I hear the shower running and I’m snapped back to the present. Moving inside the spray and shutting the glass door behind me, I groan in pleasure from the heat and hard water pressure. Damn, but this feels like heaven. The water rains down, coating me.
Shutting my eyes, I find peace with the image of Eve. I haven’t said her name out loud since entering the Pen. My only fear in lockup was that my weakness of loving her would implicate her.
I drop my head, envisioning her in the shower. She’s on her knees...my cock feels so heavy in her mouth. I bring her up to standing and stare at her gorgeous wet body. I slide my hand down to her center, curling my fingers up the way she likes until she’s writhing in my arms. “I love you, Vincent. Don’t stop. Don’t stop…” she’s begging me. Needing me.
“Oh, Fuck!” I groan. “Eve,” I yell, her name echoing against the shower walls as I come undone.
2
EVE
6 Months Later
“Hey, Lauren,” I knock on the corner of her desk as I walk through the office, black Louboutins clicking against the marble floor. The law office of Crier, Schlesinger, and Hirsch is located in Century City, the business district in Los Angeles. I work for Jonathan Foyer in the real estate department, assisting him in transactional work. He’s the biggest and most well-renowned real estate attorney on the West Coast. Landing this job straight out of law school two years ago was a dream come true. Not only is the experience of learning from him completely invaluable, but the caliber of work is high.
After pulling out my cell phone and dropping it on my desk, I place my quilted red Chanel bag in the bottom drawer and immediately log onto my computer to check the week’s work calendar. I pause, confused at what looks like major changes to the schedule. This better be a mistake.
Lauren struts into my office in a skirt-suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She places a hot cup of coffee and a protein bar on my desk. I look up at her pointedly, my face tight.
“I’ve got three closings this week and need conference room A for the large screen. I requested it, but now it’s blocked?”
Before she can answer, my phone rings. It’s an unknown number—again. Someone has been calling me over the last few months, not leaving any messages. Refusing to answer any call from an unknown, I tap IGNORE.
Staring at Lauren, I let her know with my eyes that my question still stands.
She dismisses my forceful tone, understanding I’m in work-mode. Clients want an attorney who’s a shark, and the other lawyers here would eat me alive if I didn’t have skin as thick. The moment I walk into this office and sit in this chair, I have to put on my emotional armor.
Leaning onto my desk, a mischievous smile spreads across her Botox-filled face. Even though Lauren is only thirty-two, she’s had so many fillers done I’d categorize her as ageless. Still, it’s undeniable that she’s a classic beauty.
Lowering her head closer to mine, I’m accosted by her Creed Spring Flower perfume. “Jonathan is on lockdown,” she says conspiratorially. “Apparently, there’s a new development and he’s dying to get his hands on it. He’s using conference room A for the rest of the week, and he’s got the DBC in there with him right now. The developer is coming in at three o’clock this Friday.”
“How long have they been strategizing? Those douchebags are always trying to cut me out of the big deals,” I exclaim.
We call the three other associates in the transactional real estate department the DBC, for Douchebag Boys Club. I’d feel bad for the name, but the truth is they deserve it and worse.
Crier employs over twenty-five attorneys. There are five partners, and each has three to six lawyers working under them as associates. Four associates work under Jonathan, including me. Instead of working together, the dynamic is one in which everyone is always trying to get one up on the other. As if the workload wasn’t stressful enough on its own, I have three cutthroat men who would step on my head with their suede Ferragamo loafers if it would enable them to rise in the ranks. We all started at the same time, but they like to see themselves as higher up and more important than me. Lauren, our legal secretary, is the only one I can trust.
I strum my freshly manicured nails on my desk, a nervous habit I acquired in law school. I can’t remember if I’ve heard of any new developments big enough to warrant this level of Jonathan’s anxiety. It’s probably located outside of California. All of the attorneys on our team have passed New York and California bar exams at a minimum to enable us to close deals around the country; this project could technically be anywhere.
