by Cherise West
“Relationships?” I blurt aloud in contempt.
“Yes,” Lisa repeats, eyeing me closely. “Relationships.” An uncomfortable silence grips us; Lisa, with her snotty smirk, and me, in so much pain and fear that all I can do is look on, helpless, my expression crestfallen. It’s over; my life, maybe Tony’s. All of this case is finished; my life’s work.
“Relationships?” Scott interjects; surprising, to hear his voice, though it seems more skeptical of me than supportive.
“Does anyone in this courtroom want to clarify to me exactly what ‘relationships’, these are, what they have to do with discovery, and why both sides of this case have fixated on this particular point?” Judge Prince interjects. Lisa stares hard; I stare back, worried. Air thick and tense, the clock ticks away through the electric silence.
“Relationships, your honor, between Ms. Lewis and the two arresting officers in the case against our client,” Lisa announces. Relief fills me, and I want to sigh out the tense breath held in my lungs, but I stay firm. My head pounds. My stomach still churns, even with the sensation of relief filling me. Must just be lingering fear. Psychosomatic, right? “Relationships between—”
“Ms. Marino, my courtroom is not a gossip mill, and you are not a rumormonger. I had thought we’d made this clear in our last session - that I have no interest in your summaries of the professional relationships between prosecutors and police, relationships necessary for the wheels of justice to turn at all in the state of New Jersey, or in any state,” Prince announces. “Now, Ms. Lewis— Ms. Lewis, are you okay?” She notices before I do; my face white, hands trembling and sweat on my brow, I feel a sickening surge through my gut.
“Pl… please, excuse me a moment,” I stammer, rushing out the door. All morning I had assumed the sickness came only from lingering fear of Billy Boy’s threats; from that dead stare in Butcher’s eyes. I breeze through the hallway back to the bathroom, diving for the nearest toilet. Wretching and doubled over, I heave and heave until my stomach empties itself. I haven’t eaten in a day and a half; nothing but liquid falls out of my stomach, and I cough in striking pain at the scratchy heat in my throat. I wretch again, but my body is too tired to deal with any more.
Suddenly, a dreadful thought occurs to me. I push it away, but it comes back; it nags at me while I wash up, and it won’t leave. Panicked breathing fills my lungs and my nerves grip me so anxiously that I stand frozen in indecision, looking at myself in the mirror. Sick. Terrified.
“Rita,” I call down the hall, hustling towards the door, “tell Scott I’m sorry, but I need to… to go home, for something,” I say, a frightful purpose in my step. I fumble with my keys, my hands unsteady.
“Mara, are you okay?” Rita asks again.
“No,” I respond, “I’m not, but please, just do what I ask, okay? I’ll be back, I promise,” I beg, walking out to my car. The heat of the sun dazes me, and my stomach throbs again, the sweat beading at my forehead, my skin clammy and white. My car jumps to life and I race onto the streets; the smoke smell still sticks to every surface in my Honda, and I roll the windows down for a breath free of memories of Billy Boy. Rushing along the freeway, the blow of the wind in my car deafens me, keeping the sound of Billy’s threatening voice muffled in my mind.
I pull off on the way home at the drug store, surreptitiously making my purchase. Fighting every instinct, every desire my body has to fall back into bed, lock the doors and never leave, I pull open the door to my house, and rush to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes I wait, impatient. The most nerve-wracking fifteen minutes of my life. I step out of the bathroom, breathing hard, my suit jacket left sitting on the tub. I tap my foot, I pace; anything to burn off the energy stiff on every part of me. My breath quivers. I flex my knuckles, squeezing my hands in-out, in-out. I listen to the tick of the clock in my bedroom. I look at my phone. A series of messages from Scott; I don’t open them. I’m afraid of what he’ll have to say.
Fifteen minutes pass. I count right down to the second. Knocking over a chair on my way, storming back to the bathroom, I hold my breath and look at the sterile-looking white strip of plastic, colored pink at its ends. I look in the little window among the plastic.
The control line… pink. Firm. Just like the box said.
