by J. Saman
“You total slut,” Claire taunts as she gets up on her knees, pointing at me. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“That explains so much,” Kate says, shaking her head in bewilderment. “I mean, that’s why he wanted to walk you home that night, and that’s why he went after you so quickly.”
“Did you date him then or just screw his brains out? Was he any good? I always imagine Luke being good in bed, though I can’t explain why.”
“Jesus, Claire, do you have any sort of filter?”
“No.”
“It was a one-night stand,” I explain, staring into the crimson of my wine. “We met in a bar and he came home with me, but he was gone before I woke up.” I take a small sip, before drawing my legs up onto the sofa and tucking them beneath me.
“Dick,” Kate says, and I point my finger at her because she’s spot on with that.
Another thing he and I have yet to really discuss. That list seems to be compiling quickly. But that whole getting busted straight off after breaching the bank’s security? Yeah, something about all that isn’t quite adding up for me.
“Was it before or after he got nailed?” Claire snickers. “Totally pun intended.” Then she starts to cackle, slapping her thigh and everything.
“It was after, on both accounts,” I raise an eyebrow at them. “Just a few days, though I didn’t know anything about that when I met him, and he didn’t talk about it.”
“So he did a dick and ditch, a fuck and fly, a jiggy and jog?” Claire asks.
I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Who the hell comes up with things like this? Claire, that’s who.
“How on earth did I manage before I met you, Claire? Honestly. You’re like the perfectly dirty equivalent of my mum.” My shoulders sag and I’m suddenly so very sad. “What am I going to do when I leave? Doctors aren’t this much fun to booze with.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“So answer the question, Ivy,” Kate continues, annoyed that we got off track. “Did Luke really do that?”
“Yes. He did. Look, I don’t really want to talk about Luke or any other bloke for that matter. I’m a brilliant kickarse doctor,” I point at Kate, “you’re a brilliant kickarse nurse, and you’re the badarse mysterious assistant who really runs that place,” I finish with Claire. “Men are bloody superfluous.”
We all raise our glasses, clinking them together before we finish off our wine. “Even though we’re doing that whole women empowerment not needing men thing,” Kate slurs, “I totally need Ryan to come and drive me home. I’m so drunk the room is starting to spin, and pretty soon I’ll be splatter-painting your walls and floors with red vomit.”
“That’s colorful imagery right there, Kate, but I think I’m right there with you.” Claire says.
“Did you know that I’m thinking about cutting back on my hours?” Kate slurs as she attempts to dial Ryan’s number several times before Claire snatches the phone from her hand and does it herself.
“No,” I say, surprised, sitting a little more upright.
“Yeah. I hate not seeing Ryan. Our schedules are so opposite, and life’s too short to miss time with him.”
I nod, aware that she’s quietly referring to missing her family that died in a car accident several years back.
“Then, I think cutting back on your hours would be the right call to make.”
“Me too, Ivy. And if you marry Luke and I marry Ryan, then we could be like non-related sisters or something.”
Claire makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a snort and a burp. “That doesn’t even make sense, Kate.”
“I know, but that’s not really the point, Claire. Stop pissing on my happy parade or whatever I have going on.”
“I hate to be the one to break up this moment of love, but I’m not marrying Luke. I’m leaving next week. He and I are just having fun.”
“You do know that no one really believes you when you say shit like that, right?” Claire gives me a dubious look, and I can’t respond to that, so we all fall silent for a beat before there is a rather loud and demanding knock on my door.
It takes me far longer than it should to reach Ryan, but when I do, I’m swaying, and there are about two and a half of him, which is a bit unsettling really.
“Jesus Christ, Katie. How am I supposed to take advantage of you when you’re this drunk?” Ryan asks, cupping his fiancée’s face, looking at her like she’s the most incredible woman in the world. “Can you walk, love, or do I need to carry you?”
Kate goes to smack his chest, but misses and swats at the air instead. “I can walk.”
“That’s good, because I may need you to carry me, Ryan. I don’t even think I can get off the floor.” Claire starts to giggle but instantly stops. “Oh no, I have to pee!”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryan groans, running a hand through his inky hair. “Remind me to never let them over to your house again for a ‘girl’s night,’ Ivy.” Ryan puts air quotes around the words. “Claire, I’m not carrying you to the bathroom, so get your ass up and do your thing before you get in my car.”
“Yes, sir,” Claire snickers and does somehow manage to pull herself off the floor, which is a good thing, because I don’t think I would be much help, and Kate is practically asleep standing up against Ryan’s chest.
“Sorry about this. We got to chatting and did more drinking than I think any of us realized.” I have no idea if that came out as clear as I intended it to, but judging by the confused expression on Ryan’s face, I’m guessing it didn’t.
“Whatever, it’s fine,” he says flippantly. “You should drink some water, Doctor. Don’t want a hangover.”
“Is he really in New York?” I hate myself for asking, but I have to know, and I have to see his reaction to my question.
Ryan doesn’t say anything for a long beat; he just stands there staring at me.
