Balancing the Scales
Page 16
* * * *
My count for the day: lost and regained a client; pinned the attorney for the SEC to a wall by his throat; made an associate cry.
I glance at my cell, which is staring up at me from my desk and add to my count: woke from the best night I’ve ever spent with a woman, rejected her call and ignored her text message asking if we can talk.
Sighing, I close the lid of my laptop and move from my desk to the bar table in the corner of my office. Given the place is almost deserted, I pour myself a scotch and take a seat in the corner of the sofa.
I know Sarah’s footsteps without looking, the way the thin heels of her shoes click against the floor. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Help yourself.”
She silently pours herself a scotch and comes to sit in the opposite corner of the sofa, crossing her legs and adjusting her wrap-dress across her knee.
“I thought men were supposed to be happy when they’ve, you know, had their happy ending, blown their load, emptied their loins.”
I raise one brow and turn my gaze from the rain drops peppering my windows to Sarah. “Emptied their loins? Seriously?” She shrugs, her face full of humor. “Shouldn’t you be home by now?”
“Well, I had a call from Agatha. She filled me in on your visit to Wickman, and I thought maybe you would like a drink with a friend.”
I raise my glass. “To my finest professional hour.”
She raises hers in mock toast. “To clarify, are you referring to nearly beating an SEC official to a pulp or making Nicky cry?”
“I’ll admit one was inappropriate, but I’m secretly proud of the other.”
She smirks. “I’m going to take a guess at which way around that applies. Wickman is a dick.”
“True. But the kid has to learn a few lessons.”
We sip the orange liquor, for my part, enjoying the smooth heat against my throat. Sarah makes a popping sound with her lips as she swills the remaining contents of her glass. I brace myself.
“So, are you mad at yourself, or Becky?”
Her. For not putting on an alarm this morning. For driving me crazy with need. For making me want her so bad I did the thing I’ve promised myself I’ll never do—put my work, my position, at risk.
Me. For letting those things happen. For not being strong enough to stay the hell away from her. For taking my eye off the ball and constantly screwing up since she’s been around.
Me, for not knowing where to go from here. Me, for knowing I’m going to hurt her because I need to draw a line under the whole thing and move on.
Her. For not giving me any goddamn clue about what she would have said to me this morning if we’d woken up together.
I drain my drink and rest my empty glass on the sofa arm, turning the crystal with my fingers. “Both.”
“What happened?”
“We crossed the line. Argh, men and women can’t be friends. Maybe I should be pissed at you for making me befriend her. You and your poor-British-girl-in-Manhattan routine.”
“Oh, no, Drew Harrington. I didn’t force you to do anything, and I certainly didn’t tell you to go to bed with her.” She takes my glass from me and tops us both up, then comes back to sit. “You like her,” she says, definitively.
Like her? Damn it, last night I felt like I was part of her. Like I’d never be able to walk away from her again. “Are we going to talk about relationships? If so, I’m not sure I should be taking advice from someone who lives like a nun.”
She chokes a laugh through a mouthful of scotch. “Point taken.”
We resume a companionable silence. I lied. Men and women can be friends, but it’s a rare and precious thing when it really works out.
“I’ll say one thing, though. Then I’ll leave you to wallow.”
“It’s never just one thing with you, Sarah.”
She raises one shoulder to her ear. “Maybe you’re seeing her as a distraction, rather than what she really might be. A part of life you’ve been missing out on because you’re too proud to shift any of your focus from this place.”
I take it back. It’s not precious, it’s annoying.
She pats my thigh as she stands and leaves me sitting alone, where I’ve spent numerous nights. The thing is, it was me who woke up in bed on my own. I was the one who went to her and stupidly thought a relationship might even be a possibility. But it was Becky who maintained she wouldn’t have one.
I’m not ignoring her. I’m giving her exactly what she wants.
The next mouthful of liquor burns, tightening my chest.
Or maybe it’s not the liquor at all.
Chapter 16
Drew
Not even the scotch I drank too much of could knock me out last night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and intermittently checking my phone. Ironic, given not checking in with my phone was the cause of a shit mountain yesterday. I actually don’t know why I was checking my phone. I just thought she’d try to call again, or text.
She hasn’t.
Now, I’ve got my earbuds plugged in to Kings of Leon as I run to Brooks’s gym. I couldn’t sleep last night, but now the lack of it has left me sluggish. I need something to wake me up, and I need something to stop me from overthinking this whole Becky thing.
It was one night. Like every other night with a woman. Nothing more.
It can’t be more. Yesterday proved why. I’m making named partner. I’ve worked for it. My parents gave me everything to get here. I’m not throwing it away chasing after someone who doesn’t even want to be in a relationship.
I won’t.
The heavy glass doors of Brooks’s gym open into the café bistro—a recent addition. He’s been working his ass off to build up his brand of personal training and the gym. I have to admit, I’m proud of the guy. He came from nothing and worked with the one thing he has in abundance—motivation. It’s finally paying off.
“Drew, hey!”