The other line… clear. Pink. Firm. A tear wells up in my eye.
I’m pregnant.
There’s always a chance it’s wrong… right? It has to be. These home pregnancy tests are always unreliable. The sickness… it’s just because of Billy Boy. I’ve lived the last three days of my life in stomach-churning horror, of course I’d be throwing up at work. I ignore all the signs. Missed period? It’s just… stress from work. This crazy schedule, all the threats. It couldn’t be pregnancy. I can’t be carrying my worst enemy’s child… can I?
My phone buzzes again; I want to ignore it, but a name pops up on the screen, other than Scott’s. Nervous, I grab the device, unlocking the screen, finding a text message from Greg Valence. The message is one that, up until these last harrowing fifteen minutes, I’ve wanted to see my whole life.
MARA - TONY ST JAMES. WE GOT HIM. HANDCUFFED. NOWHERE TO RUN. COME TO THE STATION AFTER COURT.
My eyes widen. My heart stops.
My god. Of all the times it could’ve happened. Why now?
Chapter 14
I called Scott this morning. Told him I had a doctor’s appointment, to try to see what had caused my crash in court yesterday. I’ve heard a dozen earfuls from him in the last week; I’m surprised he hasn’t fired me. He knows he can’t; if he did, Mae Shapiro would quit in protest, and he’d be left to staff the entire prosecutor’s office on his own, a situation we both know he’d never survive a week of. I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment, though. Instead, my Honda sits parked on the road opposite the parking lot of the courthouse. I watch the door closely through big, dark sunglasses, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. I watch for Rita, fearful her snooping eyes might catch sight of me; she was really worried about me, yesterday. I can’t blame her. My behavior wasn’t exactly normal. I watch for Bart, since I know the shift change after lunch is quickly approaching.
Mostly, though, I watch for him.
I can hear Yance announcing the charges; the sarcastically crestfallen look on his face on seeing I’m not there to savor the arraignment for one of the most dangerous men on my hit list - the leader of the Roarin’ Wardogs. I wait for Tony not to rub it into his face, not to make a big deal about the charges. I wait for him for much more serious reasons, ones that make me sick - both metaphorically, and literally. As much as I hate it, I need his help. I can’t just do this alone; he needs to know.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; pulling it out, I see LUKAS flashing across the surface.
“Hey,” I speak quietly. “Did you take care of it?”
“Okay, Mara, boo, you know I’d do anything for you,” he blusters on the other end of the phone, “but you coulda told me when you handed me the note and the envelope and asked me to call you after it was done, who exactly you had in mind to arrange bail for. You involve me with those guys— I mean, you’re pretty, Mara, but—”
“If I had told you ahead of time you wouldn’t have done it, would you have?” I state.
“Well, no, probably not, that’s kind of the point I’m making,” Lukas retorts.
“But you took care of it for me, did you, Lukas?” I ask harshly.
“Listen, Mara. Do you maybe want to tell me why, why exactly, you’ve arranged to help Tony St. James immediately make bail, right after it’s set? You know how hard that is to try to arrange, too? I had to pull out every stop on the bondsman, tell him I knew Yance personally, and I knew what Yance’d do, I even had to pretend to have interned at his court,” Lukas whines. “You got the hots for him or something, Mara? I mean, just let me know now, so I know I’ve got no chance—”
“Lukas, is that all you ever think about?” I
huff. “I needed a favor. A professional courtesy. I couldn’t be seen doing it.”
“I mean, yeah, I get that, maybe that means you shouldn’t have done it at all! You know anything about this guy? What he might do to you, or to that detective, now that you two’ve pulled him in?” Lukas warns.
“Lukas, I didn’t— I don’t know what information Greg has, he didn’t tell me,” I sigh in irritation. “I don’t know much of anything, right now, other than that I really needed a favor from you. Now, did you do it or not?”