All two and a half of him.
“You know what?” I shake my head, anger and regret oozing from my pores along with the gallon of wine I consumed. “Forget it. I don’t want to know the answer to that.”
“Yes,” he quickly spews, answering me despite my retraction. But that’s all he says and I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. Damn stupid alcohol messing about my brain.
“Do you know why he’s there?”
Ryan looks down at Kate, who is snoring against his broad chest, her mouth hanging open, fast asleep. He chuckles before kissing her forehead tenderly.
“I don’t. He never tells me, and I stopped asking a long time ago. I have my theories and assumptions, but they’re just that. I figure one day he’ll tell me, and then I’ll know.”
I sigh, holding myself up by leaning against the door. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then you should ask him yourself, but don’t be hurt when he either lies or doesn’t tell you.”
I snort and sway and almost fall over. Bloody hell! “That’s like trying to place a central line without advancing a dilator over the guide wire to dilate the soft tissue.”
“You do know I have no idea what that means, right?”
I nod. “It’s not possible. But you’re right. I shouldn’t be hurt by anything he does or doesn’t do.”
“Get some sleep, Ivy. Not only are you drunk and about to fall over, but you’re ridiculously difficult to understand.”
“Right? That’s what I said.” Claire smacks me on the shoulder and I do practically fall over. Again.
“Yeah,” I nod solemnly. “Good night then. Thanks for the fun ladies. Cheers.”
They walk out, Ryan carrying a passed-out Kate in his arms, but before I can shut the door, he turns to me with a soft smile. “He’s worth it. I know you’re leaving, and it’s not meant to lead anywhere, but he’s crazy about you.” Ryan sighs as if he’s telling me things he shouldn’t. “He may test you, but he’s not doing it intentionally. Luke has a lot of issues,
and his sense of self-worth is non-existent, but he is worth it, and I can promise you that everything he does, he does for a very good reason.”
“Thanks.” I offer a tight smile, and he gives me an equally tight nod before walking off. Shutting the door, I engage all three locks before leaning my back and head against the wood, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.
I don’t know why I’m readily exploring all of this.
The simple reality is, I’m going to Boston, and Luke is not coming with me.
So why am I so addicted to this feeling?
Why do I not want to let it go?
The fact that he may or may not be in New York is not exactly what’s sticking with me right now. It’s not even all the cryptic rubbish about how Ryan doesn’t know what Luke’s doing or even bother to ask, though there is way more there than Ryan was letting on.
No, it’s the weird timing of the FBI raid ten years ago that’s burrowing a hole in my brain.
Something about it isn’t quite right, and either Ryan is cognizant of it, or he’s blatantly ignoring the obvious, because if what Kate was saying is true, he should have been arrested as well. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol swimming in my system, but this is sticking with me, and I can’t shake it.
There is more here than meets the eye, I just know it.
19
Luke
* * *
10 years ago
* * *
I haven’t slept all night, but I’m the farthest thing from tired imaginable. No, instead of being tired, I’m wired. I’m on fire and jazzed up and angry and frustrated and mad as hell. I realize I’m just using synonyms here, but it’s only adding to my point.
Ivy. Beautiful, angelic, sexy-as-all-sin, Ivy, fell asleep in my arms after the best sex I’ve ever had. After the best sex anyone has ever had in the history of sex. Yeah, I’m that confident.
That’s how good it was. It was life-changing sex, and I had to leave it all behind because I’m a fucking degenerate who doesn’t deserve her.
Worse than that, I’m going to prison.
Not jail, mind you. That’s for pansies who have to sleep off a drunken night or douchebags who hit their girlfriends.
I’m going to prison.
The official school of hard knocks. I have a hearing set up for Monday with the dean, my advisor, and a few professors, to determine if I can stay in school. What that really translates to is my expulsion.
I could fight it.
Throw out the old, innocent-until-proven-guilty line, but what’s the point.
Whether I get expelled or not, I’m still going to be in court for however long that shit takes and then prison. I also got a call from the lead Fed guy and he asked me again to roll over on everyone else in the hacking ring.
Again I refused.
And not because I’m some do-gooder, benevolent asshole either.
It really boils down to two reasons.
First, I made the choice to get involved with the ring in the first place. That was on me and no one else, so bringing down others to soften my sentence is not only selfish, it’s just wrong.
If they do their shit and don’t get caught, well, lucky them.
Second, turning on my friends and opponents is exactly something my father would have done to save his measly, pathetic ass, and I refuse to be like him even to the smallest degree.
So that brings me back to Ivy and why I had to run out on her.
It wasn’t something I wanted to do. I wanted to wake up with her in my arms before I sank deep inside her again. But I left before she could ask questions and desire things that I was desperate to give her.
It was a chicken-shit thing to do. I admit that fully.
And that’s why I’m sitting here in Bean & Leaf, hoping that she comes in so I can talk to her. I couldn’t do that while I was wrapped up in her—literally—but she’s the kind of woman who deserves better than what I gave her. She’s the kind of woman who deserves explanations and excuses and apologies, because the idea of intentionally hurting her is gut-wrenching.