I pull a plug from my ear as Dianna—I’m pretty sure she’s Dianna—leaves the counter where her fruit salad is being prepared and moves in front of me.
“Are you working out?”
I raise my brows instead of stating the obvious.
“Right.” She laughs, way overzealously, and twists her shower-wet hair around her hand. Despite having obviously just showered, she’s sporting a face full of makeup and a clean pair of yoga pants, teamed with a sports bra. To be fair, she looks hot, if not also a little ridiculous. “I haven’t seen you in a while. We should get together.”
I’ve fallen for that figure and easy access twice in the past. Today, I only have the energy to pound a treadmill. Mentally, I’m drained, and playing Cock Tease with Dianna is not high on a list of things I want to do. “Yeah, perhaps.”
“I’ll call you.”
Putting my music back into my ear, I tell her, “Sure thing.”
I hold up a hand at two other guys I recognize as I make my way into the changing rooms to dump my backpack.
Maybe someone like Dianna is exactly what I need to get back to being myself. Winning and fucking. That’s what I do best.
I crank up the volume of my music when I hit the treadmill and ramp up my speed to a hard run. When my forty minutes are up, I’m not thinking about women. My gray T-shirt is saturated, and I’m pumped. I want more.
I head into the boxing room, which is surrounded by mirrors, with speed bags lining one side and punch bags hanging from the ceiling. I incline my head at Brooks when I see him holding pads for someone in the central training ring, then sit on a bench to strap my hands.
Imagining Charles Wickman’s face, and considering how much I’ve lost my mind in the last couple of weeks, from forgetting my wallet to almost losing a big-money client, I hammer the punch bag. If there was a dry spot on my pants and T-shirt before, there isn’t now. Brook
s has the music banging in the room, and I land every punch in time to the beat.
By the time Brooks steps behind my bag to hold it still, I’m firing on all cylinders.
“Give me more, Harrington. Give me a left right left. Nice. Again. Now a two, two, one. You’re killin’ it, man.”
Once Brooks is through with me, my endorphin fire has gone out. All the salt and water that can leave my body have done so. The feeling I had twenty minutes earlier, like I was king of the world, has disappeared.
Brooks throws me a chilled bottle of water as I slide my back down a wall and come to sit on the cushioned floor, my elbows resting on my knees.
“You good, man?” Brooks asks, coming to sit next to me, mirroring my position, his inked arms bulging beneath his T-shirt.
I nod as I glug water. “Fine.”
“Got anything to do with the Brit Edmond was grilling you about?”
“Do you have to do that shit?”
“By shit you mean call it like it is?”
“Argh. I’ve known her two weeks, Brooks. It can’t be that big of a deal.”
“It’s as big of a deal as you feel it is, man, no matter how long you’ve known her.”
I ponder those words. If that’s true, it’s a big deal. The biggest. “Brooks, I came here because I don’t want to think.”
He clamps his hands together, then pushes up in one fluid move to stand. “If you really want to forget, stand up and we’ll go a round.”
“No, buddy, I’m done.”
“Only if you feel done.”
“Does that psycho-shit work on anyone?”
“You tell me.”
“Ah, Christ.” I drag my ass up and head to the ring to hammer the nails into my coffin.
By the time I’m done, I’d rather be going to bed than the office. I shower and put on a three-piece that I keep in a locker at the gym.
* * * *
When I get to Lexington Tower, I’m ravenous. Marty is talking to Fabio as he waits for his breakfast and a coffee at the truck so I head over there.
“Did you get everything straightened out with Jerome yesterday?” Marty asks.
“Of course I did. Fabio, I’ll have the usual.”
The three of us start talking sports, Fabio chiming in intermittently as he fixes my bagel. Despite the crowded street and the fact that I’m focused on Marty, I sense her in my peripheral vision. I turn to see Becky twisting back and forth on the street corner, clearly contemplating whether to continue coming to the cart or run for the hills.
“What do you say, Drew?”
“About what?” I ask Fabio, never taking my eyes off her.
“The new pitcher.”
She looks perfect. Her hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, her cheeks flushed. Her fitted shirt shows me every curve I know is beneath. But all I feel is a building sense of rage. My nostrils flare, andI grind my teeth. If we weren’t in the street, I’d give her a piece of my mind.
She seems to finally make the decision to come toward Fabio’s. I’m not doing this again. I won’t start my days or end my days thinking of her. I won’t screw up my career because of her.
Fabio hands me my bagel, and I waste no time taking it from him and turning my back on Becky.
Chapter 17
Drew
The week has passed in much the same way Monday and Tuesday did. I’ve hardly slept. I’m constantly hungry from putting my body through the mill with Brooks. Yet, when it comes to eating, nothing seems appealing. And I’m more distracted than ever, which pisses me off. If I’m not thinking about her, I’m checking my phone to see if she’s called. She hasn’t. Not even a message.
She got under my skin. Messed with my structure, my routine. Then disappeared.
There’s one difference between today and earlier in the week. I’m still angry, no doubt about it, but I miss her. I know how insane that sounds. Regardless, it’s true. I miss her attitude. How she laughs at her own quips. Her stupid British sayings. I miss her smile. And I’m damn sure I miss the feel of her skin against mine.