“Yes! Yes, damn, I did it. Even called the courthouse, had the bondsman do the same, so your boy can walk as soon as the arraignment’s done and bail’s set. As long as bail isn’t set at… I don’t know, ten million, or something, which it very well could be knowing Yance!” Lukas exclaims. “I’m putting my career on the line here for you, girl, I think I deserve a little something. You know, dinner, and see where it goes—”
“Thank you, Lukas,” I state flatly, “I really appreciate it. Goodbye,” I click the phone off. He knows I’d do the same for him. Maybe. If the case against him wasn’t indecent exposure to sorority sisters on spring break, or whatever other crazy stuff he spends his weekends doing. I catch the time in the flash of color on my phone screen; eleven. The arraignment should be ending now. Each time the doors to the courthouse swing open, dull sunlight behind spring stormclouds glinting in the glass, my heart skips a beat, anticipating the sight of him. A guard saunters out… an old man with a cane hobbles down the steps. My breath shakes with each arrival. What can I expect? Should I tell him right away, or should I see his reaction? To me? He’s spent weeks avoiding me. He may have sent Billy to ‘talk’ to me, a memory that gives me a flutter of panic every time I start my car. The car still smells of cigarette smoke, after days of airing it out. What would he do if he found out his gang’s mortal enemy is carrying his child?
Another flash of glass and my pulse practically pounds out of my throat. A couple of lawyers, chatting over a cup of coffee, briefcases swinging with each step. What could be taking so long? I glance at my phone again; 11:03. Three minutes it’s been, but it’s felt like ten years as I fear every passing second. I watch each pass, and start to wonder if Lukas had been lying to me; if he hasn’t arranged anything, and Tony is back on his way to jail. I had to bail him out before his brothers could; I have to talk to him, before they take him into the clubhouse and protect him and I never see him again.
11:04. The worry builds, until another flash of glinting glass reveals a gorgeous man in his tank and jeans, tattoos proudly displayed, raven hair wild on his head. I start the car up quickly; he struts from the doors with swagger, but seeing none of who he expected - no chrome or steel or rumbling bikes - he stops, perplexed. Rumbling across the parking lot, I pull up to the steps. He doesn’t immediately recognize my car; I stop right in front of him, rolling down the window and peering out at him through my dark sunglasses.
“Hey,” I say, unassuming. “I think we should talk.”
“What are you doing here?” he demands angrily.
“I bailed you out. You at least owe me a few minutes. Please, get in,” I insist.
“You bailed me out, huh? Funny that you’d spend money getting me out of jail after working so fucking hard to throw me in. Now who’s the one playing silly games?” he snarls. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I’m sure not getting into your car. Drive away.”
“It’s not what… it’s not what it seems, and I really need to talk to you,” I plead weakly.
“Isn’t that what I said to you? About me, and about the Wardogs? You didn’t give me much of a fucking chance to explain did you?” he grunts obstinately. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“I think you do. You never gave me an explanation,” I whimper.
“Because you made a mistake. I could see it in your eyes. The morning you woke up. I don’t want to fucking talk about it, okay?” he shouts, crossing his arms defiantly.
“Is that what you think? I ‘made a mistake’? Get in the car,” I persist.
“Billy’s coming to get me. I don’t have time for this,” he rumbles.
“Tony, I swear to god,” I hiss, full of emotion, “I don’t want to do this, it’s the absolute last thing I want to do right now, but it would take me two minutes to call someone on this phone and have that bail arrangement reversed. I hate that I have to say that to get you to talk to me, but I did, so please, just get in.”
“Fine,” Tony sighs, pulling open the door and sliding into my passenger seat. “Not here. I’m not talking to you, in your car, outside of your courthouse. Not with Billy rolling his way here. Get us out of here.”
“I planned on it,” I confirm, taking a slow curve around the parking lot and back into the street. It takes all my concentration not to look at him up close; his handsome face, the strong cut of his jaw; his exposed arms, draped in ink and chiseled muscle. He’s dashed through my dreams and haunted my nightmares; my rival, my secret lover, and now the man whose baby I’m carrying. He remains silent. So do I. I don’t know what I’d say even if I wanted to speak. Instead my mind thinks of the thousands of different ways I could maybe, possibly, reveal to him the truth about what’s happening to me; about where our night together has left us. I tinker with the sentence; should I tell him right away? Should I wait to see what he thinks? What he has to say? He might say nothing. I hope not.
