Devil's Advocate

by Devil's Advocate (lit)

  “She better get busy with somebody,” Kara said, “before the cobwebs in her coochie knit themselves into a sweater.”

  “I have to give her this, don’t I?” Ashlyn held up his card, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “He really broke her heart.”

  “Belles law,” Amanda muttered.

  “Screw the law.” Kara set her drink down on the table. “Think of it as aspirin. I’m telling you the woman needs to get laid, and she blows off every man that gets near her. Maybe it’ll take a devil she can’t refuse to get her back into the action. And I don’t think Blake’s as bad as she wants to believe he is.”

  * * * *

  Blake shouldered his way through the throng of partiers making their way into Banana Bob’s. The crowd wore a motley mix of Harley-Davidson leather, Tommy Bahama florals, Rolex, and belly chains. The ages hit every mark from barely legal to last leggers, salty dogs and sweet young things. Banana Bob’s was famous for being everybody’s bar. The last great American roadhouse crammed between two states, the surf, and the sky. Still, he hadn’t been in years, but then he didn’t get out much, at least not this kind of getting out.

  He spent most evenings buried in case files or working up a sweat on the racquetball court, unless he ventured out to a social function or met up with his buddies at the Nineteenth Hole. He dated the way he played golf, kept his numbers low and aimed to sink his ball in as few shots as possible. Too many women or too much time with any one woman was more than he cared to juggle.

  “Hey!”

  It took a minute to recognize the broad shouldered, t-shirt clad man who clasped Blake’s upper arm with a death grip and a grin. The bald head and Foo Manchu were post-prison, and during most of their time together the tattoos up both arms had been strategically covered to dissuade prejudice from the jury.

  “Larry Melvin. Out already? Must’ve had a damn fine attorney.” Blake didn’t care much for the crooked scoundrel, but he left his personal feelings out of his profession.

  “Wasn’t good enough to get me community service, but I reckon I’ll have to move to Hollywood to find one of them bastards!” Melvin elbowed a similar looking man standing at his side and they both cracked up. “Don’t leave yet,” Melvin offered, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Next time,” Blake said, slapping Melvin’s shoulder and giving his companion a nod. Melvin had never been one to travel alone, with good reason. His driver usually doubled as a bodyguard and who knew what else. This one could have been a body double. They looked like twins, right down to the facial hair.

  Melvin’s clone stuck out a hand. A Popeye-style anchor tattoo ran the width and length of his forearm. “Hank Hawkins,” the man said as Blake shook his hand. “Never know when I might need to give you a call.”

  Blake reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Try not to use it,” he said.

  Melvin laughed and elbowed his friend. “Plug the number in your speed dial, buddy.” Then to Blake. “I owe you that drink, and I won’t forget it.”

  Two years for illegal distribution of pornography, contributing to the delinquency of a minor and providing a place for local prostitutes to turn a buck. Subtract time served and good behavior, he spent less than a year in the slammer. Not too bad. Would’ve been worse if the other charges had stuck, but the rookie arresting officer didn’t know what he’d stumbled on.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out Melvin’s beachfront mega pad wasn’t paid for by twenty dollar tricks, but that was a matter for the police to deal with. Melvin might be a real slime bucket, but there were worse out there. At least everyone who played Melvin’s dirty hand did so willingly. To his credit the seventeen-year-old hooker in his stable had a falsified driver’s license issued by the DMV that said she was twenty-two, and she’d been arrested on the street numerous times before she became associated with Melvin.

  Blake didn’t defend real monsters. Aside from the occasional drunken brawlers, violent criminals could find another source of legal representation. The world had way too much tolerance for violence and callousness. He didn’t have to add his talents to the mix.

  Of course he hadn’t exactly come off as Mr. Sensitivity with Haylie tonight. What man in his right mind tells a woman he hasn’t seen in a decade he wants to take her to bed within five minutes of laying eyes on her? If he didn’t feel like such an ass, he’d laugh at his unquestionable lack of suave and his infinite rudeness. There’d been a time when he could have said that to her, just to tease her out of her demure façade because he knew the sensual woman that bubbled beneath the surface. Back then she would have laughed and rolled her eyes.