“What if he doesn’t choose me to help him?” I ask anxiously, biting my bottom lip. On average this past year, I’ve billed mostly sixty-hour weeks, essentially bringing in millions of dollars for the firm in hours alone. I know Jonathan is happy with my output, but my goal is to make partner within the next five years. If a huge client comes in, I must be the lead associate working on it.
Lauren snorts, waving a hand in front of her face. “Those assholes can’t get rid of you. They don’t have your capacity in brains or work ethic. Jonathan has to choose you to work on this deal if he knows what’s good for business.” She winks, and I want to get up and hug her. Instead, I take a big bite of my chocolate-brownie protein bar.
She walks to the door and pauses. “Oh, and don’t forget, hair and makeup are coming here for you at eight Friday night for the Kids Learning Club gala,” she smiles. “I have your gown and a pair of Louboutin heels hanging in your closet.” She points to the small door on the right side of the room where I keep spare clothes.
“Okay, good.” I can continue working while the glam squad does its thing.
For the last four years, I spend my Monday and Wednesday nights working at the Kids Learning Club, helping teens prepare for college entrance exams like the SAT. I remember how it felt to study all night long on my own when I knew that rich kids were all being tutored for the same test; it gave them a leg up and frankly, it wasn’t fair. By doing this, I feel like I’m leveling the playing field. Not least, I want the kids to know that changing their circumstances is possible. I tell each of them about my difficult upbringing so they understand that if I could do it, they can too. Mobility is possible.
Every spring, the Club holds a large fundraiser. While I’d rather spend a free night sitting at my kitchen table eating kabobs from the Persian restaurant down the block and reading a new romance on my Kindle, I would do anything to support these kids. If that means wearing a gown and schmoozing, so be it.
“Is Marshall picking you up from work beforehand?” Lauren asks excitedly, practically bouncing up and down on her toes. I roll my eyes. Marshall is a doctor, clean-cut and preppy—the type of man most women would be happy to introduce to their family. In my opinion, the best part about him is he’s busy and so am I. He expects little from me, and I appreciate that enormously. I’m all work, all the time. The last thing I want, or need, is a clingy boyfriend. I just can’t handle the pressure of a relationship or the vulnerability that comes with it. Not least, I don’t think I have the capacity for love in that way. At least, not anymore.
“No, he’ll meet me there,” I reply.
“Too bad, I was hoping to see him.” She looks at me pointedly. “You do realize that whenever I mention Marshall, you cringe?” She opens her mouth to say more, but thankfully, my office phone rings.
“Hello?” My voice is sharp as if I was in the middle of an important meeting and whoever called just disrupted me.
Lauren exits the room as Jonathan’s voice comes over the line.
“Conference room A. Now.”
I stand up, straightening my navy suit. It’s perfectly tailored to my frame and the right blend between stylish, classic, and covered. It may not be exciting, but it works.
Grabbing my long yellow legal pad and a blue ballpoint pen, I walk across the carpeted hallway and into the conference room. The DBC are clustered closely around the large rectangular table, designer tie
s loose even though it’s still morning. Files surround them.
I hesitate. How long have they been working without me? The door clicks shut and Jonathan looks up from his mountain of paperwork.
“Huge deal we’re trying to land. Potential for years of billing; and that’s without any lawsuits that will come up along the way. They want to open up their doors within the year, but they haven’t actually closed tenants yet. We’re looking at four hotels that need hospitality groups—huge closings. Huge.” His smile is wide and unstoppable. The man is in his element right now.
“Read,” he hands me a stack of files, with what looks like two-hundred-plus pages of documents. “Write up a summary of your findings—your most concise work. Fewer than thirty pages.”
I can’t escape the collective smirk of the DBC. They think they’ll be talking and strategizing with Jonathan while I’m stuck reading in my office. But what they don’t understand is I’m going to learn every single detail. And when Jonathan has a question, he’ll always defer to me. I’ll make myself invaluable to the project.
