sending a new babysitter for me?”

  “I’d like to think of myself more of a man-sitter. But whatever term you’d like to go with works for me. I still get paid.”

  He grins and I return it, still holding onto Naomi. Ben holds the door aside and I take it, escorting her in.

  The interior of Waterline Park apartments is as gorgeous as its exterior clean-cut lines overlooking Lake Michigan, the expensive expanse spotless. Marble-lined floors lead the way to a long lobby, and past the doorman at whom I smile.

  You can nearly smell the wealth on the walls around me, a far cry from the reformed farmhouse I grew up in in Buffalo.

  It’s the freshly painted ceilings. The gold touches on the doorframes.

  Each perfect, glistening piece of the platinum chandeliers swinging above my head glints as the three of us pass by, and with one free hand, I slip my fingers into my back pocket, shooting a quick text to Emily as we walk.

  I exhale out loud.

  Me: When you get this text, we’re going to have a serious talk about your firm’s techniques. Because I am so the opposite of calm right now.

  Only a few seconds pass before he replies.

  Emily: You knew this would happen, Saw. We do what’s for our client’s own good. And for your good? We need extra attention.

  I type back.

  Me: Extra attention? Or extra ass-wiping? Because it’s sure as hell starting to feel like the latter. And I’m capable of handling my own shit… Quite literally.

  Before I can text anything else, Ben, a near-hysterics Naomi and I are hopping into an unseen elevator, stopping on a floor twenty-five levels later that is pure decadence—old city Chicago built with style.

  The marble floors are gone, replaced by my penthouse’s dark hardwood, and in the air, the scent of oak and brick and brass mingle around me, another reminder of this city’s stony character.

  Old. Hard. Windy.

  Built to last.

  Problem is: my stay on the Cougars won’t be. If I don’t stick to the firm’s instructions.

  So, when I finally escort Naomi to a bathroom and hold her hair back, when she finally empties all the wine she guzzled this evening into the toilet and lets me put her to bed, I wait, knowing Ben will still be there in the living room. Waiting for me.

  He’s there, just as I expect when I shut the bedroom door.

  Offering him a drink, I head to the fridge to get my own before sitting across from him, mind racing a million miles a minute. I take a sip of my beer as his eyes meet mine.

  “Stephan told you how this all works, didn’t he?”

  I lean in. “You mean the whole secrecy clauses and ‘no revealing who your clients are’ kind of thing?” I shrug. “Kind of figured it out myself. After the whole debacle with Sevin’s paternity scandal last year…” I straighten. “It all seems pretty simple to me: Your clients have scandals. Your company
fixes them. Your boss Stephan Knight? I heard he was a real stickler, but from what I’ve seen, it just feels like the guy seems…”

  “Seems what?” Ben asks.

  I shift, staring down at the cold beer. “Well, to be honest? Colder than steel balls. I once had a Catholic school principal named Father Perez who ruled our school with an iron hand. Put Stephan Knight in a collar and black smock, and I’m sure he could give the good ol’ priest a run for his money any day.”

  “Sounds like Stephan.” Ben smirks. “I’ll take your Father Perez and raise you my high school drama coach. This guy’s twice as hard.”

  I laugh, feeling somewhat lighter as I settle in, extending one arm across the sofa. “And look… I only heard about what you guys did this past year with Sevin’s paternity scandal case, but I…” I clear my throat, tripping over the words. “I know how to keep a secret.” I lean in. “Like I said, I went to Catholic school. Plus, I had a mother with eyes in the back of her head. And if it helps… I can’t be traded from my team. I just can’t. I hope that helps you understand how badly I need these plans to work.”

  Ben grins. “It does. There’s nothing like necessity to light a fire under someone. And here at The Firm? We believe in chances. And from working with Sevin this past year, just know that we’re happy to give you one. Emily believes in you. We believe in you.” His blue eyes glitter. “And that’s enough.”

  Talk about calming. Ben’s put every frayed nerve inside me at ease with just a few words.

  And just like that, I’m almost back to believing in chances. Back to believing that maybe I have more than one.

  That is, until Ben asks me about my last affair. “So, Derrick Johnson’s wife, huh? That had to have been a…tough relationship to handle. How’d you get out of that?”

  “Well, to put it simply… I didn’t. The affair just pitter-pattered off. Eventually, we got sick of each other. No harm. No foul. Just memories.”

  “Meaning you guys are actually friends?”

  “I don’t think we ever were friends.” I pause, thinking of the Cougars’ owner’s current wife. “She’s the sort of woman who would forget her head if it weren’t attached. And me? I’ve just been a man who wants to get head so…”