  But that was a long time ago. He couldn’t expect the same crude words to have the same effect on a woman who’d undoubtedly changed as much as he had. They weren’t buck wild and barely legal anymore.

  He thumbed the keyless entry of his BMW. The locks on his car jumped to attention and his headlights beamed onto the bumper of the red Hummer parked in front of him. Larry Melvin’s. The man practically thumbed his nose at authorities, but the best they could slap him with would never keep him off the streets for long.

  Blake slid behind the wheel and into the smooth leather seat. Sleek and black inside and out, his car was an understated symbol of success, a reliable machine with enough muscle to satisfy his raging testosterone, and a babe magnet. Ladies liked Beamers. And again, efficiency counted when it came to women. He had plenty of time to waste, but why go to the trouble? So he could invest himself in a woman and watch her run away like her hair had caught fire? So he could find her again ten years later, in a bar on the beach and tell her he wanted to fuck her?

  He turned the ignition and the car purred to life. Dumb ass.

  Maybe she’d come back. She had told Ashlyn she’d try to meet up with the Belles again later. He backed out of the parking lot and turned onto Mandido Beach Drive

  , knowing he’d be back at Banana Bob’s before last call. He couldn’t come up with a non-offensive way to tell her he missed her, but he’d make a great stalker.

  * * * *

  A wide rim of white shone above Grady’s dark irises, like he was holding his lids a little too high. Haylie struggled with whether to bring up his drug use. What was the big deal? A lot of college kids smoked a joint once in a while. His grades kicked ass. These were his experimental years, but she had no doubt he’d find his way and become the man she knew he could be. She wanted him to have a “normal” life with every opportunity afforded to young people who didn’t grow up in the State’s child welfare system. Besides, the worst trouble he’d ever caused her was a couple of lost house keys and a brief interruption of her social time with the Belles.

  Grady kicked his feet up on her coffee table and slugged down a can of Pepsi like he hadn’t had a drink in a week. His long legs belonged to the body of a young man, not the gangly kid she’d met five years ago.

  “Growing a fro?” she asked.

  He ran his hand over his usually clean-cut curls that had grown out enough to stick off his head in odd angles. “I don’t know.”

  “Classes going ok?”

  He shrugged. “I think I’m getting a B in English Lit.”

  “You? A B? What happened?”

  “I didn’t get my last analytical essay in on time.” He crushed the empty Pepsi can in his hand and dropped it on the table next to his feet.

  Haylie chewed her bottom lip. This was where her confidence always failed her. She didn’t want to come down hard on him, or tell him again he needed to be an example for other foster wards, or that he had to prove societal expectations wrong. He was allowed to be typical. But if he was typical, if he had parents at home who cared about him, wouldn’t they come down on him? Wouldn’t he have someone to answer to?

  “What’s going on, Grady?”

  He shook his head. “It was one paper. B’s are decent grades.”

  “Yeah, they’re decent, but you’ve always done more than decent.” She pulled in a
heavy breath. “I know college is supposed to be fun. Just don’t lose sight of your goals. Ok?”

  “That’s what I’ve got you for.” His smile shone bright against his mocha skin and the twinkle she’d come to know in his eyes returned.

  Haylie breathed a sigh of relief. He would be ok. It was just a B. One B, and from the looks and smell of it, a little weed. This was Grady, not some thug, or some kid who didn’t care about doing the right thing. “So you up for a couple of speaking engagements?”

  He threw his head back and groaned. “Paybacks are a bitch.”

  “It’s just one luncheon and a cocktail auction. Besides you never know, you may impress someone in the audience enough to get an internship, or even a job right out of school.”

  “So you want me to kiss their asses, take their money, and hope I’m slick enough at doing both that one of them will want to pay me to do it some more.”

  “Something like that.” She grinned. “You in?”