“No problem, Jonathan. When do you need this by?”
“Tonight,” his voice is clipped. “Oh, and Eve? Bring coffees for all of us. Now.”
I bristle as the DBC laugh under their breaths. I clench my fists in order to keep my calm. I won’t jeopardize my career over being treated like a secretary from time to time. I’m tougher than that. And in the end, my persistence is what will bring me to the top. I just have to deal with this for a few more years and then I’ll finally be treated with the respect I deserve. My past experience is actually helpful to me, because no matter how bad things get in this office, it’s sunshine compared to the life I used to live.
I walk out of the room and drop the stack of files at my desk before walking to the small kitchen in the back of the office. I consider spitting into the carafe but decide against it. Returning to the conference room, I attempt invisibility. Brandon raises his eyebrows before his eyes dart to my ass; the asshole loves to watch me performing these menial tasks. I leave the coffee with a stack of fresh cups at the console and exit the room. I’ve got work to do.
I open up a Word document on my computer and stare at the stack of files for a moment; another person may be daunted, but working hard is part of my DNA. I blow the air from my lungs, readying myself to learn the entire history of this deal.
I kick my shoes off my feet beneath the desk, getting comfortable. The first stack I pick up is a contract between the Masuki Tribal Council and the Milestone, LLC. My eyes freeze on the cover page as my stomach does a slow churn. My fingers tremble as I open the file and begin to skim. The purpose of this contract is to build a large-scale casino and hotel complex.
I do a quick scan of the other documents, noticing his name isn’t here; everything has been signed via Power of Attorney. Is this Vincent? I blink, clenching my fists. It can’t possibly be him. He’s been in prison. But why would someone have an agent do business on their behalf, if not because they’re not in a position to handle things themselves? Normally, one uses a Power of Attorney if he is unable to handle his own affairs as a result of illness or old age. I guess, technically, Vincent may have chosen this avenue due to his absence. The agent would have been able to do anything Vincent requested. Like, for example, build a huge hotel and casino. Sign documents. Pull out money from banks. Request loans. If Vincent trusted this person, a lawyer from what I can tell, that man could have been Vincent’s hands and feet on the ground while Vincent masterminded everything from behind bars.
I drop my head into my hands and swallow hard. “This is work,” I tell myself out loud. “I’m putting my conspiracy theory behind me and getting it done.”
By evening, the summary is complete. I immediately email Jonathan and within seconds, he replies with a confirmation. I shake out my shoulders, knowing I’ve got another few hours of work to complete for other clients.
Checking my phone, it’s already nine o’clock. I’ll just bring the rest back home with me so I can at least be comfortable.
I get into my black Mini Cooper and throw my bag and files into the seat next to me. With the blinding Los Angeles traffic, my mind roves to the man I’ve kept locked out of my consciousness; no amount of mental toughness will save me now.
I should just call Angelo and find out if Vincent is behind this. But what if he says, “Yes, it’s him.” My mouth dries.
The reality is—whether or not Vincent is part of this deal—it’s actually none of my concern. He’s an ex-boyfriend, and whatever happened in the past is over. I refuse to ever let myself go back into that black hole.
When I first got out to California, my life was in shambles. I was emotionally broken, physically weak, and all alone. I questioned myself a million times. Did he lie in order to make sure I left the East Coast or was the joke on me? Angelo’s insistence that Vincent was never faithful made the waters harder to muddle through, and I suffered in that space between. Questioning. Constantly wondering.
The silver boot charm I found in my bag the day I left New York continued to burn a hole in my psyche. Night after night was sleepless and filled with a profound sense of helplessness—did he give me this charm, or did it simply fall off the keychain? If he gave it to me, what was he trying to say? Am I leaving him to rot in prison when I should be helping him? Guilt was one of the primary things I felt, as if I abandoned the love of my life.