I turn onto the freeway and catch Tony’s gaze growing wary, quickly scanning all three lanes of the roadway. He ducks from oncoming traffic, fearful of being spotted by one of his brothers. I stay slow, sticking close to the far right lane. I don’t want Wardogs or, worse off, police, finding the two of us together in my car. A few heart-throbbing minutes pass, anxiously pushing through exit after exit, until I find the familiar ramp leading off into the empty part of town. Nestled a mile from the roadway, my Honda slinks through quiet side alleys, avoiding the main roadways. Each time I hear the shrieking purr of what might be a Harley engine, I quickly press into another lane. For both of us.
I pull into a cramped parking lot, a handful of cars scattered along the pavement, their bumpers pressed right up to the building, its facade a faded silver. Looking over each model and license plate, I breathe a sigh of relief, not recognizing any of the vehicles. The last thing I need is someone recognizing the two of us, together. Pulling into a spot, I turn the car off.
“You want me to be seen in a public place with you?” Tony scoffs. “You’re out of it.”
“No one knows who we are here,” I dismiss him.
“Nobody knows us? You mean you, the loudmouthed prosecutor whose been giving interviews all over local TV for weeks about putting me in jail? And nobody knows me, the leader of the Roarin’ Wardogs?” he grouses. “You might not know them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know you.”
“Tony, if we’re being perfectly honest, I need to talk to you in a public place, because I don’t know that I can trust you not to try to kill me, and of the two of us, there’s only one person in this car who has the capacity to do something like that,” I state firmly. “And considering I’ve arranged your bail—”
“Fuck, I should’ve just gone to jail,” he sneers, throwing his door open. “Fine. Let’s go.” I follow behind, the whole time averting my eyes from his strong, cut body and the tough, indignant swagger of his steps. A bell rings when we push through the doors; the waitress at the counter nods to the both of us, and Tony takes us to a corner booth stuffed back near the kitchen door, the smell of blueberry pancakes and grease overwhelming when we slip onto opposite sides of the table. Just like that night, it suddenly occurs to me. That gives me a hint of hope.
“I also wanted to come in,” I whisper cheekily, “because I’m really thirsty. And my stomach is bothering me.”
“Butcher told us you ran out scared sick at his hearing,” Tony grumbles. “Clearly you haven’t changed your thinking about the Wardogs. Why should I even give you the time of day?”
/> “Changed my thinking?” I give him an incredulous glare. The waitress ambles up, as weary and beaten-down by life as the two of us. I ask for a coffee; he just waves a hand at her.
“I told you. You’ve got crazy ideas about me, and about my brothers. You can believe what you want, and clearly nothing is going to sway you. Not even spending a night with me,” he grunts coldly.
“Is that what that night was about? You were trying to prove something to me?” I whimper.
“That night was about you, and your absurd vendetta against me, a man you don’t even know,” he scoffs arrogantly. “Though for you, I think it was about some kind of dance on the wild side. You just couldn’t resist me, could you? I think you have a taste for it.”
“Taste for what?” I stammer angrily, trying to keep my voice down.
“That’s why you want to put us away, but at the same time, you can’t stop looking at me. You’ve wanted to eye-fuck me from the minute I got into the car with you, Mara. You have a complex,” he snorts defiantly. “You can’t get enough of me, and men like me.”
“What?!” I exclaim in a heated hush. The waitress passes my coffee to me, pulling out her pad for an order; we both shake our heads and she rolls her eyes, wandering back into the kitchen. “What do you think this is?”
“That’s why you bailed me out, isn’t it? Guilt, and want,” he growls. “I don’t know what you feel about me, but you need to let it go. You just won’t admit that I’m some kind of fetish for you. It’s why you’ve made me into this monster in your mind.”
“Tony, this isn’t what I came here to tell you about,” I huff, my breath quivering.
“Don’t,” he snarls. “Don’t try to make this into something else. You have issues, Mara. You have—”