  “I’m in. And thanks for letting me crash here.”

  “No problem. You’ll have a dorm to yourself this summer and another roommate to drive crazy in the fall.” She picked the can up off the table and carried it to the trash. “I can’t imagine why nobody wants to live with you,” she said, scooping an empty potato chip bag off the counter. “You’re so neat and tidy.” She fished a twenty out of her purse. “Need gas money?”

  He shrugged and cocked a half-smile.

  “You wouldn’t be in college if you weren’t broke.” She slid her house key off her key ring and handed it to him along with the money. “Get another copy made, and don’t lose this one.” She paused at the door. “If you go out tonight, slip the key under the mat so I can get back in.”

  “No prob. Mind if I grab another Pepsi?”

  “Make yourself at home.” She closed the door but opened it again to stick her head back in the room. “No girls sleeping over. I’m not as cool as I pretend to be.”

  “You bringing a man back?”

  “Hell no.” The door clicked in place. Blake wouldn’t be a problem tonight. Grady would make a great CB. She laughed. When was the last time she’d used that term? Cock blocker. She hadn’t had to worry about one of those for a while. She hadn’t had to worry about anything that had to do with sex for longer than she cared to remember.

  There were more important things in life than getting laid. And she wouldn’t get dragged into bed for the first time in over two years by Blake Sheridan.

  If she had a hard time sticking to her guns, at least Grady would give her an ironclad reason not to bring a devil back to her place. Not Blake or anyone else. Not Blake. Not anyone else was easy.

  Chapter 2

  Haylie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sucked in a deep breath of warm salty air as she walked up to her door. Being this close to the beach, made up for the cramped floor plan of her seventies era condo. For the price she paid for her little dump by the Gulf of Mexico she could have lived in a McMansion in any part of Hope’s Crossing or Velma and wouldn’t have to commute ninety minutes to work in Mobile.

  The peeling mushroom-brown paint on the door assaulted her knuckles as she attempted to twist the doorknob. The whole thing looked like the scratching post of a she-cat gone wild. Deed restrictions didn’t allow her to paint or update the exterior, and that wouldn’t change until the current Homeowner’s Association board members drifted off to that great condominium in the sky and the younger owners had enough of a vote to turn the place into something more aesthetically acceptable.

  At least she had decorated the interior to her taste, as serene as a spa in natural fibers and a soothing palette of neutral tones. Most of her artwork had been created by nature, washed up on the shore, and transported inside by her own hands. Gnarled branches of driftwood whittled with wormholes and shells left on the beach after a storm decorated the mantel, the bookcase, and the tabletops in her two bedroom home. Best of all, outside her sliding glass doors a footpath led to the water. She had her own little shit brown piece of paradise. Life was good.

  The living room and kitchen lights glowed in the windows, but the doorknob didn’t budge. She hammered the sandblasted brass knocker and waited for Grady to let her in. After he’d had time to ride a turtle to the door, she knocked again and lifted the mat to see if he’d left the key for her.

  No key. No answer.

  “Grady! It’s me. Open up.” She pounded her fist against the biting paint. It was nearly one a.m. She yelled for Grady again, louder this time. Good thing Mr. Dodson next door couldn’t hear a jackhammer if it attacked his headboard.

  Not a sound came from her place, but Mr. Dodson’s light flicked on. Great. He’d finally started sleeping with his hearing aid.

  “What’s all the hollering about?” Heavy bags hung beneath the old man’s eyes and blue veins ran beneath his thin skin.

  “I’m sorry. I’m locked out.”

  “This why you wanted me to wear these dad gum things to bed? So you could wake me up shouting like the place was burning to the ground?”

  “I’m sorry,” Haylie said again. “I’m glad you’re wearing them. If there was a fire, you’d hear me.”

  “Next time I hear you at this hour there better be flames licking my backside.” The old man slammed his door and she heard him shuffle back across his linoleum floor.