My mind plays the word “no” on repeat. He cheated and lied; that’s what Angelo swore. But my heart refused, and still refuses, to fully believe it.
Traffic lights switch from red to green and I pull over to the side of the road, not trusting myself behind the wheel right now. I shift my car into park and lean my head on the steering wheel before letting my thoughts wander back to that night, a month after arriving in California. I was nothing but a nineteen-year-old kid—heartbroken.
The beach is so dark. There are no stars in the sky, only the black expanse above. I focus on the curling ocean waves moving at a steady rhythm. Last week, Janelle told me our mother died of a drug overdose. She was dead for a long time in the apartment, but it took five days for someone to realize she was missing and go check on her. God, so much unfinished business between us. Should I have tried harder to help her? Did my leaving without a trace make her worse? For the second time in my life, I’m left to wonder if dying isn’t the better option.
I dig my toes into the sand, the cold grains nestling between my toes. How am I going to live without Vincent? I gave him all of myself. And when he left to prison, he took the fabric of my insides with him. I’m nothing now but an empty casing. I can almost understand my mother’s twisted solitude.
I strip naked as the salty wind rushes my limbs.
I don’t know how to swim. Still, I want to go inside. If I drown? Relief hits me with the thought.
“Vincent,” I cry, stepping into the cold, shallow water.
Trembling, I move deeper into the dark. “Vincent? Can you hear me?” I call out into the night, wondering if maybe he can feel me calling. I shiver.
With tears burning down my face, I continue my slow steps until the ocean pools around my thighs. Waves roll up to my breasts and back down again, leaving goosebumps in their wake. My nipples become painfully hard. It’s so cold. Still, I welcome it. Should I go in farther? Yes. I continue to step forward.
In the distance, I hear the unmistakable song “Hot Line Bling”—my ringtone for Janelle. I want to ignore the call and keep walking, but the song persists, taunting me. “What if she needs me?”
Turning around to face the beach, I wrap my body with my arms and wade back through to the shore. The sand sticks to my legs, coating my feet and calves. I bend down to pick up the phone from the top of my clothes pile. The ringing is done, but there’s a new text. It’s Janelle, telling me to open my email. My body continues to tremble, wet and wind-chilled, but I click the envelope on the bottom of my phone screen. Reluctantly, I read.
Eve,
I can’t sleep. I know you’ve been suffering and it kills me that you’re all alone out there. Since Mom died, you’ve gotten worse. Angelo keeps calling, too. I hoped that maybe when you left to California, you’d feel as though you were reborn or some shit. But I guess your demons have followed you.
Mom hated you because you were better than her. She was jealous. We always ignored her abuse, but that’s on me. I thought talking about it would make it all worse. I knew how badly she hurt you and the truth is, I should have done more to protect you. I know she’s still sitting on your conscience, but I want you to kick her ass out! She’s dead now, and I want all of her taunting to die, too. I know you’re probably thinking you wish you did something else. Well, Eve, there’s nothing you could have done. She was damaged goods, and honestly, I’m glad she’s dead.
And Vincent, that motherfucker. You’ve been out in California a month now and still mentioning his dumb ass and questioning the truth. It’s time to let him go. Tell yourself this: Regardless of what happened or didn’t happen, the results are the same. Vincent is locked up and you’re free. If he really cheated on you and all that, then fuck him—go live to spite him. And if he lied just so you’d move out to Cali, then live life FOR him. You see? No matter what the reasoning, the bottom line is LIVE LIFE.
Now, I want you to read through this list of dares and swear to me you’ll complete them. Maybe it’ll give you the push you need to finally step out of your depression.
Monday: Spend twenty minutes today making friends with the girl who lives next door to you
Tuesday: Get a guy in one of your classes to join you for a day at the beach
Wednesday: Ask two girls on your floor for dinner
Thursday: Pick up your books and study in the library—not in one of the closed rooms, but on the main floor where everyone talks; no headphones
Redemption (Vincent and Eve #3) Page 3