I got all of that from just one night with her. Imagine what days, or months, or years could do.
After two hours of sitting in this chair in the back of the coffee house, Ivy walks in with a friend whom I’ve never seen before. They’re smiling and laughing, and Ivy looks so beautiful in a cream-colored sweater and jeans. Her ice-blue eyes scope her surroundings, but her discerning gaze doesn’t find me as I’m partially camouflaged behind a plant.
Get up and go to her.
I can’t.
I can’t move because she looks happy and gorgeous and I want her. I want her so goddamn bad that my fingers ache to touch her again. And what would I say to her anyway? Oh hey, sorry to run out on you after having the best sex of my life, but I’m facing federal charges and prison time? Yeah, no. She’ll slap my face and I’ll deserve it.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
I feel like if she notices me, I’ll do something, but if she doesn’t, I won’t.
I’m such a coward, but I can’t stand to see the look of disappointment that I’ll no doubt receive. That might be worse than anything.
Stop being a pussy!
Right.
I stand up, about to approach her when my phone vibrates in my hand. Reflexively, I look down and see it’s a number I don’t recognize. Just as I draw my eyes up to find Ivy again, I get a glimpse of her back as she walks out.
Fuck.
I could always try again tomorrow. That’s so pathetically lame, I want to kick my own ass.
My phone is insistent, so I open my flip phone, press it to my ear and say, “Hello?”
“Mr. Lucas Walker?” A deep male voice fills my ears and instinctually, I know this won’t be good.
“Yes?”
“My name is Michael Sanders; I am an attorney with Sanders, Kaplan, and Cross based out of Los Angeles.”
“Okay . . .” I have no idea who this guy is because I’m positive I did not contact him. I’d have to sell every organ in my body to be able to afford a decent attorney, let alone a Los Angeles one.
“I have your file in front of me, and would like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss your case.”
“Listen, I can’t afford you. I have no idea what your rates are, but I know they’re beyond my budget. Unless you’re the public defender I’ve been assigned, I’m going to have to pass.”
He chuckles into the phone like my predicament is amusing to him. It’s not. Nothing about this is amusing and it pisses me off to the point where I’m about to hang up on the asshole when he stops me short.
“My retainer and services are being covered by a third party who has given me carte blanche for whatever you and your case might require.”
“I’m sorry, did you say a third party? Who?” I sit back down, suddenly unable to stand. I’m shaking like crazy, and it’s not from the three cups of coffee I’ve consumed in the two hours I’ve been a patron in this coffee shop.
“Yes, he asked to keep his identity confidential, for obvious reasons, but he did tell me to let you know—and I’m quoting here—that you were the best adversary he’s faced, and that when all of this blows over, he’d like your help with some work he has.”
I’m wracking my brain, but coming up empty. Probably because my mind is swirling with the dangerous drug, hope.
“I’m sorry, so you’re my lawyer, and I don’t have to pay you, and you’re going to handle my case?”
“Yes, Luke. That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he says this like I’m a child, but right now I don’t care about his condescending tone. My acrimony is nowhere to be found, because holy shit, I have a lawyer. “I’d like you to come by my office Tuesday morning first thing. This case is far too sensitive to discuss over the phone, and a lot of the details are being withheld by the FBI. I have a motion in to the judge to get those disclosed, and I should hopefully have them before we meet. But I can tell you that there are a significant
number of holes here and that may work out in our favor.”
I’m smiling. I can’t help it.
This may all turn out to be a dream and not something that will keep me from going to prison, but for the first time since I was arrested last week, it feels like my life might not be so lost.
“Great, I’ll be there Tuesday morning. Um, what’s your address?”
He laughs that laugh again, but this time, it’s not so aggravating.
“I’m going to have some documents couriered over to you by later this afternoon. You don’t have to worry about anything, Luke. I’m going to take care of it all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders.”
“It’s Michael, Luke. Call me Michael, and we’ll talk soon. Have a good rest of your day.” And then he hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone.
I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t care.
I have a lawyer.
A real fucking bought and paid for lawyer. And there is only one person I can think of who wouldn’t want their identity revealed and who would consider me an adversary. That’s the guy I was competing against from MIT with the handle, ThePerfectLie.
According to this Michael Sanders, ThePerfectLie has work for me after I’m cleared of the charges.
I didn’t even know happiness could come in this form.
Maybe after I meet with my new lawyer on Tuesday and I have a better sense of things, I could try again with Ivy. Beg for forgiveness and pray she gives me a chance.
Standing up, I slide my phone back into the pocket of my jeans before readying my stuff to leave when two men—clearly not college kids—position themselves in front of me. They’re dressed almost like everyone else, but it’s the small, subtle differences that have the icy sting of paranoia pricking at my skin. They look too normal. Too casual. Like they’re trying just a touch too hard to blend in with their designer jeans, black boots, graphic tees, and short coifed hair.
“Luke Walker, have a seat,” the blond with green eyes says.