  Haylie walked around to the back and checked her sliders. Locked. Grady had left the blinds open and the television on. An open pizza box covered the coffee table, but where Grady’s feet would’ve been hanging off the end of the sofa, two empty Corona bottles lay on the floor. Great. By saying “make yourself at home” she had contributed to the delinquency of a minor. Or an eighteen-year-old. Either way, he was too young to drink legally, and she had inadvertently provided the booze.

  She doubled back to check the parking lot for his car. The old gray Honda Accord was nowhere to be seen.

  “Damn it, Grady,” she muttered and punched his number into her cell phone. Her call went straight to voicemail. He had the phone off. What teenager ever turned his phone off?

  She’d had one too many drinks to drive anywhere, and her car was still parked at Banana Bob’s. She had walked home along the beach letting the waves wash over her feet and pull the sand from beneath her heels. Ashlyn and Amanda had taken cabs home, and when she left Kara had been busy making the moves on some real estate agent from Pensacola. At least Blake hadn’t shown up again.

  She started walking back toward the bar, taking the more time- efficient, less scenic route along Mandido Beach Drive

  and dialed Kara’s cell. Voicemail.

  “Kara, if you get this message before you start home call me. I’m locked out. I might need to stay at your place tonight.” She folded her phone and dropped it back in her purse.

  The shells that paved the shoulder of Mandido Beach Drive

  stabbed through her sandals. A black Mercedes SUV swerved from the opposite lane, but wove back to the side of the road it belonged on. Through the window she could see the outline of a child safety seat.

  People should have to pass a test to become parents, but then the population would take a nosedive, and people like herself wouldn’t exist. A familiar repulsion slid from the back of her throat to settle like a slab of lard in her stomach. Her father had become a free man again, free to make her life a living hell, just like he’d sworn he’d do. The bars of the Alabama state prison system would no longer offer her protection from him and neither would anything or anyone else. A shiver slid down her spine and she picked up her pace, suddenly more aware of the dark stretches between streetlamps and the shadowed corners of the buildings she passed.

  Nearly breathless, she arrived at Banana Bob’s fifteen minutes before last call. Only a handful of cars remained in the lot and the foot traffic all headed away from the building. She scanned the people leaving the bar for a familiar face, and a set of ice blue eyes caught hers.

  “You see Kara in there?” she aske
d.

  Blake shook his head. “She left about ten minutes ago with some real estate agent.”

  “Great.” Haylie shook the sand and shell shards from her sandals. High heels weren’t exactly made for roadside hiking. “I didn’t see you earlier, have you been here all night?”

  “No, I just came back looking for somebody.”

  “Somebody in particular or just somebody to take home for the evening?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t come to skim the bottom for stragglers. Did Ashlyn give you my card?”

  She fished it out of her pocket and handed it to him. The corner printed with his phone number looked like it had been run through a washing machine. The digits were blurred beyond recognition. “Somebody must’ve set a drink on it.”

  “Thought you Belles didn’t run interference.”

  Her lips curled into a smirk. “Accidents happen.”

  “How long have you been back?”

  “You saw me walk up. Maybe two minutes.” She focused on the line that chiseled his cheek, safer than looking him in the eye, but still dangerous. Not enough hours had passed to erase the smooth heat of his face against her jaw, which led straight to the memory of his sizzling mouth traveling her neck. His tongue, wet … And just like that, her body fired like a rocket. Damn him.

  “I mean back home,” he said. “How long have you been living here?”

  “Since I finished graduate school. Eight years, I guess.” Avoiding him for that long hadn’t been any small miracle, especially given their chosen professions. A handful of small communities covered the coast of Alabama southeast of Mobile. The towns were close enough in proximity to keep in touch with anyone you wanted to, and spread out enough to avoid those you didn’t. Most of the time.

  For years, before she started the foundation, she had worked as a social worker and been a guardian ad litem. She had dreaded every trip to the courthouse, terrified she would bump into him in the hall or worse, that he would be defending one of the reasons children needed her in the first place. If she wanted to keep Blake out of her life, she needed to avoid him at all costs. She never doubted that.