The last thing I want to do is spend my Friday night at Jerome’s club opening, but I have no choice, and maybe I could use the change of scene.
I stop staring at the blank email on my screen when there’s a tap on my office door.
“Malcolm. What can I do for you?”
Malcolm Eddy sits into the chair on the opposite side of my desk. His hazy eyes tell me he’s back from a boozy Friday lunch. His breath tells me that booze was a heavy red. He makes himself comfortable, tugging up his pinstripe slacks an inch and unfastening the button of his tailored jacket.
“I wanted to thank you, Drew. I received a call earlier from my guy at Astrana. He admitted that he liked your style in the intellectual property case. He told me he brought a new piece of work to you.”
I rest back in my chair and bring my fingertips together, braced for a fight.
“He also said you told him that all work should come through me as the client partner. Well, I appreciate it. I think maybe you do have the best interests of this firm at heart.”
I release my steeple. “I said it. I meant it.”
He purses his lips as he stands. “I also just had lunch with Patrick.” My ears prick up. That sleazy bastard is trying to buy votes with an overpriced steak. “He took me for steak.” I knew it. “I’ve got to tell you, it was the best steak I’ve had in the city. But do you know what I was thinking the whole time he was schmoozing me and trying to convince me to vote for him? I was thinking, ‘Have you got no dignity?’ I don’t like you much, Drew, but I respect that you didn’t try to buy me like that. You did something good for the firm, and that gets my vote every time. I would rather be led by a bastard with substance than a pretentious bastard.”
At that I have to laugh, and it feels freakin’ good too. “I’m sure there was a compliment in there somewhere, Malcolm.”
“There was. I’ll be on your side when it matters, Drew.”
“I appreciate that.”
He dips his head once, sternly, and leaves. If I’ve got Malcolm in the bag, I’ve got this. I’m almost certain of it. The other real estate guys will follow his lead.
Sarah struts into the office, her eyes dancing. “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”
“If you heard the bell ringing on Patrick’s fight for named partner, I’d say you heard right.”
“I guess Becky and her ideas did you some good after all.”
Just like that, she swipes the smile from my smug lips. “I guess she did.”
In a signature move, she plants her hands on the hips of her cobalt dress. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing between you two.”
* * * *
As I step onto the sidewalk and my driver pulls back into the street, I catch sight of Kit and his wife, Madge. They are holding hands as they walk into the glass tower that now hosts Jerome’s new rooftop bar, Black Velvet. I speed up my pace to catch them as Kit pushes the revolving door and motions for Madge to step in ahead of him.
“Kit. Madge.” On the inside of the building, I shake Kit’s hand and kiss Madge on the cheek. “It’s been too long, Madge. You look amazing.”
She rolls her eyes but needlessly straightens her black dress. “It feels strange to be out of shirts and sweatpants covered in baby puke.”
I take her hand, encouraging her to twirl under my arm. “I can see why Kit wants to keep you locked up.” She’s gone all out. Her hair is curled and resting on her shoulders. I’d guess she had it styled in a salon earlier today. She has a full face of makeup, for the most part subtle, with fiery red lips.
“Are you hitting on my wife?”
I drop an arm over Madge’s shoulders, not much below the height of mine in her high heels, and we head to the elevator. “Always.”
I let her go and she moves to Kit’s side in the elevator while I hit the button for the rooftop. “That’s the plan.”
“I’m proud of you, Sparky.”
My lips curl at her use of the name she used to call me in college. Back when there was a group of us who would play pool and drink beers most nights. When Kit was too busy chasing every girl on campus to see the best one was sitting right under his nose.
We step out of the elevator onto white marble floors. I run my hands around my shirt to make sure it’s still tucked into my gray slacks. We’re met by two women in black suits—pencil skirts so tight they might be sprayed on. Brooks would be proud of the nuts that could be cracked by the ass cheeks of both women.
We follow the women through black and chrome double doors that open into the bar. Chill anthems are playing, rather than banging beats. The sound is classy and slick, like all of Jerome’s places. It’s a dark space, lit by blue-white lighting that catches the crystal chandeliers. Drapes made of crystal hang floor to ceiling around the padded booths that line the periphery of the space, all facing the wall of windows that slide open onto the roof terrace. Directly in view is the Chrysler Building, bursting with light. The first thought that comes to me is, Jerome has done it again, the place is amazing. My second thought is, Becky would be awed by this view.
I spot Jerome in one of his shiny suits, looking as dapper as ever and turning on the charm with a woman who looks like Press. I point Kit and Madge in the direction of the booth Jerome reserved for me and hold up a hand across the room when I spot Marty, Sarah, and Brooks already sitting around a bucket full of champagne bottles.
After spending ten minutes blowing smoke up Jerome’s ass—some of which is deserved—I head over to the others. Edmond has now joined the group. As I reach the booth, a waitress switches out an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon for a full. She bumps into me as she backs away from the table and offers fluttering lashes with her apology.